As we are well into the feasts’ season, we see furnishings, decorations, and liturgical objects of immense value and inestimable worth in our churches. Some of these are purely decorative—like, for example, the red damask hanging on the walls. But other objects serve a practical purpose, such as the candlesticks on the altar, the chasubles, and the chalices. Some of these remind us of priests to whom they once belonged and who left them for the use of the parish. We also remember people who used to care for these same furnishings or who were their benefactors. While there were certainly wealthy benefactors, there were also generous donations from large, low-income families who were willing to make even further sacrifices so that the Lord’s house is adorned with the finest materials and artifacts for the celebration of the sacred mysteries.

Then there are objects we have grown used to but rarely consider their meaning—like the canopy, whose purpose is to honour and cover, in regal fashion, the most sacred spaces: the altar and the tabernacle. Yet, there are other objects that we have either lost or forgotten their purpose—particularly because they have continued to be put on display in our churches, even though they lost their purpose following the liturgical reforms of the Second Vatican Council.

Perhaps the most prominent among these are three somewhat oddly shaped frames—one larger than the other two—which are set up on the side altars. These are usually made of silver, or wood coated in silver, or another shiny metal, with glass covering a sheet of yellowed paper adorned with delicate decorations and inscriptions. I’m referring to the Altar Cards, which are called “Karti Glorja” (Gloria Cards) in Maltese. But why do we call them this? What was their purpose?

Before the liturgical reform, priests would celebrate Mass privately at the various altars of the church, sometimes simultaneously. Apart from the missal—which is the book containing the prayers of the Mass—these three framed cards were also placed on the altars, each containing different parts of the Mass. On the left-hand side was placed the card with a passage from the Prologue of the Gospel according to John (Jn 1:1–14), which was recited at the end of the Mass. In the centre stood the larger altar card, which contained, among other things, the Gloria (hence the name), the prayer said silently by the priest before the Gospel, the Creed, the words of consecration and other parts of the Eucharistic Prayer. The third card, on the right, included the prayer said by the priest as he poured a few drops of water into the chalice filled with wine during the offertory, and the prayer said during the washing of the hands—taken from Psalm 26, beginning with the words: “I wash my hands in innocence, and go about thy altar, O Lord,” (Psalm 26:6).

The priest was expected to know these prayers by heart, and so the Karti Glorja served as a reminder. Even the placement of the cards on the altar reflects the location from which the priest would say that particular prayer. For instance, the words of consecration are found on the centre card, while the prayers from the offertory is on the left, where the priest would stand to fill the chalice and where the server would wash his hands.

I hope that now I’ve satisfied your curiosity about those blessed strange yet beautiful frames. When you walk into a church during feast days, you’ll be able to better appreciate not only the genuine devotion of our ancestors, who wanted to offer only the best to God, but also the understanding that everything in the liturgy has a purpose—not simply to embellish, but to reflect the beauty of the mystery being celebrated.

I don’t know whether you noticed like I have that, during the Mass at the Beginning of the Petrine Ministry, and also on various other occasions, Pope Leo XIV often finds himself gazing at the ring that was placed on his finger by Cardinal Tagle, representing the cardinal bishops. It’s as if, on one hand, he feels the weight of the responsibility entrusted to him by the College of Cardinals, and, on the other hand, his deep gaze seems to reach far beyond. Then he gives a slight turn of his shoulders, as if he’s finding his place beneath the yoke.

Since the 6th century, it seems it was already customary for bishops to be given a ring that expresses their bond with the local church entrusted to them — as though she were their bride. Over the centuries, this ring also developed to become the seal with which a bishop would authenticate official documents. The same applied to the pope’s ring until 1842.

However, the ring with which the pope is invested is not an imperial ring. It is called the Ring of the Fisherman because, before any temporal or civil authority he may hold, the pope is the successor of the Apostle Peter, the Fisherman. And I dare say that this ring somehow gathers up the entire mystery behind Pope Leo XIV’s gaze … and, ultimately, the mystery of every vocation.

In fact, before the ring is placed on his finger, the Cardinal Bishop says these words:

Most Holy Father, may Christ, the Son of the living God, the pastor and overseer of our souls, who built his Church upon rock, grant you the Ring, the seal of Peter the Fisherman, who put his hope in him on the sea of Galilee, and to whom the Lord Jesus entrusted the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Today you succeed the Blessed Apostle Peter as Bishop of this Church, which presides over the unity of charity, as the blessed Apostle Paul has taught; may the Spirit of charity, poured into our hearts, grant strength and gentleness to your ministry to preserve all those who believe in Christ in the communion of unity.

And, truly, in that moment, the Shepherd-Fisherman successor of Peter, like that Apostle who responded to his first calling in his youth, is now girded with the garment of a shepherd. And, for the confession of his love, the Lord gently commands him to follow him, because only by following him can he truly be faithful in leading the people to Christ, who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

Another symbol associated with the Papal and Episcopal liturgy is the crozier. This symbol too signifies the responsibility of the shepherd. The origin of the use of the crozier in the Church is not entirely clear, although the use of some form of staff or rod was quite common both in religious and in civil and political contexts. For example, priests in various Roman pagan rites used the lituus, a ritual wand in a curved shape.

However, in the case of the crozier, the meaning goes beyond a simple sign of power—it is a symbol of authority and responsibility rooted in that of the Good Shepherd, and of God as the Shepherd of Israel. In fact, in Psalm 23 we find how God shepherds and comforts through the shepherd’s staff, even when life leads us through the valley of the shadow of death:
“thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4).

The staff is also a symbol of God’s authority entrusted to humans, such as the staff of Moses with which he led the people out of the land of slavery into the Promised Land. It is not by chance that in some Eastern churches, a ferula or a crozier with serpents on the top is used, referencing the bronze serpent that Moses lifted high so the children of Israel could look at it and be saved (Numbers 21:4–9).

It seems that some form of crozier or pastoral staff was already in use by bishops as early as the fifth century. The Western-style crozier has the shape of a staff with a curled top so that the shepherd can draw in the sheep and keep them on the path. According to Saint Isidore of Seville, writing two centuries later, the crozier is given to the bishop during his consecration as a sign of the responsibility to lead and correct, while also supporting the weakness of the sick (De Ecclesiasticis Officiis 2.5.12, PL 83.783C–784A).

However, the curl at the top may also be a sign of the bishop’s limited authority over his own territory. This is why the pope does not—and still does not—use a regular crozier. Instead, at the top, there is a crucifix, because his responsibility is for the entire flock of Christ spread throughout the world. In earlier times, a ferula and even a crozier were used, although for the reason just mentioned, they eventually fell out of use. When the use of a form of staff was reintroduced for the pope, it still differed from that of bishops, as it featured the papal cross with three crossbars—the same symbol used on churches that have a special connection with Rome, such as basilicas.

This universal responsibility and leadership is powerfully expressed if we imagine the Pope as a shepherd walking ahead of the flock, following the cross he carries in his left hand, which touches the ground in front of him. In this way, the cross is always one step ahead—because even the Pope is a disciple. It is no coincidence that in his homily on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, while celebrating Mass in the crypt of St Peter’s Basilica, he says:

While we celebrate the beginning of this new mission of the ministry that the Church has called me to, there is no better example than Jesus Christ himself, to whom we give our lives and whom we depend on. Jesus Christ whom we follow, he is the Good Shepherd, and he is the one who gives us life: the way and the truth and the life.

Leo XIV, Homily, 11 May 2025

The Fourth Sunday of Easter is characterised by the image of the shepherd. Although they formed part of the lowest ranks of society, even in the Old Testament we already find the association between the shepherd and his care for the flock with God and His love for the chosen people. In these days, which are so important for the Church due to the selection of Peter’s successor, there are two symbols that specifically highlight the Pope’s role as the shepherd chosen by Christ to guide His flock. These are the pallium and the pastoral staff.

In this article, we begin with the pallium. The pallium is a type of stole or scarf made from lamb’s wool, bearing six small black crosses. It is worn over the shoulders and on top of the chasuble. The exact origin of this pontifical vestment is unclear, but it appears to have been in use by the fourth century and seems to share the same roots as the omophorion used in the Eastern Churches. However, due to its particular shape, the pallium took on a pastoral significance as it visibly resembles the traditional iconography of the Good Shepherd carrying the lost sheep on his shoulders, around his neck.

In the East, the omophorion is worn by all bishops and has a slightly different form. In the West, the pallium was originally a papal privilege, but its use was later extended to all archbishops to signify their authority of metropolitan bishops as a participating in the authority and mandate of the successor of Peter, whom Christ commanded to “feed my sheep” (see John 21:15–19). Regarding the omophorion, Saint Isidore of Pelusium in one of his letters (Epistolarum Liber 1.136, PG 78.272C) draws the analogy between the wool material and the lost sheep that the shepherd in the parable from Luke lifts onto his shoulders when he finds it (Luke 15:5).

Each year, on the feast of Saint Agnes, 21 January, at the Basilica of Saint Agnes Outside the Walls, the Trappist monks of the Monastery of the Three Fountains present two lambs that are blessed and entrusted to the Benedictine Sisters of Saint Cecilia in Trastevere. Before Easter, the lambs are shorn so that their wool can be woven into the palliums, which are then placed on the tomb of the Apostle Saint Peter on June 28. The next day, the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, they are blessed by the pope and handed to the present archbishops. The imposition of the pallium takes place in the archdiocese by the Apostolic Nuncio.

As we contemplate this image of the Good Shepherd—or, rather, the Beautiful Shepherd—let us pray together with the Church that the shepherd given to her by the Lord may truly please Him in holiness and never cease to care and watch over her good and unity.

Have you ever noticed that during Lent we don’t sing the Alleluia at Mass, but instead we say, “Glory and Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ” or some other similar formula? Lent is a very important season in the Liturgical calendar because it serves as a preparation for the celebration of the Paschal Mysteries, and it is also a penitential season that helps us acknowledge our sins and give God the first place in our lives. The three words that characterise this period are: prayer, fasting and almsgiving. But what does the word Alleluia have to do with this?

During this time, Christians fast, so to speak, from saying Alleluia, which comes from the Hebrew words hallalu, that means ‘praise’, and yah, which is a short form of the name ‘Yahweh’, God’s Name. In short, the word Alleluia means ‘praise God’. This is a joyous acclamation through which we are reminded that during Mass we are united with the choirs of angels to celebrate the Kingdom of God even while we are still in this world.

But during Lent we focus on the need to prepare ourselves to receive salvation and the Kingdom of God. The forty days of Lent remind us of the forty years that the Israelites spent in the desert. It is a time of reflection and purification, that urges us to long for the salvation that God offers us through the Paschal Mystery, meaning the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Christ.

The ‘fast’ from singing the Alleluia is one of a number of small changes in the Liturgy that emphasis the penitential character of this season, amongst which is the Gloria, in which there is found the joyous news of the angels who proclaimed the birth of Jesus; the Responsorial Psalm is taken from the penitential psalms or from other psalms that ask God to intervene in moments of trial; flowers are not placed on the altar; and the liturgical colour is purple, which, as explained earlier, symbolises penance and repentance. These changes help us focus our attention on repentance and uniting ourselves to God’s will through penance and prayer.

Thus, this ‘fast’ from singing the Alleluia serves to prepare us, and creates an internal longing to celebrate Easter with the hope of one day adoring and praising God face to face in Heaven where we will join in the never ending Alleluia.

Stop and Think:

Praising God is an almost forgotten form of prayer. Maybe it is because we are used to praying to God in times of need. How long has it been since you have praised God for all the graces he has given you in life?

In what ways can you better prepare yourself to sing the Alleluia on Easter Sunday with a pure heart?

Have you ever noticed that during Mass, before communion, the priest breaks of the Host and places it in the Chalice? It is important to keep in mind that in Eucharistic celebrations words and actions are not there by chance; but all have a specific purpose that have continued to develop with the passage of time in the traditions of the Church. So, what does this action mean?

In St Paul’s letters, as well as in the Acts of the Apostles, we find that the Apostles celebrated the Paschal Mystery as commanded by Jesus by the breaking of bread (Acts 2:46; 1 Cor 10:16). Furthermore, in Luke’s Gospel, we find the disciples of Emmaus recognising Jesus in the breaking of bread (Lk 24: 35). This action during the celebration of the Mass reminds us of the last supper when Jesus, with boundless love, just before dying for us on the Cross, gave himself to us in the Eucharist. The breaking of the bread symbolises the unity of those partaking from the same bread as well as Jesus’ sacrificial act when he gave himself for us completely on the Cross.

The priest not only breaks the Host, but after the sign of peace he takes the host in his hands, breaks it on the paten, and places a small piece of the Host in the Chalice, while silently praying:

May this mingling of the Body and Blood
of our Lord Jesus Christ
bring eternal life to us who receive it.

The small piece from the Host placed in the Chalice is called fermentum, a Latin word that means ‘yeast’.

Originally, the fermentum was a sign of Christian unity because in the early Church the Bishop of Rome concelebrated mass with the priests. Then on Sunday they would celebrate mass in their titular churches. Therefore, the Pope used to send to the surrounding churches pieces of the consecrated host, consecrated during the Mass concelebrated with the priests. We find that in the fourth century, the Council of Laodicea restricted this practice, although in the writings of Pope Innocent I (402-417) we find that the tradition of the fermentum was still present. There are some liturgical historians who also claim that, for a brief period, the priest would place two pieces of the Host in the Chalice, one piece from the Mass concelebrated with the Pope or from the local Bishop, and another piece from a Mass the same priest had previously celebrated. This last piece was placed in the Chalice to symbolise the unity between every Mass.

When this tradition was no longer observed, the priests still continued to place a piece of the Host in the Chalice. Therefore, this action, when seen in its context, demonstrates the unity between the Christian faithful and the visible shepherds of the Church: the Pope together with the bishops.

Stop and Reflect

• Are my prayers mostly focused on my needs? Do I see myself as a member of the Body of Christ?
• How often do I pray for the bishops and the Pope?