Why we need more Philip Neris

In the Christian East, the yuródivyy is an iconic figure. Theirs is not a conventional sanctity, but one that seeks to brusquely overturn the tables of convention to set a place for the Divine. The “holy fool” earns the respect of genuine believers by teaching the truth of things “by any means necessary” despite often appearing half-naked and poor, speaking bluntly without regard for the esteem of men, and acting in an unpredictable manner. Oftentimes, this veneer of insanity helps to conceal their true holiness, which is visible only to God and thus protected.

The Western tradition, built on the pillars of Scholasticism and Thomistic theology, is less comfortable with the idea of the holy fool as divine teacher. Sure, we have our Francis of Assisis and Benedict Joseph Labres, but they are distinct from the yuródivyy tradition in many ways. There is one saint of the West, however, who was truly unique in his approach to bringing all men to Christ and who shared a common spirit with his holy brother fools in the East. That man was Philip Neri.

The patron saint of Rome, humor, and joy, Philip was born into a culture not unlike our own. Rome in the 16th century had been overtaken by a spirit of lethargy and cultural PTSD after the Sack of 1527, and religion was at a low point among the clergy and laity alike. As a boy and young man, Philip would often go off to the catacombs of San Sebastiano or the remote chapel at Monte Casino and other quiet places to pray.

As a layman in his late twenties, before taking holy orders as a priest in his mid-thirties (and only then at the urging of his confessor), Philip had a mystical experience of grace in prayer in which a globe of fire entered his mouth and sank to his heart; this was not a figurative event—his heart physically swelled to twice its size and broke two of his ribs in doing so. Throughout his life, he experienced ecstasies so intense that he needed to carry a book of jokes to read from to “bring him back down to earth.”

In Philip, there is perhaps a little of the nonsensical character of the exacting Master of the Orient, who deftly brings his disciple to enlightenment with a kind of riddle that, like a flash of lightning, severs the pupil’s idea of holiness in favor of the real thing and leaves him forever changed. An example of this is when a priest was kicked out of the Congregation by Philip and was never told his perceived fault. For days, Philip never budged, but then suddenly said he forgave him and that “he must never behave like that again.” Just what it was he did would forever remain a mystery to the grateful yet bewildered priest.

Philip was at home among men and women, boys and girls, dignitaries and paupers alike. Philip was a living embodiment of “personalism” before Pope St. John Paul II had given it a name. He loved his solitude, for sure. But even when he was interrupted, he would “leave Christ for Christ,” and go see those who called for him. As Cardinal Newman noted, “whatever was exact and systematic pleased him not … he did not so much seek his own as draw them to him.” And draw people he did. Philip’s friend, Fabrizio de’ Massimi, noted, “He was so affectionate that he drew all the world after him in the most wonderful way imaginable.”

Philip initially had a desire to be a missionary to baptize the pagans like his contemporary St. Ignatius of Loyola and St. Francis Xavier, but was told by an erudite religious, “Rome will be your Indies.” Once he was ordained, the confessional became the seat of his mission field, and he spent countless hours gladly hearing and absolving the sins of cardinals and housewives alike. His was a “re”-evangelization of the already baptized.

Philip didn’t have an outline or a script when he struck up conversations on the streets of Rome with bankers and business owners—everything he did, he did from a place of prayer and with a “why not?” attitude. He also did not feel the need to wait for approval from ecclesiastical authorities to invite people into his room to read, pray, sing, and engage in conversations—a precursor to the founding of the Oratory. It was an organic process that was completely natural and virtuous because Philip himself was natural and virtuous.

In the age we live in today, when scandal and abuse in the priestly ranks are so often in the news, Philip’s practice of meeting with young men in his private room (and even leaving a key for them) may seem inappropriate or lacking discretion. However, it should instead be a testament to the saint’s character that this was no cause for scandal. For like David the psalmist, the Lord had given Philip a pure heart (see Ps 51:10). It is a temptation of our perverted generation to cast any shadow on the saint’s good sense, for Philip’s purity was beyond reproach and afforded him such informal opportunities. Abusing such trust would not have even crossed his mind, earning him the noble affections of such young men whom he brought into the Lord’s fold.

In the Roman church today, we have our charismatics and our traditionalists, our stage-taking priests and, of course, our hidden holy men and women who live as hermits. We have no shortage of online catechesis for the laity, as well as a plethora of parish programming to reignite the faithful.

What we could benefit from in our sometimes hyper-scholastic and overly scripted approach to the Faith, however, is the “holy foolishness” of simple men like Philip Neri, who took the “100% local and organic” approach to bringing in a bountiful harvest for the Lord. He also never took himself too seriously and was suspicious of those who did. He kept things simple, emphasizing prayer, Scripture, fellowship, and the sacraments as the basis for the Oratories, which can be found throughout the world today. Philip’s was a comfortable personalism—neither overly intellectual, nor overly complicated—that drew men to himself as the first stop on their way to knowing more intimately the Lord Jesus.

On the feast of St. Philip Neri, may we follow his lead in not waiting for permission to do good.

(Editor’s note: Some sections of this essay have been adapted from the author’s book, Coached by Philip Neri: Lessons in Joy [Scepter Publishing], which will be released in June 2025.)