Showing posts with label services. Show all posts
Showing posts with label services. Show all posts

Sunday, 23 August 2026

The Hand That Baptised Christ? The Mystery of Malta’s Missing Relic



Before setting out to fight, the Knights Hospitaller in Malta are said to have knelt before a most unusual object: a fragment of human anatomy enclosed within a magnificent reliquary. This act of veneration they felt would give them both spiritual and physical strength as they prepared to face the dangers ahead.

The relic was a preserved right hand and forearm reputed to have belonged to St John the Baptist, the patron saint of their Order. John was remembered as an austere, courageous and uncompromising man. He lived largely in the wilderness of Judaea, wore clothing made from camel hair with a leather belt, and preached truths to power that eventually cost him his head.

According to Christian tradition, this was the very hand with which John baptised Jesus Christ in the River Jordan. Its presence must have given the Knights a powerful sense of divine protection as they embarked upon their hazardous missions.

Today, the magnificent gilded reliquary remains in St John’s Co-Cathedral in Valletta, displayed behind glass. The relic itself, however, is no longer there. The story of its extraordinary journey takes some telling.

Before Malta: Rhodes

Before coming to Malta, the Knights had been based on Rhodes. An inventory compiled there in 1483 records a relic described as the right arm of St John the Baptist.

When the Ottomans forced the Knights to surrender Rhodes in 1522, the relic they venerated as St John’s arm travelled with them during their years of wandering through the Mediterranean. When the Order finally settled in Malta in 1530, the relic was initially kept in the Church of St Lawrence in Birgu.

Thirty-five years later, Malta faced the Great Siege of 1565. The Knights, assisted by Maltese soldiers and civilians, successfully defended the island against a much larger Ottoman invasion force. The siege prompted them to construct the heavily fortified city of Valletta as their new capital.

Between 1573 and 1577, they built the Conventual Church of St John as the principal church of their Order. The relic was installed there and became one of their most sacred possessions.  Today, the church is called St John’s Co-Cathedral because Malta has two churches sharing cathedral rank: St Paul’s Cathedral in Mdina, the ancient and principal cathedral, and St John’s Co-Cathedral in Valletta.

A magnificent reliquary

In 1689, Grand Master Gregorio Carafa commissioned an ornate ceremonial reliquary for St John’s hand. Designed and cast in Rome by the Baroque artist Ciro Ferri, it was made from bronze with gilded-silver ornamentation.

It originally occupied a prominent position upon the altar in the Oratory of St John—the same oratory that contains Caravaggio’s extraordinarily powerful painting, The Beheading of St John the Baptist.

When Napoleon captured Malta and expelled the Knights in 1798, Grand Master Ferdinand von Hompesch was permitted to take the sacred hand and several other important relics with him. Ferri’s large ceremonial reliquary, however, remained in Malta.

From Malta to Montenegro

In 1799, the hand was presented to Tsar Paul I of Russia, who had been elected Grand Master of the Order. It was placed in the imperial chapel at Gatchina and subsequently became part of the religious ceremonial life of the Russian court.

Following the Russian Revolution of 1917, the relic was removed from Russia. It passed through the care of the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna in Denmark and later through Berlin before being entrusted to King Alexander I of Yugoslavia. In 1932 it was taken to Belgrade and kept in the royal chapel at Dedinje.

During the Second World War, the relic was hidden at Ostrog Monastery in Montenegro. It was later recovered and eventually placed in Cetinje Monastery, where the claimed hand of St John the Baptist remains today.


From St John the Baptist's burial to Rhodes

But how did the relic supposedly travel from the grave of St John the Baptist to Rhodes in the first place?

After John was executed, his disciples reportedly buried his body at Sebaste in Samaria (now called Sebastia, near Nablus in the West Bank.

Christian tradition relates that St Luke the Evangelist later attempted to remove the body but was able to obtain only John’s right hand or arm—the limb believed to have baptised Jesus. Luke is said to have carried it to his native city of Antioch.

Antioch had been under Muslim rule for centuries when, in 956, the Byzantine emperor Constantine VII reportedly arranged for the relic to be removed secretly. A cleric named Job is said to have carried it first to Chalcedon and then to Constantinople, where it was preserved among the sacred treasures of the Byzantine imperial palace.

After Constantinople fell to the Ottomans in 1453, many of its Christian relics passed into the sultan’s treasury. In 1484, Sultan Bayezid II sent an arm identified as that of St John the Baptist to Grand Master Pierre d’Aubusson on Rhodes. An Ottoman ambassador formally presented it to the Knights.

A mystery remains – one arm or two?

There is, however, a problem with this apparently straightforward history. The Knights’ inventory of 1483 records an arm of St John on Rhodes one year before Bayezid presented them with another one. The Knights therefore appear to have possessed two claimed arms after 1484. This arm below, is reported to be from St John the Baptist is in Topkapi Palace treasury, Istanbul, Turkey.


Numerous other churches and monasteries have claimed to possess an arm, hand or finger of St John the Baptist. It is consequently impossible to establish with certainty whether the relic that travelled from Rhodes to Malta—and ultimately to Montenegro—was Bayezid’s gift or the arm already held by the Knights.

Some stages are supported by historical records; others belong principally to religious tradition. Together, however, they form the remarkable story of a sacred object carried across continents, empires, wars and revolutions for almost two thousand years.



Tuesday, 19 February 2019

It’s odd posting one’s shit to someone


On your 60th birthday, an unusual present arrives in Northern Ireland. It is a poo kit. A bulky envelope with little windows and flaps with intricate instructions which involves providing three samples of one’s poo. You are even given little cardboard spatulas to paste your shit into three little windows on stiff cardboard. It’s odd posting one’s shit to someone. It’s almost a “happy birthday now you are 60, shit will happen” and “we want you to send us your shit so we can tell you exactly what sort of shit you are in!”  I hesitate to do the deed.  Given how messed up my blood has been these last two years I am not particularly optimistic about my poo.  If my lifeblood is looking dodgy who knows what my poo will flag up.

Generally, I don’t mean to complain. After all, I have so much to be grateful for.  Especially the wonderful people in my life. But the big discovery, so far of being 60, is that shit happens. To good people and bad.  It comes in all shapes and is usually not what you expect.  I used to complain about the elderly being uniformly sad and angry while the young seemed happier, more hopeful like friendly puppies full of life.  Now, I begin to understand why. 

As you get older people approach you with rubber gloves and blood vials.   Your hearing gets worse, your eyesight falters and normal tasks become like intelligence tests designed to trip you up.  A friend of mine recently had to give a stool sample and was instructed by his doctor that he only needed to bring a sample the size of his tiny fingernail.  Obviously, people had been bringing in plastic bags and Tupperware containers full of poo for him to test.  Hence his insistence on nothing bigger than the nail of his smallest finger.  The doctor mentioned his fingernail three times for emphasis. The sad truth is that with age you can morph into the type of person who is quite capable of lugging a stool sample the weight of half a bag of potatoes into a surgery. 

The young often have no idea of how tricky it is for the older person in a hospital.  Even parking, locating the right floor, consulting room, hearing instructions, remembering details are all fraught with confusion.  I reckon that’s why we tend to adopt an unshakeable demeanour. So that if the doctor announces that we have an alien inhabiting our abdomen we tend to respond with “Well, I’ve had a good run so far. I mean I’ve been blessed with a good constitution all these years. So, I can’t really complain, now can I?” We tend to be infinitely grateful for the unexpected kindness of the medical staff and rather stoic if they seem indifferent or even hostile. After all, there are so many of us older ones filling surgeries in waiting rooms in hospitals up-and-down the country. We know the system is weary of us with our blood and poo all over the shop. Samples being sent here and there via postal systems and even being couriered to expensive labs. We want to apologise for all the shit. But there you go, such is life. 

Pretty soon we may well morph still further into entities that cannot deal even with our own shit. Others will have to wipe and clean us. Then, we will long for these heady days when our shit was our own and in our own hands not others! (that just did not sound right!) But, there is a wonderful symmetry to it all. After all, we come into this world unable to deal with our own shit as babies. Others do it for us. Then, we grow in our ability to deal with shit. Afterwards, we can have babies of our own who we, in turn, teach this fundamental skill of life.  Ultimately, this ability can gradually be lost so that we become again dependent on the services of others as we were in the beginning.


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The good news is that all this shit will eventually stop. The even better news is that this amazing journey, shit and all, is a wonderful love filled escapade that you get to share with so many loved ones. Despite all the shit, I wouldn’t have it any other way. May you have joy along with all the shit that comes. May you grow wonderful roses from life’s richest fertiliser!