Today I would lobby hard that we remember St. Freddie of the Mercury, Reformer and Musician.

Freddie (birth name Furrohk), was born in Zanzibar (modern day Tanzania) to Parsi-Indian parents. During the Zanzibar Revolution, Furrohk’s family fled and settled in Middlesex, England.

In 1970 he formed the rock band Queen and became the unlikeliest of frontmen. With an amazing four-octave range, which is almost unheard of, Freddie’s stage persona was as lively as his personal life, despite his intense shyness when not on stage. He interacted with his audience. He craved the spotlight while performing, but had few people he considered true friends. And despite having a serious overbite, never sought dental intervention for fear it would ruin his voice.

Mercury wrote 10 of Queen’s 17 greatest hits. His ambiguous and fluid sexuality caused many tabloids to stir with rumors. In a day when anything but heterosexuality was seen as deviant, he kept people guessing. He was diagnosed with AIDs in 1987, and confirmed he had the disease the day before his death in 1991. He was 45 years old. His birthday, September 5th, is still revered by rock enthusiasts and activists alike.

Mercury is a reminder to the world that the underdog in life should never be underestimated nor counted out. He challenged contemporary tropes relating to masculinity and what it means to be a rock star, and with a unique voice changed the way we think about both.

He was born to sing, and he did what he was born to do…may we all be so fortunate.

Today the church honors someone theologians have called “a better doctor,” and who doctors have called “a better theologian,” Albert Schweitzer, Physician and Theologian.

St. Albert was born in Upper Alsace (which is now a part of France, but was German land at the time) in 1875, the eldest son of a Lutheran pastor. He studied philosophy and theology, and was even known to tickle the organ keys during his schooling at Stasbourg. He earned his doctorate in philosophy, and was a lecturer in the field. He then earned his doctorate in theology, and was also ordained as a pastor.

He, apparently, had a lot of time on his hands.

He also found the energy to study organ performance in Paris and, while there, wrote a book on the life and art of J.S. Bach. Around that same time he also wrote his seminal Quest for the Historical Jesus, which remains a foundational text for the historical-critical study of theology. He dared to suggest that Jesus’ own working theology was shaped by his belief in a “soon and very soon to be realized eschatology.” In other words: Jesus thought the world was going to end pretty quickly.

In 1905 St. Albert did a nice little pivot in his life and career and announced that he was going to become a medical missionary. He abandoned his lecture circuit and his scholarly appointments, married a nurse, and went to medical school.

One wonders about the amount of debt he incurred…

On Good Friday in 1913 he and his partner embarked on a journey through French Equatorial Africa and constructed a hospital near the Ogooue River.

During the first World War, Schwietzer was interned as an enemy alien due to his German heritage. While imprisoned he wrote Philosophy of Civilization which encouraged a “reverence for life” in all its forms. After the war he eventually returned to Africa to rebuild the hospital, and added a leper colony as part of the expansion.

He won a Nobel Prize for Peace in 1952.

Though he was sometimes known for being patriarchal and difficult to work with, and despite the fact that his medical knowledge appears to have been, er, lacking and lagging behind the best advanced practices, he was an undeniable humanitarian. The world was not ready for most of his thoughts, in both theology and in medicine, where he focused more on the comfort and dignity of the patient over cold progress. He spoke against the practice of using atomic bombs in the years after the second World War, and stuck to his belief that all humanity deserved dignity.

St. Schweitzer died at the age of 91 in 1965.

Fun fact: my internship parish had a statue of him in the sanctuary.

He is a reminder to me that it is never too late to follow the interests of your heart, and that dignity is worth fighting for.

Even if it takes a lifetime.

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

Today the church honors often overlooked saints, but ones close to my heart, The Martyrs of Papua New Guinea.

I know…you’ve never heard of them, which is too bad.

They’re relatively recent additions to the calendar of commemorations, added in the late 70’s.

When the Axis Powers invaded New Guinea in 1942, a number of the European missionaries on the island nation had already been called back to their countries of origin.

The Anglican Bishop of New Guinea, Philip Strong, challenged his clergy to remain with the people. Eight missionaries and two Papuan laymen were betrayed to the Axis Powers and martyred in August of 1942 for their defiance and insubordination.

In 1948 the Martyrs Memorial School was opened in Sangara as a living memorial to these brave souls. The school continues today and can be found in Agenahambo.

Often included in this memorial day are the 15 Lutheran 24 Methodist, and 168 Roman Catholic Missionaries in Papua New Guinea, New Britain, and the Solomon Islands who died during the WW II.

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

Today the church remembers a wonderful 7th Century Celtic Saint, Saint Aidan, Friendly Bishop and Quiet Firebrand.

In St. Aidan’s day the British Isles were considered to be mostly Christianized, but the stubborn island of Ireland was proving to be a difficult people to convert. As keepers of an older way, the Irish were amenable to many parts of Roman Catholicism except for the whole “obedience” thing.

Nevertheless, at the turn of the 7th Century the church decided to try its hand again at bringing the faith to the Irish. The little monastery founded by St. Columba on Iona housed a number of native Irish monks, and rather than send British or Roman missionaries to the Irish people, it was deemed wise to send Irish monks to serve them and share the Gospel.

This was smart.

St. Aidan had been quite critical of the methods previously used by Roman missionaries toward his people, and though his name means “little fiery one” in Gaelic, he entered the mission field with humility and a genuine love for the Northumbrians, of whom he was now appointed as Bishop.

In the way that the Celts were known for doing, he melded the ancient rituals and beliefs of the Celts with Christianity to create a more wholistic way of practicing the faith. He chose the island of Lindisfarne as the perfect place to build a cathedral, and from these emerald-hued hills began meeting with towns people across Ireland, taking a keen interest in their lives and gently ingratiating himself to them.

Aidan thought conversion happened best by wooing, not warring with words. He was relentlessly friendly, and founded a number of schools and hospitals to serve the children of Ireland. He was particularly concerned for orphans and those trapped in slavery. In fact, he bought the freedom of many slaves, using church offerings to pay off those who held them captive.

St. Aidan died on one of his many missionary endeavors, having fallen ill visiting his beloved people. The legend goes that on August 31st in 651, he stopped, took a breather leaning against the wall of the local church in Bamburgh, and simply fell over.

St. Aidan is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church, that for any message to be heard, genuine love must first be shown.

-icon written by Anatoli
-historical bits gleaned from various sources, including Koenig-Bricker’s 365 Saints

Today the church gets a double feast!

Not only do we honor St. Augustine, but we also honor St. Moses the Ethiopian, a 5th Century monk and martyr.

St. Moses was an Ethiopian slave to an Egyptian official who sent him away on suspicion of theft and murder. Moses gathered together a gang of thieves who roamed the Nile valley wreaking havoc on the travelers they met.

This gang, led by St. Moses, attacked a desert monastery near Alexandria, intending to pillage, but they were so impressed by the soft-spoken and even tempered Abbot, that Moses decided to abandon the life of a thief and join the monastery.

He was later ordained into the priesthood, which was rare for a desert father, and founded his own monastery of seventy-five monks equal to the number of thieves in his former gang.

St. Moses became known for his humility, wisdom, love, and his generous perspective when it came to the life and failings of those he met.

In the year 405 his own monastery came under attack by some roaming Berbers. St. Moses forbade his monks from fighting back. Most of them fled, but St. Moses and seven others stayed to welcome their new Berber guests.

Unfortunately the Berbers did not react to Moses’ hospitality in the same way that Moses had reacted to his former Abbot’s welcome.

All 8 of the monks, including St. Moses, were killed.

The monastery St. Moses founded is still active, and his remains are buried there.

St. Moses is remembered as one who practiced non-violence, and is considered the patron saint of African Americans.

St. Moses,who is often referred to as “St. Moses the Black,” is a reminder for me, and for the whole church, that though non-violence is not always effective at stopping violence in the immediate, it is always remembered in the annals of history because it is such a rare practice. Non-violent movements of today stand upon these shoulders.

Non-violence, Beloved, is playing the long game.

St. Moses, with his life and example, pleads with us even today to continue playing the long game when it comes to violence in this world.

-parts from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

Today the church honors a 4th Century saint who is, perhaps, a hidden hand in Christianity, pushing theology and philosophy forward in remarkable but overshadowed ways, St. Monica, the Mother of St. Augustine.

St. Monica was born around 322 in North Africa to Christian parents, and was in an interfaith marriage to Patricius, an ill-tempered government official who, in his old age, softened and is even purported to convert.

A caring mother, Monica bore three children, but her first born is the one history remembers. She raised him in the faith, prepared him for baptism, and though Augustine had a well-documented wild-streak, continually kept him in prayer.

In 383 Monica moved with Augustine to Rome as he came under the instruction of Bishop Ambrose. Like many parents, she tried to “hook him up with someone nice,” but Augustine wasn’t interested in marriage. Eventually he decided to be baptized and accept the Holy Orders and a vow of celibacy.

Monica rejoiced.

Shortly after her son’s baptism Monica fell sick, and on her deathbed she had beautifully mystic visions which she shared with Augustine. She died in 387.

With Augustine’s rise, Monica’s legend continued to grow, and she retains a devoted following as an example of persistent parenthood and prayer. She is often called the “Patron Saint of Mothers,” and some Christians annually recognize her on Mother’s Day.

I chaff a little that she is always connected to her son in religious memory, though as a parent myself, I hope my best contributions to the world sleep in the room just adjacent to mine. Augustine is such a big personality in the annals of faith; anyone connected to him is both elevated by his coat tails and simultaneously overshadowed, even the one who bore and raised him.

Still, Monica was more than “Augustine’s mother.” As her deathbed experience notes, she was a mystic in her own right, and is an example for how interfaith marriages can be a blessing to the world.

In these tumultuous days I was moved again by Monica’s story, especially as I remember hearing in the audio shared in the George Floyd case on how he called out to his mother. Mothers, and fathers too, so often feel helpless as their children fly off into the world, battered by forces that can both lift and destroy.

A part of me wants to say that Monica, along with all mothers, heard that cry and moved cosmically through the mothering voices calling for change as we were all baptized in the tears shed.

Another part of me prays for mystics to rise up again and change hearts, as it feels like we all are on a kind of deathbed in these days. Either a deathbed, or a birthing cot. Maybe both.

Finally, I guess, St. Monica reminds me that sometimes, as a parent, we don’t see our work bear fruit until the very end, and therefore live and love in perpetual hope.

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