The Incorrupt Tongue of St. Anthony: The Body Part That Wouldn't Decay by Jeff Callaway

The Incorrupt Tongue of St. Anthony: The Body Part That Wouldn't Decay

By Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

Inside the Basilica of St. Anthony in Padua, Italy, behind layers of ornate gold and ancient glass, rests one of the most astonishing relics in Christendom. Not a bone bleached white by centuries. Not a fragment of cloth or a splinter of wood. But a tongue. A human tongue that refused to rot.

Thirty-two years after St. Anthony of Padua was laid in the ground, his tomb was opened to relocate his remains to a new basilica. What they found defied every law of nature. His body had returned to dust, as Scripture promises and biology demands. But his tongue and jawbone remained fresh, moist, and incorrupt as if death had no jurisdiction over the instrument that once thundered the Gospel across medieval Europe.

This is not legend. This is not pious exaggeration whispered through centuries of telephone. This is documented history witnessed by Church authorities, recorded by saint and scholar alike, and venerated by millions who have stood before that golden reliquary and felt the weight of something beyond explanation pressing against the cage of reason.

In an age drowning in lies, where language is weaponized and truth is called hate, where preachers peddle prosperity and politicians baptize evil in focus-grouped phrases, the incorrupt tongue of St. Anthony rises like Lazarus from the grave to proclaim one message: the Word of God spoken in truth cannot decay. It will not be silenced. It will outlast empires, ideologies, and the very flesh that carried it.

This is the story of that tongue. But more than that, it is an investigation into what happens when divine power collides with human remains, when theology meets biology, and when the Church dares to say that some things are beyond the reach of corruption because they belonged entirely to Christ.

The Man Who Carried That Tongue

Before there was a relic, there was a man. Before there was a miracle, there was a mission.

Fernando de Bulhões was born in Lisbon, Portugal, in 1195, the son of a minor noble family. The world he entered was fractured by heresy, scarred by crusade, and hungry for voices that could cut through the fog of confusion with the clarity of Gospel truth. He would become one of those voices. But first, he had to die to himself.

At fifteen, Fernando entered the Augustinian order. He studied Scripture with the kind of obsessive devotion that marks those destined to either madness or sainthood. By the time he was twenty-five, he could quote vast passages of the Bible from memory, weave theology like a master craftsman, and see through the thickets of philosophical argument to the bedrock of divine revelation.

But something gnawed at him. A restlessness. A sense that intellectual brilliance without evangelical fire was just noise echoing in empty halls.

Then came the Franciscans.

In 1220, the bodies of five Franciscan friars martyred in Morocco were brought back to Portugal. Fernando saw them. He saw what it looked like to give everything for Christ, to preach the Gospel not with tenure and comfort but with blood and breath. He left the Augustinians, joined the Franciscans, took the name Anthony, and set sail for Morocco to preach to the Muslims, fully expecting martyrdom.

God had other plans.

Illness forced him back to Europe. A storm blew his ship off course to Sicily. From there, he ended up at a provincial chapter meeting in Assisi where Francis himself was present. Nobody knew who this quiet Portuguese friar was. He was assigned to a hermitage, expected to pray and fade into obscurity.

Until the day they needed someone to preach at an ordination and the scheduled speaker failed to show. Anthony was asked to fill in. Reluctantly, he agreed.

When he opened his mouth, the room went silent.

The words that poured out were not the stammering of a nervous substitute. They were lightning. Scripture flowed from him with such clarity, such force, such undeniable authority that grown men wept. Heretics who had come to mock stayed to convert. The lost found themselves found.

St. Francis heard about it and immediately reassigned Anthony. Not to a hermitage. To the world. To the pulpits. To the streets and town squares where error festered and souls hung in the balance.

For the next decade, Anthony preached across Italy and France. He dismantled the arguments of the Cathars and Waldensians, heresies that denied the goodness of creation, the reality of the Incarnation, and the authority of the Church. He preached to crowds so large they had to meet in open fields. He preached with such effect that entire towns returned to the sacraments.

Pope Gregory IX called him the "Jewel Case of the Scriptures" because he carried the Bible not just in his mind but in his very being. His tongue became the instrument through which divine truth cut through the lies of his age.

And then, at thirty-six, worn out by fasting, travel, and the sheer expenditure of pouring himself out for Christ, Anthony died on June 13, 1231, in a Poor Clare convent outside Padua.

The Church mourned. The people wept. Children cried in the streets. He was canonized less than a year later, one of the fastest canonizations in history.

But the story of his tongue was just beginning.

The Opening of the Tomb

Thirty-two years is a long time for a body to lie in the ground.

Long enough for flesh to liquefy. For bones to yellow and crack. For every trace of the person to return to the dust from which Adam was formed. This is the biology of death. This is what happens when the soul departs and the temple collapses.

In 1263, the Franciscans began construction on a grand new basilica in Padua to honor their beloved saint. To prepare for the translation of his relics to the new shrine, they opened his tomb.

St. Bonaventure, the Minister General of the Franciscan Order, was present. So were other Church officials, witnesses whose testimony would be recorded and preserved. They expected bones. They expected the standard remains of sanctity: skeletal fragments to be placed in reliquaries, venerated, and enshrined.

What they found stopped them cold.

Most of Anthony's body had decayed as expected. The flesh was gone. The bones were there, turning to dust in places. But his tongue and his jawbone were intact. Not dried out like jerky. Not mummified like the saints of Egypt. Fresh. Moist. Red. As if he had died that morning.

Bonaventure, a theologian and mystic in his own right, fell to his knees. The words he spoke in that moment have echoed through seven and a half centuries:

"O blessed tongue, you have always praised the Lord and led others to praise Him. Now we see clearly how great is your merit before God."

It was not a scientific observation. It was a theological cry. A recognition that what lay before them was not an accident of chemistry or climate but a sign. A sign that the tongue which had proclaimed the Word of God with such power had been marked by God Himself as incorruptible.

The relics were placed in a golden reliquary. The tongue was not hidden away in some dusty archive. It was displayed. Venerated. Carried in procession. Because the Church understood then what modern skepticism refuses to grasp: that God still speaks through physical things, that matter matters, and that a tongue preserved from decay is a sermon more powerful than ten thousand words.

In 1981, the tomb was opened again for further examination. The findings were consistent. The tongue remained incorrupt. Additional relics were identified and cataloged. Modern scientists examined what medieval witnesses had declared. And once again, no natural explanation sufficed.

The tongue of St. Anthony defies decay because the truth it proclaimed defies corruption.

What the Church Teaches About Relics

To the modern Protestant ear, especially the low-church evangelical variety, the veneration of relics sounds like superstition at best and idolatry at worst. Bones in boxes. Fingers under glass. Tongues on display. It feels medieval, primitive, unbiblical.

Except it is profoundly biblical.

When Joseph was dying in Egypt, he made the children of Israel swear an oath: "God will surely visit you, and you shall carry up my bones from here" (Exodus 13:19). Why? Because even in death, the bodies of the faithful matter. They are not discarded shells. They are temples of the living God, destined for resurrection.

When a dead man was thrown into the tomb of the prophet Elisha and touched his bones, the man came back to life (2 Kings 13:21). The body of the prophet, even in death, carried the power of God.

When handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched the Apostle Paul were brought to the sick, diseases left them and evil spirits fled (Acts 19:11-12). Physical objects associated with holy persons became conduits of divine grace.

This is not magic. This is sacramentality. This is the Christian understanding that God works through material things because He created the material world and called it good, because He Himself became material in the Incarnation, and because He promises to raise our material bodies on the last day.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church is clear: "Besides sacramental liturgy and sacramentals, catechesis must take into account the forms of piety and popular devotions among the faithful. The religious sense of the Christian people has always found expression in various forms of piety surrounding the Church's sacramental life, such as the veneration of relics" (CCC 1674).

Why do we venerate relics? Because we believe in the Communion of Saints. Because we believe that those who have died in Christ are not gone but alive in Him, interceding for us, cheering us on, part of the great cloud of witnesses described in Hebrews 12. And because we believe that the bodies of the saints were temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19) and will be raised in glory.

We do not worship relics. Worship belongs to God alone. But we venerate them, honor them, as we would honor the flag of a fallen soldier or the letters of a beloved grandparent. Not because the object is God, but because it points to something sacred, something eternal, something that participated in the life of grace.

The Second Council of Nicaea in 787 affirmed the veneration of relics. The Council of Trent in the 16th century reaffirmed it against Protestant attacks. The practice stretches back to the catacombs where early Christians celebrated the Eucharist over the tombs of martyrs, literally building the altar of the New Covenant on the bones of those who gave their lives for Christ.

This is not superstition. This is the faith once delivered to the saints.

The Mystery of Incorruptibility

Not all saints' bodies remain incorrupt. In fact, most do not. Incorruptibility is not a requirement for canonization. It is not a guarantee of holiness. It is a sign, not a proof. A question mark written in flesh that points beyond itself.

The Church has always been cautious about incorruptibility. She does not demand it. She does not automatically interpret it as miraculous. Climate, soil composition, burial practices, embalming techniques—all of these can affect the rate of decay. Some bodies naturally resist decomposition longer than others.

But the case of St. Anthony is different.

His body decayed normally. Everything returned to dust as biology dictates. Except his tongue. And his jawbone. The very instruments of speech.

There is no natural explanation for selective preservation. Bodies do not choose which parts to keep and which parts to surrender to decay. If environmental factors preserved the tongue, they should have preserved the rest. If embalming techniques were used, they should have affected the whole body.

But they did not.

The Catechism teaches that our bodies are destined for resurrection: "We believe in the true resurrection of this flesh that we now possess" (CCC 1017). The incorruptibility of saints' bodies is seen as a foreshadowing of that resurrection, a preview of the glory to come when Christ "will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body" (Philippians 3:21).

Science observes. Theology interprets.

Science sees a tongue that did not rot and searches for chemical explanations, environmental factors, preservation techniques. And finds none that fit.

Theology sees a tongue that proclaimed the Word of God with such fidelity, such power, such fruit that God Himself marked it as a sign. A sign that truth spoken in Christ does not decay. A sign that the Gospel outlasts the grave. A sign that the resurrection is not just a future hope but a present reality breaking into the material world.

The skeptic demands a naturalistic explanation. The believer sees a supernatural sign. And the Church, wise and patient, simply says: Come and see. Stand before the reliquary. Look at the tongue. And ask yourself what kind of universe you live in.

The Tongue as Theological Symbol

In Scripture, the tongue is never neutral.

"The tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness," writes James. "It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison" (James 3:6-8). With it we bless God and curse men. With it we build up and tear down. The tongue, that small member, sets the course of life ablaze.

But in the hands of God, the tongue becomes something else entirely.

It becomes the instrument of the prophet crying in the wilderness. The voice of the apostle preaching Christ crucified. The mouth of the martyr confessing faith even as the executioner raises the sword.

Jesus Himself is called the Word. The Logos. The divine speech of God made flesh. And His disciples are commanded to go into all the world and preach the Gospel, to make disciples of all nations, to baptize and teach and proclaim.

The Christian faith is a spoken faith. A proclaimed faith. A faith that comes by hearing (Romans 10:17).

St. Anthony understood this. His entire life was oriented around one purpose: to speak the truth of Christ with such clarity and power that souls would be saved and errors would be crushed.

He did not write great theological treatises. He did not leave behind volumes of systematic theology. He left behind a tongue that preached. And that tongue, preserved from decay, became his greatest sermon.

The incorrupt tongue is not just a curiosity. It is a symbol. A reminder that the words we speak matter. That truth proclaimed in Christ has weight and substance and permanence. That lies rot but the Gospel endures.

In a world where language is debased, where words are twisted to mean their opposite, where "love" is used to bless sin and "hate" is hurled at those who speak truth, the tongue of St. Anthony stands as a rebuke and a challenge.

Will our words outlast us? Will the truth we speak today still stand when our bodies return to dust?

Or will our speech decay along with our flesh, forgotten and fruitless, another voice lost in the noise?

The Cultural Power of a Relic

Every year, millions of pilgrims descend on Padua. They come from every continent, every background, every station in life. Rich and poor. Educated and illiterate. Cradle Catholics and converts. They come to pray. To ask for intercession. To stand in the presence of something that defies explanation.

St. Anthony is known as the patron saint of lost things. Lost keys. Lost wallets. Lost hope. People pray to him when they cannot find what they are looking for, and the stories of answered prayers are legion.

But the deeper devotion is to the saint himself. To the man who gave everything for Christ. To the preacher who proclaimed truth without compromise. To the tongue that refused to decay.

The feast of St. Anthony is celebrated on June 13, the anniversary of his death. But there is also a feast celebrating the translation of his relics, the day the tomb was opened and the tongue was found incorrupt. It is called the Feast of the Tongue. Not officially on every liturgical calendar, but remembered and celebrated in Padua and in Franciscan communities around the world.

Processions wind through the streets. The reliquary is carried in honor. Sermons are preached on the power of the Word. And generation after generation is reminded that God still works miracles, that He still marks His saints, and that the truth proclaimed in His name will outlast every empire built on lies.

Critics call it superstition. Skeptics call it theater. But the people keep coming. They keep praying. They keep believing.

Because deep down, beneath the veneer of secularism and scientism, the human heart knows what it was made for. It knows that there is more to this world than matter in motion. It knows that some things cannot be explained away. It knows that a tongue preserved for eight hundred years is not an accident.

It is a sign. A wonder. A miracle pointing to the God who raises the dead and will not let His faithful ones see corruption.

Answering the Skeptics

The objections are predictable.

Protestants say the veneration of relics is unbiblical, a corruption introduced by a power-hungry medieval Church seeking to control the masses through fear and superstition.

To which the answer is simple: read your Bible. Joseph's bones. Elisha's bones. Paul's handkerchiefs. The early Church did not invent relic veneration. They inherited it from the faith of Israel and sanctified it in Christ.

Scientists say incorruptibility can be explained by environmental factors, by the conditions of the soil, by the absence of moisture, by a hundred natural causes that have nothing to do with God.

To which the answer is: then explain why only the tongue. Explain selective preservation. Explain why the rest of the body decayed and this one part did not. Explain it without resorting to special pleading or appeals to unknown factors that just happen to line up perfectly with theological significance.

Atheists say it is all myth, that the tongue was probably embalmed, that the medieval Church lied, that there is no contemporary documentation, that the whole story is a pious fabrication.

To which the answer is: the documentation exists. The witnesses are named. St. Bonaventure was no fool. The exhumation of 1981 confirmed what was found in 1263. You can go to Padua today and see the relic yourself. Your disbelief does not erase history.

The Church does not demand that anyone believe in the incorruptibility of St. Anthony's tongue as an article of faith. It is not a dogma. It is a sign. And signs can be rejected.

But for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, the sign points to something undeniable: that God is real, that He acts in history, that He honors those who honor Him, and that the truth proclaimed in Jesus Christ is indestructible.

Truth That Cannot Decay

We live in an age of decay.

Our language decays. Words no longer mean what they meant. Marriage is redefined. Gender is fluid. Truth is whatever the mob decides it is today.

Our institutions decay. Churches that once thundered the Gospel now whisper therapeutic nonsense. Schools that once taught Western civilization now teach children to hate their own heritage. Governments that once protected the innocent now fund the slaughter of the unborn and call it healthcare.

Our culture decays. Families disintegrate. Communities fracture. Loneliness and despair spread like cancer. Suicide rates climb. Overdose deaths skyrocket. And we are told this is progress.

Into this rot, the incorrupt tongue of St. Anthony speaks.

It speaks of a truth that does not change with the times. A truth grounded not in polling data or cultural consensus but in the eternal Word of God.

It speaks of a Gospel that has outlasted empires and ideologies, that has survived persecutions and heresies, that has been declared dead a thousand times and yet keeps rising from the grave.

It speaks of the power of proclamation. Of standing before a hostile world and declaring "Thus saith the Lord" regardless of the cost.

St. Anthony did not preach to be popular. He preached to save souls. He confronted error head-on. He called sin what it was. He defended the faith with every breath in his body.

And when his body returned to dust, his tongue remained. Because the truth he proclaimed was incorruptible.

What are we proclaiming?

Are we speaking words that will outlast us? Words rooted in Scripture and soaked in prayer? Words that build up the body of Christ and tear down the strongholds of hell?

Or are we trafficking in the cheap rhetoric of our age? Slogans and hashtags and virtue signals that will be forgotten before our corpses grow cold?

The tongue of St. Anthony is a mirror held up to every Christian. It asks us: What will remain of your speech when you are gone?

The Resurrection Written in Flesh

At the heart of the Christian faith is an audacious claim: the dead will rise.

Not spiritually. Not metaphorically. Not as disembodied souls floating in some ethereal heaven. But bodily. Physically. In the flesh.

"I believe in the resurrection of the body," we confess in the Creed. And every time we say it, we are declaring that matter matters. That God created the physical world good and will redeem it. That the Incarnation was not a temporary costume but the permanent union of divinity and humanity in the person of Jesus Christ.

The incorruptibility of St. Anthony's tongue is a whisper of that resurrection.

It is God saying: I am not done with the body. Death is not the final word. And those who give their bodies in service to the Gospel will not be abandoned to decay.

The resurrection is not just a future hope. It breaks into the present in signs and wonders, in miracles and mysteries, in a tongue that refuses to rot and a Gospel that cannot be silenced.

This is the scandal of Christianity. Not that we worship a dead rabbi from Nazareth. But that we worship a crucified King who rose from the grave and promises to raise us with Him.

The incorrupt tongue is a down payment on that promise. A foretaste of glory. A sign that the same power that raised Jesus from the dead is at work in the world today.

A Final Word

There is a golden reliquary in Padua that holds a tongue.

Not a metaphor. Not a symbol. An actual human tongue that has not decayed in eight centuries.

You can dismiss it. You can explain it away. You can call it superstition or fraud or wishful thinking.

Or you can stand before it in silence and let it ask you the question it has been asking for 800 years:

What are you doing with your tongue?

Are you using it to proclaim the truth of Christ or to peddle the lies of the age?

Are you speaking words that build up or words that tear down?

Are you a voice crying in the wilderness or an echo chamber amplifying the noise?

St. Anthony gave his tongue to God. He used it to preach repentance, to call sinners home, to defend the faith, to proclaim the Gospel with such power that entire cities were converted.

And God marked that tongue. Preserved it. Displayed it. Made it a sermon that will preach until the Lord returns.

The question is not whether you believe in the miracle. The question is whether you believe in the mission.

Because the truth St. Anthony proclaimed is the same truth we are called to proclaim. The Gospel he preached is the same Gospel we are commanded to preach. And the God who preserved his tongue from decay is the same God who promises that His Word will not return to Him void.

So speak. Preach. Proclaim. Let your tongue be a living relic of the incorruptible truth of Jesus Christ.

Because in the end, when your body returns to dust and your bones turn to ash, the only thing that will matter is whether you spoke the words that never die.

~by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

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