Today the Church honors a Deacon, hymnwriter, poet, and foundational theologian, 4th Century Ephrem of Edessa.

Syrian Christianity is one of the most ancient strains of the faith. Lore has it that Thaddeus of Edessa was one of the seventy sent out by Jesus (Luke 10), and he planted the seeds for Orthodox Christianity in the region. We have no proof of this, of course, and it may be the case that Thaddeus himself is entirely fictional, a pragmatic hagiography used to explain the origins of such an important branch of Christianity.

Whether or not this is true, though, Syrian Christianity was started early, and Ephrem was born a Christian in the early 300’s, and was a student of James, Bishop of Nisibis.

From there he became head of a successful theological school at Edessa, and began writing biblical commentaries, essays on dogma, biographies, historical records, homilies, and early Christian hymns that have remained a part of the Syrian Orthodox liturgy.

Syrians refer to Ephrem as “the harp of the Holy Spirit.”

Ephrem is a reminder to the whole church that Diaconal leaders have, since the early formation of the faith, influenced and guided the faithful all over the world.

Indeed, through our Deacons (and in many traditions, Deaconesses), the church continues to have many “harps of the Holy Spirit.”

-historical notes gleaned from Pfatteicher’s “New Book of Festivals & Commemorations”

Because two Irish saints are commemorated on June 9th, I’d lobby one of their feasts be transposed to today as this good Abbot of Iona kept the lamp of learning and love alive in the toughest of times: Saint Columba, Rebuker of Monsters and Community Organizer.

Those with a Gaelic tongue would call him “Colum Cille,” or “Dove of the Church,” but you may call him Columba. He was born into a royal Irish dynasty (yes, there are such a thing) in the early 600’s, educated at the finest monasteries of the day, and eventually ordained a deacon and a priest for the people of the Emerald Isle.

At the ripe old age of 42 he left Ireland with twelve fellow travelers (you know, that old chestnut) to establish a community on Iona off the coast of Scotland. This little outpost would become the center for Irish missionaries serving the Scotch-Irish (those Irish who had settled in Scotland) and the Picts (the original Scots), as well as those living in Northumbria.

Saint Columba lived at Iona for more than thirty years, preaching and teaching both on the island and on the mainland.

One fun story about Saint Columba is that he took on the Loch Ness monster face-to-face after it had killed a young Scot. Saint Columba said, “Whoa, buddy!” and made the sign of the cross in front of it, calming it before it attacked another. The monster became docile and has never since attacked another human. This miracle was said to have converted King Brude, leader of the Picts, bringing many Scottish to the faith.

A powerful preacher with an imposing personality, Saint Columba was a force to be reckoned with and his footprints dot the literal landscape as well as the figurative landscape of the faith. He died on June 9th at the age of 77 (according to the Venerable Bede) and was buried on Iona (though his bones have since been moved to Kells).

Iona still remains a contemplative pilgrim destination for so many today, a sacred, thin space. In thin places there is very little separating you from God…Iona is considered one of the thinnest.

Saint Columba is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church that sometimes we find thin places.

And sometimes we create them, by God.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

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

-icon written by Daniel Mitsui

On this day the church remembers the eloquent orator and 19th Century unifier: Chief Seattle, Wager of Peace.

Saint Noah Sealth (translated as “Seattle”) was born in the late 1700’s in the lush North West with the lullaby of the Puget Sound coaxing him to sleep at night. He first saw a European when Captain George Vancouver brought a gun ship to town carrying many products from far off places. Saint Seattle’s fascination with these new people grew and grew.

In the 1830’s Saint Seattle adopted the Roman Catholic faith even while retaining many of the ways of the indigenous faith. He learned to get along well with both other indigenous tribes and the European invaders, and encouraged everyone to wage peace and not war. In early 1855 he signed a treaty at Point Elliott in the heart of settlement now known as Seattle, a city that bears his name, ensuring that the Duwamish Confederacy, an alliance of local indigenous tribes, would retain land in the area even as the Europeans continued to take and take and take.

Governor Isaac Stevens of the newly created Washington Territory spoke to the residents of this new settlement, and Saint Seattle then also gave a speech, captivating the audience and living on into history. A Dr. Henry Smith was taking notes and reconstructed the speech, and it is notable that Saint Seattle refused to speak the pidgin English or Chinook that Governor Stevens asked him to use, and instead went with his mother Duwamish tongue.

Even as the treaty was being struck, Saint Seattle reminded the gathered of deep and sacred truth,

“Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has bee hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks which seem to be dumb and dead as they swelter in the sun along with the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than to yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch.

Our departed braves, our fond mothers, glad, happy-hearted maidens, and even our babies who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet the shadowing returning spirit.

When the last of my people have perished…the shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe…for the dead are not powerless.

Dead, did I say?

There is no death, only a change of worlds.”

Even when you wage peace you can refuse to be bullied.

Saint Seattle died on this day in 1866. It is said that though many wanted to name the city Seattle after this giant of history, the dear saint did not like the idea and asked that they choose another name. A city is for all the people, not just one.

Saint Seattle is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that the land on which we tread is for all people, not just one…which should make us reimagine how we might use all the land we trod on, and the buildings we “own,” and the space we take up.

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

-art by Tolga Ertem, “Chief Seattle.”

Today the church remembers 8th Century Saint Boniface, Archbishop and Missionary.

Boniface was born with the name Wynfrith (love it!) in Devonshire England in the late 7th Century. When his father fell ill he was sent to a Benedictine school, and then monastery, where he was ordained. It was there that he wrote a Latin grammar book for scholastic use, and several poems.

When Wynfrith turned 40 he began his missionary work in Germany and the Netherlands. The anti-Christian sentiment in the area was strong, though, and he returned back to his native England, eventually succeeding his abbot at Nursling. He didn’t last long in that position, though, and resigned to petition Pope Gregory II for a missionary assignment.

Pope Gregory II approved it, and gave him the name Boniface, which means “to do good.”

He returned to what is now modern day Germany and, after trial and error, finally succeeded in establishing a monastery in Hesse.

With such success, the Bishop of Rome consecrated him bishop for the German frontier, even though there wasn’t a fixed diocese there. To show bravery, Boniface cut down the sacred oak tree of Thor, and though many expected Thor to strike him down with lightening or illness, Boniface remained perfectly healthy. Because of this, many were converted. Out of the wood of that tree he built a chapel in honor of St. Peter.

Pope Gregory III (popular name) elevated Boniface to archbishop in 732, and was eventually given the see of Mainz as his jurisdiction after the bishop of Mainz, Gewiliob (love it!), admitted to killing his father’s murderer.

At sunrise on June 5, 754, at Dokkum, Boniface, while reading the Gospel to a group of neophytes on Pentecost, was attacked by a pagan mob and killed on the job. His remains, and the Gospel book he was reading from at his death, can still be seen at Fulda.

Boniface is a mixed bag for me. He was obviously dedicated and zealous for the faith. But in his spiritual zeal he committed religious tyranny against those he was sent to serve. To take a sacred object, Thor’s tree, and create another sacred object of a different creed, St. Peter’s church, is religious violence.

That kind of violence totally goes against not only my own code of inter-faith work, but also that of my church.

Yet I do admire his willingness to serve in uncharted territory, and his willingness to leave a comfortable job (being the abbot of a monastery is no small thing!) to enter the unknown. That takes courage…I just wish he’d had a little more wisdom with it.

Or, maybe this is what I mean to say: I wish he’d lived up to his name, “Boniface,” and did more good than he did.

-historical notes taken from Pfatteicher’s “New Book on Festivals and Commemorations”

On this day the church remembers Saint Angelo Roncalli, better known as Pope John XXIII.

Born in 1881 to a family of thirteen children in rural northern Italy, Roncalli entered the seminary at the age of 12 and was heavily influenced by the progressive leaders of the Italian social movement.

He was finally ordained in 1904 and served in World War I in the medical and chaplaincy corps while serving in the bishop’s office at Bergamo. During his time in the bishop’s office, he learned social action and gained experience serving the working class.

In 1921 he was called to Rome to serve as the director of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. He was consecrated archbishop in 1925 and made apostolic representative to Bulgaria, and then Turkey and Greece in subsequent years.

During his time in the East he built bridges toward Orthodox Christianity, and when World War II broke out, Roncalli was instrumental in passing secretive and sensitive information back to Rome to help Jews fleeing the Nazi regime.

In 1958, at the age of 77, he was elected pope and chose the name John. Everyone expected him to be a buffer between Pope Pius XII and whomever came next, holding down the fort in his old age.

But Pope John XXIII wasn’t having any of that. Building off of his early days working with the poor and his service in the military, he orchestrated an ecclesial overhaul on a massive scale, diversifying the college of cardinals, revising the code of canon law, and calling the Second Vatican Council to shake up the church.

Pope John XXIII’s ultimate goal, it appears, was the re-unification of the church, and (arguably) more than any Bishop of Rome before or since, visited hospitals, prisons, and schools regularly. He was known for, as the folk band Spanky and Our Gang would say, “Giving a damn.”

Today Pope John XXIII is a reminder to me, and to the church, that we can never discount the present moment, regardless of appearances, as being ripe and ready for change.

In many ways he didn’t bother building off of the past, but let some unhelpful and useless ways of operating die on the vine, planting in new soil for a new and changing world. Not everything can be redeemed, Beloved. Sometimes you must start fresh.

And the things that can be redeemed?

Sometimes they need more than refurbishment…they need a huge overhaul.

Huge.

-historical portions gleaned from Pfatteicher’s “New Book of Festivals and Commemorations”

Today the Church celebrates one of our moveable, and most confounding, Feast Days: The Feast of the Holy Trinity.

Here’s the thing about the Holy Trinity: it is a mystery to be held, not a problem to be solved…so we should stop trying to solve it, already.

At its best this doctrine, and this Feast Day (which has been celebrated on this Sunday after Pentecost since at least the 10th Century), honors the ineffable nature of the Divine. Using ancient numerology and a mystic mindset, it acknowledges that some things are unknowable, always spinning, and that this can be comforting for a humanity that longs to peg everything down.

A God who cannot be pegged down is endlessly possible.

At its worst this doctrine has become a (primarily masculine) box that explains in ways that don’t make any sense who God is and how Jesus and God are related, and then throws in a bird (or are they all the same and not related at all? See what happens when you think about it too much?!).

The Trinity is a Divine whirlwind of creativity and love.

The Trinity is a thought that is foundational to all other thoughts.

The Trinity is mother of all, the stream in which time is caught up, the hovering mist that covers existence.

And it is also none of this.

The Holy Trinity is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that any effort to peg the Divine down is a fool’s errand (thank God).

-Icon is Crow Trinity written by Fr. John Giuliani

Today the church remembers a horrible 19th Century massacre as it honors St. Charles Lwanga and the Martyrs of Uganda.

In the late 1870’s Christian missionaries came to Uganda, both Catholic and Protestant, to plant churches and spread the Gospel.

Full disclosure: I have very mixed feelings about missionary work, especially the kind that was practiced in that time and place (and still practiced in many corners of Christianity). The accompaniment model I can support, and do support. I do not support the “I have something you need/white savior” model, which is far too often the model still used.

But I digress.

Regardless of how they came to the faith, these thirty-two martyrs were offered up as a “burnt offering” at Namugongo, many of them pages in the court of King Mwanga of Buganda. Many of the men were actually just boys, no more than thirteen years old. Their crime?

They refused to renounce the faith.

Charles Lwanga was seen as their leader, and encouraged them to stand fast to their convictions.

After this massacre, the killings continued as persecution spread throughout the land as King Mwanga attempted to exterminate Christianity. Unfortunately for the king, the stories about these brave martyrs emboldened others to not only stand firm in their faith, but even led some to adopt the faith because they were so inspired.

The conviction of these martyrs helped other Ugandans to understand that Christianity was/is truly African, and not a white religion…which totally makes sense because Christianity started with a man of color (even though much of the church keeps trying to pretend that’s not true).

Led by the example of these martyrs, Christianity started to spread like wildfire throughout Uganda. There was nothing the king could do.

The Martyrs of Uganda, led by Saint Lwanga, are a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes your life and how you live it is the best testimony.

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

-commentary mine

-icon of Saint Charles Lwanga written by Fr. Kevin Estabrook

Today the church honors a martyr of the faith, Blandina who, along with her companions, was killed at Lyons.

She, and those with her, were beaten by the majority population who felt they were deviants. They were unduly tortured, and thrown in prison. The Bishop Pothinus, at 90 years old, died in prison after being beaten with the group.

If the prisoners would not give up their faith, the Roman citizens in the lot were to be beheaded at the command of Marcus Aurelius. The rest would be used for sport in the amphitheater, killed by wild beasts as crowds cheered and jeered, as if at a rally with the local politicians leading the chants.

Blandina and her companions were brought up on trumped up charges, including indecent acts. Blandina, when asked to confess to these acts, is reported to have simply said, “I am a Christian, and we do nothing vile.”

Reportedly there were 48 martyrs, of all ages and all walks of life. The church historian Eusebius said of them, “They offered up to God a single wreath, but it was woven of diverse colors and flowers of all kinds.”

Blandina is a reminder for me today of just how long our human systems of injustice have been operating. It reminds me of what trumped up charges and group-think can do to people.

The martyrdom of Blandina and her companions is a witness to me, and to the church, that a diverse group of people can stand together in the face of opposition and that, when push comes to shove, no nationality can save us in the end…after all, the Roman citizens were beheaded…and only God is in the saving business.

The wreath of humanity, precious to the Divine, is woven of diverse colors and flowers of all kind…and we must stand as one, by God.

-historical notes taken from Pfatteicher’s “New Book of Festivals & Commemorations”

Today the church remembers one of its most influential early thinkers: St. Justin, Martyr, Apologist, and Philosopher.

As the early church began to expand and grow, the Second Century proved to be a difficult time period for those trying to be honest about following the faith in a world hostile to non-conformity.

St. Justin, probably the most influential public Christian figure of his day, was born to pagan Greek parents in Samaria around the year 100 A.D. He sought out the best thinkers of the time in his honest pursuit of philosophy and to understand religion, and while studying in Ephesus stumbled upon the stories of Christian martyrs. He was amazed that people would die for their faith, noting that “no one believes in Socrates to the point of dying for what he taught…” (though, truthfully, the Inquisition would turn this notion on its head, right?).

As the story goes, he came upon an elder Christian by the seashore who explained to him the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures, and then and there he decided to become a Christian.

St. Justin taught the faith in Ephesus for a while, and eventually made his way to Rome where he made two famous defenses of Christianity: once to emperor Antoninus Pius, and once to the assembled Roman Senate.

He became embroiled in a series of debates with the Cynic philosopher Crescens, and though St. Justin provided honest and tight philosophical defenses, it went…well…predictably for him.

When push came to shove, St. Justin refused to make burnt sacrifices to the emperor, and for that he and some of his students were killed.

His Apologies still remains a sound defense of the faith and an early glimpse at what ancient Christians believed and practiced. St. Justin was also keen to make sure that Christianity didn’t ignore the Hebrew Scriptures (which some strains are wont to do), and kept the faith rooted in the prophecies of old.

Most importantly (at least, for me), St. Justin didn’t see Christianity as a foil for Platonism or as incompatible with deep philosophy. Rather, he saw it as both complementary and, in some ways, a culmination of the life of the mind.

St. Justin a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church, that the faith doesn’t mean a rejection of the life of the mind.

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

-Icon written by the saints at Legacy Icons (legacyicons.com)

Today is another sacred day: The Visitation, where Mary, “great with child” visited her elderly relative, Elizabeth, also miraculously pregnant.

Together they noted their hope and expectation that their children would change the world.

This hope and expectation is felt by every parent, I think.

I hope.

But on this convergence of holy days and extraordinary days, where a beautiful visitation is met with the reality that many parents fear for their babies when they go off to school, we must call to mind this hope and expectation again.

I hope that my boys will know and fight for the truth that Black Lives Matter. I hope that they will never fall victim to unmitigated gun culture, and will never get used to the sight of hand guns and machine guns carried in public and will stay away when they see them.

I hope that my children, and the children of those I love, will honor the lives of those who have died because of our addiction to violence.

I hope that my children, and indeed my own self, who give our lives to public service will never abuse that service.

And I hope that we will one day mourn our dead the way some mourn the loss of our supposed “rights” and economic structures.

That has yet to happen. That has yet to happen.

Beloved: we are all just visiting this life. Let us do all the good we can, while we can.