Today’s homily: St Leo the Great

Clarity or Confusion: When Authority Speaks, the Faith Must Be Heard

MASS In medio Ecclesiae
LESSON 2 Timothy 4:1-8
GOSPEL St Matthew 5:13-19
HOMILIST Mt Revd Jerome Lloyd OSJV

Beloved in Christ,

“In médio Ecclésiæ apéruit os ejus…” — “In the midst of the Church he opened his mouth.”

Beloved in Christ, there are moments in history when the problem is not that too little is being said, but that too much is being said without clarity; when voices multiply, opinions abound, and yet the result is not illumination but confusion. It was precisely such a moment into which Pope Leo I was called to speak.

By the middle of the fifth century, the Roman world was slowly, visibly giving way. Authority still existed, but it no longer commanded obedience. Institutions remained, but they no longer inspired trust. And when confidence in authority collapses in the world, it does not remain there—it seeps into the Church, where uncertainty becomes far more dangerous.

For the question was no longer merely political or social. It was Christological.

Who is Jesus Christ?

Not in theory, but in truth. Not in devotion, but in definition.

And when that question is blurred, everything else follows. Doctrine becomes unstable, preaching becomes uncertain, and the faithful are left not anchored, but adrift.

Leo understood something that is easily forgotten: that confusion is not neutral. It is not a harmless stage in discussion. It is a condition in which error thrives, precisely because truth is no longer clearly heard.

And so he did not hesitate.

He did not enter into the confusion as one more voice among many. He did not attempt to reconcile incompatible positions through careful ambiguity. He spoke with precision—deliberate, unmistakable precision—setting forth in his Tome what the Church had always held: that Our Lord Jesus Christ is one divine Person in two complete natures, truly God and truly man, without confusion and without division.

This was not a contribution to debate. It was the end of it.

And when that teaching was read at the Council of Chalcedon, the bishops did not respond as though they had heard a persuasive argument. They recognised a voice:

“Peter has spoken through Leo.”

That is the point.

Not that Leo was brilliant—but that he was clear.

Not that he was original—but that he was faithful.

And because of that, the faithful were not left to interpret what they had heard. They received it.

This is what Our Lord means when He says that a city set upon a hill cannot be hidden. The light of truth does not exist to be moderated, softened, or blended into the surrounding darkness. It exists to reveal—to distinguish—to make clear.

And Leo ensured that it did.

That same authority, grounded not in force but in truth, is seen again when Attila the Hun approached Rome. At that moment, the structures of the Empire had failed. Power had failed. Defence had failed.

And so the question became unavoidable: who speaks now?

Leo went—not as a statesman, not as a general, but as a bishop. And he went with nothing but the authority of the truth he bore. The tradition tells us that Attila turned back, having seen behind Leo the figures of St Peter and St Paul. Whether taken as history or as theological expression, the meaning is unmistakable: authority rooted in truth carries a weight that no worldly power can command.

And yet, if we are honest, we must recognise how easily that clarity is lost in our own time.

One need only consider a recent incident, widely circulated, in which a statement presented as the words of Christ was, in fact, a conflation—Scripture interwoven with commentary—yet delivered without distinction. The reaction was immediate: confusion, dispute, and uncertainty among the faithful as to what, precisely, had been said.

This is not a minor lapse. It is precisely the kind of confusion Leo existed to prevent.

For when the voice of Christ and the voice of His minister are not clearly distinguished, the faithful are no longer receiving the faith—they are interpreting it. And once that shift occurs, authority is no longer exercised; it is negotiated.

Leo did not permit that.

When he spoke, the Church did not ask: Is this Christ—or commentary? They recognised the voice of Peter. His authority did not blur the Gospel; it made it unmistakable.

That is the difference—and it is not stylistic. It is structural.

Clarity strengthens faith.

Ambiguity transfers the burden of interpretation onto the listener.

And the moment that burden shifts, certainty begins to erode.

Alongside this commanding figure, the Church also quietly remembers Pope Anicetus, who lived in a far earlier and more precarious age. His task was different, but no less necessary: to preserve the faith when it could easily have fractured, and to maintain unity without surrendering truth. Even in disagreement, as with St Polycarp, he held firm to what had been received.

Taken together, these two witnesses show us that the life of the Church depends not merely on possessing the truth, but on preserving its clarity and transmitting it faithfully.

And this brings us directly to ourselves.

We are not lacking in voices. We are not lacking in information. What we lack—often—is clarity, and the courage to insist upon it.

The temptation is not usually to deny the faith outright. It is to soften it, to leave it undefined, to remain silent where speech would be costly. But silence, in the face of confusion, is not neutral. It leaves others to construct for themselves what they should have received with certainty.

You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.

Salt that loses its strength does not preserve—it decays.

Light that is hidden does not illuminate—it abandons.

And so the question is not whether we have opinions, or even convictions, but whether we are willing to let the truth remain clear—clear in what we say, clear in what we refuse to distort, clear in what we will not allow to be reduced or redefined.

Most of us will never stand before councils or confront conquerors. But we will stand in smaller, quieter moments—in conversations, in decisions, in silences where something ought to be said.

And in those moments, the question is not what is easiest, nor what is safest, but what is true—and whether we are willing to let that truth stand without dilution.

Leo answered that question with clarity.

Anicetus answered it with fidelity.

So that, when our course is finished, it may be said of us—not that we spoke much, nor that we were heard, nor even that we were understood—but that we did not obscure the truth entrusted to us, nor remain silent when clarity was required, but kept the faith in word and in life.

And in that fidelity, we shall hear—not the many uncertain voices of this world—but the one voice that does not waver:

Well done, good and faithful servant.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

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