The Catholic Church traditionally dedicates each month of the year to a specific devotion, helping the faithful grow in prayer, holiness, and reflection on Christ, Mary, or the saints. June is dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
The Sacred Heart of Jesus devotion focuses on Christ’s divine-human love—the “entire mystery” of Jesus considered most intimately in his person as God the Son and the source of infinite charity that saves and sanctifies. 1 It is rooted in Scripture’s imagery of Christ “pierced” on the side, from which blood and water flow, and in the Church’s invitation to a deeper communion with Jesus’ mercy and humility.
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While the Lamb of God and the Lion of Judah are the most obvious and biblically clear animal symbols for Jesus Christ, the pelican is an under-rated symbol that is rich in meaning and beauty. There are many birds used in Christian history to represent God: like the dove for the Holy Spirit and even the Mother Hen as an analogy to speak of Christ’s protection of his people in Luke 13:31-35.
Honestly, I had never heard about the pelican as a symbol of Jesus Christ until a few years ago. Since discovering this powerful symbol I have started to notice it more and more in various parishes where I have attended Mass over the years. I have seen etchings of this majestic bird on pillars at the cathedral in my city and have seen the pelican adorned on altars in a variety of ways.
A Symbol Hidden in Plain Sight
I traveled to Italy during college and visited both Assisi and Rome. I wish I had known about the pelican symbol back then because I would have seen some beautiful portrayals of this symbol of Christ in those awesome churches. Before learning about its spiritual significance, the only time I really thought about pelicans was when looking up NBA scores and seeing the New Orleans Pelicans! It’s amazing how something can transform from mundane to meaningful once you understand its deeper significance.
Today, I wear a pelican brown scapular (I alternate it with my traditional style brown scapular every other day), and I received an awesome pelican t-shirt from Archangel Outfitters to celebrate the Feast of Corpus Christi. These small reminders help keep this powerful symbol of Christ’s sacrifice close to my heart.
This is one of the coolest shirts I own. I wear it almost weekly. It’s perfect for the summertime!
An Ancient Legend Transformed
The image of the mother pelican feeding her baby pelicans is rooted in several ancient Roman legends that precede Christianity. One version is that in time of famine, the mother pelican wounded herself, striking her breast with her beak to feed her young with her blood. Another version was that the mother fed her dying young with her blood to revive them from death, but in turn lost her own life.
Given these traditions, one can easily understand how early Christians adapted it to symbolize our Lord, Jesus Christ. The pelican symbolizes Jesus our Redeemer who gave His life for our redemption and feeds us with His Body and Blood in the Eucharist. We were dead to sin and have found new life through the sacrifice of Christ.
The Biblical Connection
While the pelican doesn’t appear directly in Scripture as a symbol for Christ, Jesus himself uses bird imagery to describe his protective love. In Luke 13:31-35, after Pharisees warn him about Herod’s death threats, Jesus laments over Jerusalem:
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, yet you were not willing.”
This tender image of a mother bird gathering her young under wings for protection parallels the sacrificial nature of the pelican legend. Both emphasize Christ’s desire to protect, nourish, and save his people, even at great personal cost.
As Jesus told his disciples (and us), “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). Saint Cyril of Alexandria echoed this when he wrote, “Christ came into this world in human flesh not to be served, but, as he himself said, to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.”
The Physiologus and Medieval Symbolism
This tradition and others is found in the Physiologus, an early Christian work which appeared in the second century in Alexandria, Egypt. Written by an anonymous author, this text recorded legends of animals and gave each an allegorical interpretation.
The legend of the pelican is described: “The little pelicans strike their parents, and the parents, striking back, kill them. But on the third day the mother pelican strikes and opens her side and pours blood over her dead young. In this way they are revivified and made well. So Our Lord Jesus Christ says also through the prophet Isaiah: I have brought up children and exalted them, but they have despised me (Is 1:2). We struck God by serving the creature rather than the Creator. Therefore, He deigned to ascend the cross, and when His side was pierced, blood and water gushed forth unto our salvation and eternal life.”
This work was noted by numerous authors and was popular in the Middle Ages as a source for the symbols used in stone carvings and other artwork of that period.
The Pelican in Literature
The pelican symbol appears frequently in Renaissance literature. In 1312, Dante wrote in his “Paridiso” of Christ as “our Pelican who shed His blood in order to give eternal life to the children of men.” In 1606, John Lyly wrote in his “Euphues” of the “pelicane who stricketh blood out of its owne bodye to do others good.” Even Shakespeare referenced this symbolism in Hamlet: “to his good friend thus wide, I’ll open my arms and, like the kind, life-rendering pelican repast them with my blood.” In modern English this would translate as: “I’ll open my arms wide to his true friends, and like a mother pelican with her brood, I’ll even give my blood for them.”
Jesus cares for us like the mother pelican cares for her young.
The Eucharistic Connection
The pelican has been part of our liturgical tradition for centuries. In his great Eucharistic hymn “Adoro te devote,” St. Thomas Aquinas directly addresses Christ as the “pie pelicane, Jesu Domine” (the pious pelican, Lord Jesus), asking him to “wash my filthiness and clean me with your blood.”
This Eucharistic connection is why we often see the pelican image on tabernacles, altar frontals, and other church furnishings. The image powerfully reminds us of Christ’s Real Presence in the Eucharist, where He continues to feed us with His Body and Blood.
As Saint Pio of Pietrelcina said, “It would be easier for the world to survive without the sun than to do without Holy Mass.” The Eucharist is not merely a symbol but the very life of Christ given to sustain us spiritually, just as the pelican in the legend sustains her young with her own blood.
Saint John Paul II reminded us that “Jesus waits for us in this sacrament of love.” The image of the pelican helps us visualize this profound truth—Christ giving Himself completely for our salvation and nourishment.
Finding the Pelican in Our Churches
Next time you’re in a church, especially an older one with traditional furnishings, look around carefully. You might spot a pelican carved on an altar, etched in a stained glass window, or painted on a tabernacle door. These images aren’t random decorations but powerful reminders of Christ’s sacrificial love.
In Catholic tradition, the pelican image on a tabernacle door symbolizes the “body of Christ” within. But more commonly, the pelican symbol is found at the top of the cross in late-medieval and Renaissance Crucifixion images, reinforcing the connection between Christ’s sacrifice on the cross and the nourishment we receive in the Eucharist.
The pelican serves as a beautiful reminder that Christ not only died for us but continues to feed us with His very life. As we receive the Eucharist, we can meditate on this ancient symbol and be thankful for the Lord who, like the pelican of legend, gives His very life to sustain His children.
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There is a family in a small parish — let’s call them the Rodriguezes — whose story many of us who know them will never forget. A few years ago, their youngest daughter, eight-year-old Sofia, was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of leukemia. The doctors were honest but grim. The family was devastated, as any family would be. But they did something that changed not only their own lives, but the life of their entire community. They prayed. Not quietly, not privately, not alone — they opened their home every Friday evening and invited their neighbors, their parish friends, and even strangers to gather around their kitchen table and pray together to God the Father, through Jesus His Son, and in the power of the Holy Spirit.
Week after week, that kitchen filled up. People who hadn’t been to Mass in years came. People who weren’t even Catholic came. They prayed the Rosary, they read Scripture, they laid hands on one another and asked the Holy Spirit to move among them. And six months later, Sofia’s oncologist called with results that left the entire medical team without a ready explanation. The cancer was gone. Completely. Sofia walked back into her school, back into her life, and back into the arms of a community that had been transformed by what they had witnessed together.
But here is the most remarkable part of the story. It wasn’t just Sofia who was healed. Something happened in that neighborhood that no one fully planned. People who had come to pray for a sick child left believing — really believing — in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And belief, as today’s Gospel tells us, changes everything. That community went on to build a food pantry, a clothing drive, a tutoring program for at-risk children. They built, in their own small and beautiful way, the Kingdom of God. And it all began because they believed.
There is a family I know—a mother, a father, and three children—who arrived in America with nothing but hope and the clothes on their backs. They had fled unrest in their homeland, crossing an ocean, believing in the promise of a new life. But when they arrived, the world was not so welcoming. The language was foreign, the winters bit through their thin jackets, and neighbors eyed them with suspicion. The children were teased at school for their accents. The father’s hard-earned degree meant nothing here; he swept floors at night while the mother cleaned houses. They grew weary, and bitterness crept in. But then, one Sunday, they wandered into a small Catholic church.
There, a kind parishioner greeted them, and soon the parish wrapped them in unexpected warmth. Yet the pain lingered—until one evening, during a prayer service, the pastor spoke about forgiveness: how it is not just for those who have wronged us, but for our own hearts’ healing. The family prayed for those who had mistreated them. Slowly, a new peace took root. Not long after, they began volunteering at the church, helping other newcomers. The love they received, and the forgiveness they offered, built something beautiful—a small reflection of the Kingdom of God, right here in their new home.
There’s a story from the streets of Calcutta that I think about often. It’s the story of a woman so small in stature you could miss her in a crowd, but whose spirit somehow filled entire cities. Mother Teresa, now Saint Teresa of Calcutta, walked into the slums with little more than her faith and the conviction that the Holy Spirit was alive within her.
She once wrote, “I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world.” Through her, God’s love was not just spoken, but lived—heart to heart, hand to hand, life to life. Mother Teresa allowed the Spirit of God to flow through her, reaching the most forgotten souls and building up, out of dust and poverty, the Kingdom of God.
There was a man named John who, for much of his life, felt lost. He grew up in a small town, knew the routines of daily life, but a shadow seemed always to hover at the edge of his spirit. John tried to fill the emptiness with work, with distractions, even with the approval of others. None of it lasted. He wandered, like a sheep without a shepherd, never feeling truly at home, never truly at peace. One day, in a moment of quiet desperation, John found himself sitting alone in a church, staring at the crucifix. He whispered a prayer he wasn’t sure he believed: “Jesus, if you’re real, help me.”
Something shifted. Over the next days, John felt drawn back to the church, to Scripture, and to prayer. He met a priest who listened, who encouraged him to read the Gospels, to come to Mass, to let Jesus lead him. John gradually realized that Jesus was not a distant figure, but a Shepherd who knew him by name, who had been calling him all along. As John learned to trust Jesus and follow Him, his life changed. He found hope where before there was only emptiness. And, slowly, almost without realizing it, he began reaching out to others who felt lost as he once did. He listened, he prayed with them, he invited them to experience the same peace he’d found. John became a shepherd of souls, leading others to the Good Shepherd, Jesus Christ.
Once in a quiet convent in France, a young woman named Thérèse lived her “little way” with a heart overflowing with hope. St. Thérèse of Lisieux believed that holiness was not found in grand deeds, but in simple acts of love and kindness. Even as a child, Thérèse prayed for her “spiritual eyes” to be opened—to see Jesus in everyone, especially those who challenged her patience or seemed difficult to love.
When a fellow sister would irritate her, Thérèse would smile all the more, telling Jesus in her heart, “I see You hidden in her.” Her days were filled with ordinary tasks, yet every moment was a chance to encounter Christ. Through the eyes of love, she discovered Jesus in the faces around her, and her whole life became a song of joy. Thérèse’s hope never faded, even in suffering, because she recognized Jesus walking with her in every circumstance, in every person she met.
Recognizing Jesus on the Road: From Sorrow to Burning Joy in the Light of the Resurrection
Today’s Gospel takes us on another road—a dusty path to Emmaus—where two disciples walk with heavy hearts. They have witnessed the death of their hope. Jesus, whom they loved, is gone. As they journey, a stranger joins them. They do not recognize him. The Gospel tells us “their eyes were prevented from recognizing him.” Yet this stranger listens to their sorrow, invites them to retell the story of their dashed dreams, and walks with them patiently.
