Today the church remembers a prophet-farmer who spoke from the margins for the margins: St. Amos of Judah, Critic of the Monarchy and Firebrand Defender of the Poor.

St. Amos was active between 8th century BC, and is considered one of the twelve minor prophets in the Hebrew Scriptures (Hosea, Joel, Jonah…they round out the rest). The book of Amos is attributed to him, and though he was from the Southern Kingdom (Judah), he preached in the Northern Kingdom (Israel).

Having felt the call of the Divine upon his heart from the rural outskirts of the kingdom (and of society), Amos is a farmer-turned-prophet who pointed the monarchy toward the margins and asked, “Do you see who you are neglecting?! You claim to be working on behalf of God, but the growing wealth and opportunity gap between the elites and the working poor exposes your talk as just lies!”

Seriously, that’s the gist of his argument.

He said, “I am not a prophet, nor the son of a prophet!”(Amos 7:14) are his attempts to get the elites to listen to him. In essence he said, “I’m not doing this for show, y’all! This is real life.”

He warned that not watching out for the welfare of the weakest would lead to the Northern Kingdom’s fall. And, well, the Northern Kingdom fell in time…

As the wealthy continued to amass lands that did not belong to them, and on which they did not work, Amos reminded the circles of power that their goal was to honor God by protecting and elevating the laborer, not to get the “best deal” and take advantage of them.

Justice. Egalitarianism. A preference for the poor and the margins. This was the cry of the prophet Amos.

At his core Amos sought to do something that, throughout history, has been the hardest thing to do: convert the wealthy and the comfortable.

The feast day for this Biblical prophet varies depending on tradition. The Armenian and Orthodox calendars place the day in the summer months (June 15th or July 31st), while the Roman branch waits until March 31st.

Today, though, is an excellent day to honor the firebrand of a saint as March 28th often lands in the season of Lent, a season where we attune our spiritual hearts toward repentance.

St. Amos is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that in times of prosperity conversion is still necessary…and often it has little to do with “giving your heart to Jesus,” but rather offering up your life and gifts for the sake of your neighbor.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical bits gleaned from publicly accessed information, the Harper Collins Study Bible, and Claiborne and Hartgrove’s Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals

-icon is a Russian Orthodox depiction of the prophet making their appeal.

Today the church remembers a different carpenter from the ancient days: Saint John of Egypt, Wood Worker, Hermit, and Mystic.

Saint John of Egypt was born into a very poor family, not unlike the Jesus he so sought to emulate. He was trained as a wood worker (perhaps another connection to that wandering wonder in ancient Palestine), and at the age of twenty-five officially became a hermit after being trained by an unnamed ancient mystic who was following The Way.

The story goes that this ancient unnamed hermit ordered Saint John of Egypt to douse a wooden stick in water every day for a year, without explanation. One imagines this to be a test in obedience, not unlike Mr. Miagi and young Daniel from “The Karate Kid” (an underrated mystical movie). Would Saint John of Egypt keep up the task without explanation? What would happen at the end of the year?!

Well, at the end of the year this hermit took the stick Saint John had diligently wetted every day for a year and threw it away.

One hears this and recalls the words of that other ancient mystic Qoheleth who penned Ecclesiastes, “Vanity, vanity! Everything is vanity!”

Yet still, even when confronted with the futility of life, Saint John of Egypt chose the hermit’s life in the desert as the way to eek out his existence in the world. In fact, he mirrored his mentor’s seemingly odd acts in life and took them on as his own. He was known for carefully tending dead trees and for randomly moving large rocks from one location to another for no reason.

In the hills outside of Lycopolis, Egypt he created three caves: one for sleeping, one for working, and one for praying, and then walled himself into these adjoining caves, only allowing a small window to connect him to the outside world. Through this window he would receive food (only dried veggies and dried fruits, thank you) and would regularly preach to crowds and crowds of people.

From his small hermitage Saint John was said to do amazing things. He was said to be able to see into the future, seeing events that had yet to unfold (he foretold the victories of Theodosius the Great), and could heal people he had never met, appearing to them in visions and dreams. For this reason he was sometimes called, Saint John the Clairvoyant of Egypt.

Saint John of Egypt lived in this way, cut off from the outside world, for over fifty years, well into his 90’s. The last three days of his life were spent in prayer, and he was found by his devotees on this day in the late 4th Century in a prayerful position, having breathed his last.

Saint John of Egypt is kind of an odd duck, following in the footsteps of Saint John the Baptizer and the other desert mothers and fathers. These esthetes can sometimes cause people to pause and scratch their heads, which is kind of their point. They lived in such a way that people took notice, for better or for worse, and we must remember that they considered this way of life a voluntary calling.

Saint John of Egypt is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes it’s important to live in such a way that people stop and take notice. It doesn’t have to be as extreme as Saint John here…but if your beliefs don’t change the way you live, the way you treat people, the way you extend your love, your hope, and your advocacy, well…

Why bother?

-historical bits from publicly accessed information

-icon written in traditional Orthodox style

Today I would lobby hard that the church remember one who held a golden pen and touched the essence of what it means to be human in this existence: Brother Walt Whitman, Poet and Deamer of Dreams.

Born in the early days of the 19th Century on Long Island, Whitman left schooling early on (at the tender age of 11!) to embrace the life of quill-bearer, teaching, working as a journalist, and eking out an existence as a poet and writer. He was intensely curious about the underlying emotions of what it means to be alive, feeling the vibration of the mortal coil with every ounce of his being. This became a central theme in his writing: an analysis of living, specifically living in an America trying to find itself.

Brother Walt took to the hospital room once the American Civil war was underway, and many of his essays and poems touched on healing and hurt, influenced by the care he gave to soldiers in the field. When Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, the grief-stricken Whitman penned, “O Captain, My Captain,” an ode to the fallen forlorn leader (and darling of a poem for those who loved “Dead Poets Society”). He bled his heart on every page.

America loved this homegrown writer who was influenced by the art of the opera, the art of the operating room, and the art of existence. He wrote journal essays and serialized novels (some b tree than others, IMHO) before becoming enamored with the idea of poetry that might capture all of these feelings into one. This he birthed ingenious forms of poetry, and the epic “Leaves of Grass” emerged from his soul, and the study of American humanities has never been the same.

In “Leaves of Grass” Whitman’s sexual energies (he is thought to have been pretty openly bisexual in orientation) mixed with his emotional vulnerability to create a sweeping romp touching on the transcendent, the primal, and the political. He used free verse and symbolism in inventive ways, creating what some consider to be a uniquely American way of articulating the best of what it means to be alive. It truly is a wonder, and my Junior year High School teacher might delight in my memory of him reading pieces of it to his gathered, rapturous students from the perch of his stool.

Any mention of Brother Whitman would be remiss if it also didn’t note perhaps his most popular work, “Song of Myself,” a winding exploration on self-discovery. It is certainly his hit single.

On the spiritual front, Walt considered himself a practitioner of every faith, and sometimes none at all. He thought the Divine to be utterly ineffable and yet immediately accessible, a lovely combination of religious question marks and exclamation points if you ask me.

He wrote and explored and loved.

In his later years Whitman suffered declining health, and after a stroke resigned himself to a quiet life in New Jersey.

He died on this day in 1892 at the age of 72, revising “Leaves of Grass” until the very end.

Many consider him the very first, true, poet of the American experiment…which is kind of lovely to imagine that such a true American was a bisexual wordsmith who loved symbolism more than literalism, good questions more than trite answers.

Would the America (and the church!) take this to heart today.

Brother Walt Whitman is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church (and everyone), that being alive is a wonderful playground for minds daring a curious enough to explore what it means.

-historical bits from public sources.

-drawing by Michele Rosenthal, and can be purchased at Queer Portraits in History (queerportraits.com)

Today the church commemorates the Palm Sunday processional in many parishes across the globe. This moveable commemoration is the beginning of the end of the new beginning for Christians who observe the liturgical calendar.

Bishop Theodulph of Orleans penned the hymn my heart is singing on this Palm Sunday morning, “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.”

It truly is one of my favorites, made more sacred by the fact that we really only sing it once a year.

He is said to have written it from his prison tower, thrown there by King Louis the Debonair, son of Charlemagne.

The story goes that the Bishop wrote this hymn and, in the year 821 as the Emperor passed by on Palm Sunday heading to Mass at the cathedral, he sang it loudly over the passing procession from his stone entombment. The emperor, taken with the song, released the good Bishop.

Truly the rocks themselves will shout for justice.

-painting by Polly Castor

Today the church remembers Bishop Oscar Romero of San Salvador.

Bishop Romero was born in the mountains of El Salvador, and was originally trained in the arts of carpentry. At a young age he entered seminary, and eventually completed his schooling in Rome.

He served as a parish priest in El Salvador, and then as the rector of the seminary in San Salvador. He was consecrated bishop in 1970, and then Archbishop of San Salvador in 1977.

He is remembered for being a defender of the poor and the underclass, especially in the conflicts in El Salvador. He used his status as bishop, and then Archbishop, to call the powers to account for their greed and atrocities.

But we forget that he wasn’t always so vocal. He was timid at the start of his bishopric, worried that speaking out too forcefully would be too divisive, even if it was the just thing to do.

A peace brought about by silence, though, is no peace at all…and he eventually felt the weight of this deep truth.

During Mass on the 24th of March in 1980, Archbishop Romero was shot through the heart just as he was elevating the host, killed for his work for justice on behalf of the poor and oppressed.

“The church’s good name,” he once wrote, “is not a matter of being on good terms with the powerful. The church’s good name is a matter of knowing that the poor regard the church as their own, of knowing that the church’s life on earth is to call on all, on the rich as well, to be converted and be saved alongside the poor, for they are the only ones called blessed.”

(excerpt from The Violence of Love, by Romero)

-biographical information from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals and Commemorations–

Today the church remembers an obscure (to Westerners) Armenian saint with a cool name: Gregory the Illuminator, Bishop of Armenia and Trailblazer.

We don’t know much that is verifiable about St. Gregory’s early years. Lore and legend have crept up around his historical life so much so that he is a giant standing upon the stories others tell of him.

Nevertheless, we know he was born around the mid-3rd Century, and was baptized as a child while in hiding (perhaps his father was the assassin of the Persian King Khrosrov I?), and a married St. Gregory returns to Armenia in the late 3rd Century and converted King Tiridates III to Christianity.

Around the year 300 St. Gregory was consecrated Bishop of Armenia, and under his leadership Armenia was the first country to officially adopt Christianity as the national religion, paving the way (for better or for worse) for Constantine to do the same.

The Armenian Church continues to have a strong Christian presence, and is a companion to the Anglican Communion (though not officially part of it).

St. Gregory is called “The Illuminator” because he sought to bring Gospel light to Armenia. Toward the end of his life he appointed his son Aristages to be chief Bishop in his place, and lived out his remaining years in holy solitude.

St. Gregory the Illuminator is a reminder for me, and can be for the whole church, that a good and righteous life can be eaked out of tragic beginnings. The sins of the parents need not trickle down to the children. Though his father (probably) was a murderer, he went on to shape a whole nation for good.

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

Today the church remembers an 18th Century pastor and theologian who, though kind of a mixed bag in my view, deserves a nod: Saint Jonathan Edwards, Wunderkind and Firebrand.

Saint Jonathan was the fifth child of eleven children, and the only son, born into a preacher’s household in 1703. He was educated at home and sent off to Yale at the age of thirteen and received his Bachelor of Arts in 1720. As he continued on to seminary studies he took the pulpit of a nearby church, vacillating between practical ministry and continuing his studies in the academy.

In 1726 he came alongside his grandfather as the pastor in Northampton, the most prominent church in Massachusetts, was ordained and married a young woman, Sarah, in the following year. Jonathan and Sarah would go on to have eleven children themselves.

In time Jonathan took over the pulpit at Northampton from his grandfather, and became widely known for his brilliant intellect. His understanding of philosophy, the mathematics of logic, and human psychology were astounding, but even more interesting was the way he applied these disciplines to his theological ideas. In his left hand he held the academy, and in his right hand he held intense mystical conversion experiences, and he brought them both together as he prayed.

Armed with a profound conversion experience and a robust mind, Edwards took on Arminianism, a growing theological trend that emphasized free will and downplayed traditional notions of original sin, essentially relegating religion to the realm of trite moralism. He embraced his inner Luther and took on faith and grace as the legs of the ladder of salvation, and through conversion one might ascend that ladder toward a higher way of being in the world.

Saint Jonathan was also a victim of fortune in these days as the American landscape was ripe for a religious revival and through his preaching joining the witness of others (George Whitefield and Gilbert Tennant amongst others), the Great Awakening spread across the colonies.

But, like most rock star pastors, Saint Jonathan’s growing fame came at a vocational cost. His congregation didn’t want a rock star pastor and were a bit jealous of the fame he was gaining. That, mixed with Edwards’s very strict ideas regarding who was saved and who wasn’t (he had a habit of refusing people communion if they weren’t “clearly converted”), caused a break in their relationship. Saint Jonathan eventually left the parish to become a frontier missionary to First Nations tribes elsewhere in Massachusetts. There he was met with a significant language barrier, personal demons that still gave chase, and tribal wars, but still was able to publish what some consider his greatest works, Freedom of the Will and The Great Christian Doctrine of Original Sin Defended.

In 1757 Saint Jonathan was called from the frontier to serve as the president of the College of New Jersey (you know this college as Princeton). Princeton was experiencing an outbreak of smallpox just as he took his chair, and though Saint Jonathan had received inoculation (get vaccinated!) he suffered a secondary infection and died on this day in 1758.

His gravestone still stands in Princeton’s cemetery.

Saint Jonathan Edwards’s ghost has had a bit of a resurgence lately as the revival at Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky reminded corporate memory of the kind of “convincing conversion” he wrote so passionately about. Whatever you call what happened in Asbury, it is pretty clear that there is a longing for belonging that still happens in humans, and a longing to feel.

On a personal note, though I do not agree with much (most all?) of Saint Jonathan Edwards’s theological notions it cannot be denied that he influenced humanity through his brilliance and passion. He was an intense and fiery preacher, and his zeal to make those in the pew feel something is important (even if I think it is wrong-headed and theologically abusive).

For his desire that people to be moved he deserves to be remembered, if not fully revered. I do not think we are “sinners in the hands of an angry God” dangled over the pit of hell as “one holds a spider on its web.” It can’t be denied that the image, though, is powerful and evocative…even if I think it’s wrong.

Saint Jonathan Edwards is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that intellect and mystical conversion can sometimes hold hands and, though we’re not often sure what to do about it, it does no good to deny it or scoff at it or decry it.

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

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!