Today the church remembers the author of one of your favorite hymns and stalwart keeper of his word: Saint Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Creator of Earworms.

Saint Thomas Ken was the son of barristers in 17th Century Britain. In these turbulent times factions between Protestants and Catholics loomed large over everything, including the crown. Saint Thomas was an Anglican priest and chaplain to King Charles II (namesake of the current King of England). Though he was the confessor of King Charles, he would not allow the king’s mistress to enter his home…and the king respected him for this. In thankfulness for both his service and with respect for his uncompromising word, King Charles II made Saint Thomas Ken the Bishop of Bath and Wells.

In 1684 King James II ascended to the throne as King Charles’s successor, and though King James II was a Roman Catholic, Saint Thomas Ken gave him his allegiance. This sworn allegiance, though, did not prevent Saint Thomas from speaking up when King James II attempted to undermine the authority of the Church of England, and this political stand had a political price.

Saint Thomas was thrown in the Tower of London for refusing to do as King James II decreed.

King James II was deposed only four years later shortly after Saint Thomas was acquitted, but though William of Orange took the throne, Saint Thomas had sworn his oath to King James II and felt he couldn’t betray that word (even though King James had thrown him in the stocks).

Saint Thomas Ken was removed from his bishopric and died on this day in 1711.

Despite the political and ecclesial turmoil of the time, Saint Thomas Ken was able to do some majestic penmanship behind his ecclesial desk. He is remembered and celebrated even today when the church sings the melodious morning hymn, “Awake, my soul, and with the sun” (ELW 557), and the contemplative, beautiful, and tear-inducing evening hymn, “All praise to thee, my God this night” (ELW 565).

It’s that last one that most probably know him for.

Saint Thomas Ken is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes turbulent times can produce wonderful moments of beauty.

-historical bits gleaned from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

Today the church remembers a visionary 7th Century Celtic saint who vacillated between solitude and society: Saint Cuthbert, Bishop, Bird -Watcher, and Shepherd.

Saint Cuthbert was born in the year 625 somewhere in Northubmria (modernly you’d call that North England/Southern Scotland, right where the British accent gets super wonky). He was a shepherd in his first life, and according to the Venerable Bede had a vision while tending sheep that angels were ushering a soul into heaven. It just so happened that Saint Aiden had died that same night, and good Saint Cuthbert took that as a sign that he should replace the monastic roles now empty of that one memorable member.

Saint Cuthbert became a monk at Melrose soon after, and he was known as a kind and dedicated monastic. He eventually became abbot of that monastery just as the plague spread across Briton, and Saint Cuthbert took to the streets, making visits and cheering spirits at great personal risk.

In 664 he became prior of Lindisfarne (also called Holy Island) in North East England, but eventually felt the call to a solitary life and settled on a nearby island to live as a hermit for nine years.

In 684 he was once again called back into society as the Bishop of Northumbria, a seat he reluctantly took. Shortly after accepting the miter, though, he felt death coming toward him and withdrew back to his small hermitage to die in peace on this date in 687.

Fun fact: his bones were found a century later in 1827. His remains had been removed from Farne due to Viking raids and he was put to rest in Durham cathedral. An excavation that year uncovered his bones beneath the site of a medieval shrine dedicated to him.

Saint Cuthbert was not only known for his kindness to humans, but he was also known as an avid birder, being quite observant of the beasts of the air (and feeling a kinship with them). Even monks need a hobby, right?

Saint Cuthbert is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes we’re called to be and do different things in this life. Cuthbert was a shepherd, then a monk, then a hermit, then a bishop, and then retreated back into solitude…all were holy callings.

Different things at different times: all holy. Kind of makes you rethink that whole “mid-life crisis” thing, right? Perhaps it’s less a crisis and just a new calling.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

-icon written by the dear saints at Mull Monastery (www.mullmonastery.com). I found fascinating and engaging icons written here that will delight and inspire!

Today the church remembers a saint that everyone knows, but no one knows much about: St. Joseph, Step-Father of Jesus and Companion of St. Mary.

St. Joseph is only mentioned in three of the four Gospels (Mark doesn’t seem to know about him, or doesn’t think he’s important enough to mention), but because the Christmas tales are so popular in our age, St. Joseph is part of that other holy Trinity: Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

Matthew and Luke don’t even really agree on the genealogy of Jesus, but both trace Joseph through that singing Psalmist David, making a direct connection between Jesus and the House of David. Matthew indicates that St. Joseph was originally a resident of Bethlehem who made his home in Nazareth (which is how he met Mary for Matthew), but Luke says that Joseph was a longtime resident of Nazareth, and only went to Bethlehem for the census.

St. Joseph, like Jesus in the Gospel of Mark, seems to be a person without a known home, which I kind of like, because it means that St. Joseph could be anyone…like you, or me, and entrusted with the Christ-child for the sake of the world.

Scriptures say that he was a carpenter (though the Greek word used is kind of obscure and could mean anything from “artisan” to “rock mason”…I like to think he was an artist). The Gospels portray him as a fair individual, and a devout follower of Judaism who sought wisdom and understanding.

Because the Gospel accounts don’t mention him again, it is thought that he had died by the time Jesus is crucified. This is entirely plausible as marriages in the ancient world were often unequal in age, and wives typically outlived their spouses (hence why “widows and orphans” is noted so often in the scriptures). That all being said, nothing in the scriptures notes he was older, so why do we assume he might be?

I’m glad you asked…

There’s a fun (and fake) 2nd Century Gospel attributed to James the Less, a disciple of Jesus, that makes that claim. And in the 5th Century we find a History of Joseph the Carpenter that claims he was 89 (!) when he was a widower, and married Mary when he was 91 (!). That’s a stretch for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that hardly anyone in the ancient world lived that long.

The first commemorations to St. Joseph are recorded in the 8th Century from Northern France that calls him the artful “Spouse of Mary.” I prefer to think of him as the “Step-Father of Jesus” not only because the Gospels functionally portray him that way, but also because it gives a holy nod to the blended families that bless this world.

St. Joseph is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that everyone is called to be a step-father to the Divine Love Letter in this world.

We are all Josephs, no matter where we’re from.

-historical bits gleaned from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

Today the church remembers the church father who, in all likelihood, instituted the feast days of Palm Sunday and the observance of Holy Week: St. Cyril, Bishop of Jerusalem and First (unofficial) Sunday School Teacher of the Church.

St. Cyril was born in Jerusalem sometime around the early 4th Century. At a young age he was ordained a priest and, despite his youth, was entrusted with catechizing those preparing for baptism. This work was traditionally reserved only for the Bishop, but Cyril’s skill in teaching and relaying the doctrine of the church was impeccable.

The catechesis that St. Cyril created, known as the Catechetical Lectures are the clearest surviving notes that we have on the catechetical process of the early church for the Rite of Initiation which leads to the Rite of Holy Baptism (at least for adults…for children the process is reversed).

Cyril became Bishop of Jerusalem around the year 349, and remained in that holy seat until his death on this day in 386. Yet, during his bishopric he led in exile more than a few times, as that early church fought over doctrine and dogma (seems like a pattern, no?).

St. Cyril was Bishop over the Holy Land, the site of holy pilgrimage for many early Christians, especially around Easter. It is quite likely that St. Cyril, in all of his catechetical acumen, instituted the Feast of Palm Sunday and the events of Holy Week as a way to teach Christians about the Passion of the Christ. In many ways you can thank St. Cyril for what are, I believe, the best parts of Christian ritual.

St. Cyril is a reminder for me, and can be for the whole church, that rites and rituals are not “hoops we jump through,” but formative experiences that create a rhythm in our being that can be supremely meaningful in the right hands.

-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

-icon written by Brother Simeon Davis of Monastery Icons

Today the church remembers St. Patrick, the 5th Century missionary to Ireland.

He was not religious as a child, and as an early teen was seized by Irish raiders and sold as a slave in Ireland. In his bondage and loneliness, he began to pray every day.

He eventually managed to escape in his late teens and returned to Roman-Britain, now spiritual and convinced that he was called to serve the Irish people not as a slave, but as a shepherd.

He studied for the priesthood, and became Bishop of Ireland in the 430’s.

Lore is legion for this Irish saint, and he became known for standing up for the Irish, even against the will and decrees of his native Roman-British. He was known for leading a vigorous and historic life. He died in 461 in County Down.

Prayer of St. Patrick (modern adaptation by me):

Christ with me,
Christ before me, leading to stand between my neighbor and those who would harm them, shoot them, slur them,
Christ behind me, pulling me back from being the harmer, the shooter, the slanderer.
Me in Christ.
Christ beneath me, showing me how to care for those trod under the feet of a system that favors the already-favored,
Christ above me, pulling me out of the pit of depression and all the personal hells we all find ourselves in,
Christ on the right of me, teaching me to love those more conservative than me,
Christ on the left of me, teaching me to love those more liberal than me,
Christ when I lie down, making my bed in the many and various agreements I find myself in that I am proud, and not so proud, of…agreements that betray my values, and also ones that speak to the kind of human I want to be,
Christ when I sit down with the protesters…(Christ make me sit down, that should say), and when I sit down and keep quiet because I’ve seen my privilege and they don’t need another voice like mine in the mix,
Christ when I arise like a phoenix from the fires that almost take my life,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks, fondly or unfondly, of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks, kindly or unkindly, of me,
Christ in the eye of all who see me at my best and worst,
Christ in the ear of everyone who hears me, at my best and at my worst.

St. Patrick is a testament to how, when we fall in love with a people, we also fall in line with them against the powers of the world that threaten them. He was an ally for the abused Irish, and is now one of their patron saints.

Today the church remembers the yang to St. Vincent de Paul’s yin: St. Louise de Marillac, Patron Saint of Social Workers and Friend of Those With Depression.

Born in France at the tail end of the 16th Century, Louise encountered many challenges in life. She was born out of wedlock to a mother she would never know and a father who died when she was twelve. Despite the early hardships, she had received an exemplary education, and her uncle was part of the Queen’s Court, which gave her allies in high places…that is until the civil unrest of the time forced his untimely demise.

When her father died, St. Louise went to live with a kindly spinster in town who taught her herbal medicine (Louise was perpetually sick), and from a young age she felt the call to cloistered life.

Unfortunately, cloistered life did not feel the same about her. She was denied entry as a Capuchin, and had to pivot to a plan B for her life. Her family encouraged her to get married, and she stumbled upon Antoine, an ambitious young man whom she would, in time, grow to sort of love.

From their union one child was born, Michel, whom she loved dearly.

But in these days St. Louise still felt much inner turmoil. She had wanted to follow a life of devotion to God, and yet here she was with a husband and child. She felt like she had abandoned her call in life which, along with the failing health of her husband, led her into a deep depression.

Yet, like so many in life, she lived with the depression, tending her ailing husband and doting on her son. I think we would all be surprised to know the number of functioning people living with depression, doing what they must for those they love, even as their insides feel empty…

One day in prayer, St. Louise felt an overwhelming sense of calm. She realized that she must stay with her husband, though she felt a strong call to the cloister still, and should she outlive him, she would refuse to marry and then accept her vows. In this same clarity of purpose, she also said she felt a Divine assurance that a new spiritual director would enter her life.

Soon after she met St. Vincent de Paul, and that, as they say, is that.

Despite her excellent care, Antoine died in 1625. As a widow with a son and without income, she moved into a more modest home, and lobbied for St. Vincent to become her confessor. He eventually agreed, though he was already very busy giving his life away to the sick and infirm in France.

Over the next few years, under St. Vincent’s spiritual care, St. Louise came to see her life attain more balance. She joined St. Vincent in his care for the needy and sick in France, and found both joy and success in the work. At the age of forty-two she went on retreat and received a new vision for her life: she must lean into her vows and start the Daughters of Charity.

Part of the vision was a realization that social class and stigma prevented the upper class from aiding the lower class. Yeah, sure, they sent meals and provided some minor medical care, but the tension between the classes remained and made everyone hesitant to give, and to receive, care.

Plus, St. Louise realized the aristocracy didn’t like the work of caring for the needy…and they were kind of lousy at it, honestly.

So, St. Louise set up a system of care that leaned upon the aristocracy to raise funds, but left the practical hands-on work to a group of sisters who not only identified with those they were caring for, but were trusted by them, too. These women who would come to care for the sick and infirm were usually from rural areas of France, and their unique upbringing made them supremely capable of the task in a way that elite city-dwellers were not.

St. Louise organized these women into formational homes, teaching them practical care and spirituality. Being savvy with governmental regulations, St. Louise began organizing her work to have centralized places of care throughout the city where the medical and social needs of the poor could be handled. She enlisted the help of doctors, nurses, and politicians to have sites set up in hotels, hospitals, prisons, the battle field, and eventually orphanages and mental institutions.

In concert with those doctors and nurses, she created nimble teams of care-givers to provide comprehensive services to those in need.

She, in effect, created a modern-day social worker network.

At the age of 68, St. Louise breathed her last, having set up over 40 places of care throughout France.

St. Louise is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes being in touch with the difficulties in your own life make you supremely qualified to walk with others through their own difficulties. And yet, it is often those people the church…like St. Louise…rejects at first.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.