Today I would lobby hard that the church remember one of its premier contemporary storytellers: Madeleine L’Engle, Writer, Dreamer, and Master of Imagination.

Born in New York City in late 1918, Madeleine L’Engle Camp (she would eventually drop the Camp) was born to a pianist mother and a writer father, and took up her own writing discipline at the young age of eight. She was known as an awkward and shy child, and did poorly in school mostly due to her inability to assimilate. Because of her poor marks, her parents moved her around from school to school (and even physically moved, themselves) in an attempt to find the right fit for their family. Due to her social dis-ease, Madeleine found her home within the pages of the books that brought her comfort and friendship.

Madeleine graduated from Smith College and moved back to New York City to live as a writer and stage performer. She published her first two novels there, married actor Hugh Franklin, and birthed their first child, Josephine. Desiring a change of pace, the young family moved to Connecticut and became merchants of a small general store there as their family grew to add a son Bion and an adopted daughter, Maria.

It should be noted that even though she was writing this whole time, Madeleine had very little success getting her work published.

Because money was tight, the family moved back to New York City in 1959 so that Hugh could resume his acting career, and by 1960 L’Engle had finally finished what would become her seminal work: A Wrinkle in Time.

It was rejected by 30 publishers before finally being picked up.

I’ll say that again for those in the back who fear that their work is no good: A Wrinkle in Time was rejected 30 times before being published. It would go on to win the Newberry Medal for Junior Fiction in 1962.

Madeleine would continue to give herself away for those she loved even after having attained international literary success. She taught at a local school, volunteered at a local library, and was very active in her Episcopalian parish where she not only served with the community but also accepted a few writer-in-residence opportunities. All the while she continued to write for audiences young and old, both in fiction and memoir form, tantalizing the imagination of so many in this world.

L’Engle understood that fantasy is the language we use to tell truths that are just too hard or deep to understand through common symbolism. Fantasy is not an escape from , but an invitation deeply into, the heart of reality.

Children get this. Adults…not so much.

Madeleine was a convinced Christo-centric Universalist, claiming that no God could “punish people forever.” She said she could not do that as a parent, nor wish it upon her children, so how could a loving God do so with their own creation?

After a lifetime of writing, speaking, and creating for humanity, Madeleine L’Engle slowly slowed her pace and died on this day in 2007. She remains a beloved author by so many and an ever-present voice of challenge to humanity. In a world obsessed with “did it actually happen?” L’Engle reminds us that a much more important and interesting question is, “It doesn’t matter if it happened, does it happen?”

Madeleine L’Engle is a reminder for me, and should be for the church (and indeed the whole world), that fantasy tells deep truths, and perhaps religion would do well to not only acknowledge that fact, but lean into a bit.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical bits gleaned from public sources

-icon written by Jenny Kroik

Today the church remembers a woman who had a small frame but was a giant in the life of so many around the world: Saint Mother Teresa, Servant, Renewer of Society, and Woman full of Existential Doubt.

Born Gonxha Agnes Bjoaxhiu in Skopje, Albania in the year 1910, this slight saint was raised in the faith by her mother, as her father died when she was just eight. In September of 1928 Gonxha left home intending to become a missionary and entered the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Ireland. Being only eighteen at the time, she changed her name to Sister Mary Teresa after St. Therese of Lisieux, and prepared to head to India that December.

In January of 1929 Saint Teresa arrived in Calcutta and began her formal ministry with the people she would eventually identify with.  In 1937 she made her final vows and was given the title “Mother,” an homage to not only her status within the ecclesial body of the church, but also as a testament to her outlook: tender, heart-felt, and courageously fierce when it came to the care of her people.

It is no exaggeration to say that many of us were the children of Mother Teresa.

On September 10th (it’s really amazing how many of the events of her life happened in September until we realize that this month is really a month of transitions in all creation) in the year 1946 she received a nudge from the Holy Spirit that a religious community should be formed in Calcutta, dedicated to serving the lowest caste of the societal system there. 

In August of 1948 she officially received permission to found the Missionaries of Charity, with their white a blue bordered garb as a tell-tale sign of their work.

By 1950 her movement to serve the poorest of the poor in the world had spread from Calcutta to Venezuela, Rome, Tanzanie, and eventually to every continent throughout the known world. She truly inspired a movement that can be called world-changing.

In 1979 she was honored with the Nobel Prize for Peace and gained larger international fame.  What is less-known about Saint Teresa, our common Mother, is that she was plagued by doubt and existential questions.  Even as she gained fame as a woman of faith her private life was one of wrestling with the God she professed and the destitute poverty she witnessed.  Only after her death did we all realize the deep struggle she faced daily to profess a God of love when so many in the world went without.  

In this way, she truly is the Mother of so many of us.

In 1997, having served Calcutta for so many years, Mother Teresa died.  She was given a state funeral in India and buried in the motherhouse there at the Sisters of Charity.  She remains both an inspiration and an honest participant in both the service that Christ calls us to and the questions surrounding the idea of a benevolent God when there is so much hurt and pain and sorrow in the world.

Saint Mother Teresa is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that no amount of faith can shield us from the honest questions that come when we’re proximity of those who go without in this world.

Honestly, anyone without questions has not examined their faith…and this saint is a reminder of that.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical bits gleaned from Pfatteicher’s _New Book of Festivals & Commemorations_

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

Today the church honors Saint Louis, the 13th Century King of France (not “The Gateway to the West”).

Now, before you ask, this is Louis the IX, not that other famous Louis of ill-repute.

In fact, Louis the IX was of quite upstanding repute, despite his involvement in the Crusades. Crowned at the age of 12, this young king expressed that he’d rather have joined a cloister than been royalty. He was loveable, a kind husband, and a doting father.

He also had a heightened sense of piety, often wearing shoes without soles as a sort of perpetual penance.

Oh, and he also would not allow cursing in his presence, which automatically makes me admire him and also makes me quite sure we would have never been friends.

St. Louis attended worship religiously (get it?), and was quite generous with his money, both publicly and privately.

In leading one of the Crusades in 1250 he was taken prisoner, and returned to France six years later. After mobilizing another army, he sailed again for North Africa in 1270 and, after much difficulty, died of dysentery in Tunis with a very “Oregon Trail” sort of ending. He’s buried in the basilica of St. Denis near Paris.

In iconography he’s often depicted with a crown of thorns, both because it was one of the relics he worked hard in his life to recover, and also as an homage to the humble way in which he conducted himself.

St. Louis is a reminder to me, and to the church, that power does not always corrupt and crush the human soul. Indeed, if we all are remembered as “loveable, kind, and doting,” well, we’ve done alright, right?

-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s _New Book of Festivals & Commemorations, and the icon is by “Theophilia” of deviantart.com

Today the church honors a saint wrapped in mystery: St. Bartholomew, Apostle, perpetual Somebody/Anybody.

Bartholomew makes an appearance as one of Jesus’ 12 disciples in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and reprises the role in the book of Acts.
His name is not even really a name as much as a description: he is the “son of Ptolemy” (except in Matthew where he’s called Simon Bar-jonah).

Bartholomew may, therefore, have another personal, intimate name that we have no knowledge of. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke he is associated with the disciple Philip, but in the Gospel of John the disciple Philip is yoked with a disciple named Nathanael. Could Bart actually be named Nate?

Maybe.

There are several traditions that map the two names together, and separately, though as early as the 9th Century the two names were often considered one and the same.

Lore has it that Bartholomew wrote a Gospel account, which is now lost to history. Some reports have him preaching in Asia Minor, Persia, and India, where he supposedly left a copy of the Gospel of Matthew written in Hebrew for the people to have and keep, a copy which was reportedly found at the end of the 2nd Century by a wandering missionary.

Most accounts have him ending his ministry (or, rather, having it ended for him) off the Caspian coast where he was grotesquely martyred (“flayed” according to the stories, which is why he’s often depicted with a knife, or even holding his own skin). He secured his place in the pantheon of saints by being included in the Sistine Chapel mural near Christ at the last judgment.

The Coptic church has a different tradition about this saint, though, one that has him preaching in Upper Egypt and North Africa, where he met his martyrdom by being cast into the sea.

Something I’ve come to love about this mysterious and secretive saint is the fact that they are relatable to many in our world who labor under an identity that they don’t quite jive with.

I’m thinking of the trans and non-binary youth I’ve walked with who struggle with what to call themselves. Often flayed in public opinion because they can’t quite put words around their own being, they struggle to find voice in a world of assumed norms.

I’m thinking of the people who are known less for who they are as people, and more for who they are in relation to other, more popular people. The eclipsed sibling. The child who never quite lives up to their parent. The quiet spouse. The one who was in a position directly before or after the beloved person who held that same position in a church, a public office, or even a family.

History is confused about this saint, and never really waited around for clarity.

Bartholomew/Nathanael is seen but not known. They are acknowledged but not really understood. They are talked about, but the details are confused and fuzzy because no one took the time to explore them, and they were never really given the chance to explain.

In this way Saint Bartholomew, this Saint Nobody/Somebody, is the patron saint of so, so many in this world…

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

-icon written by Vranos Nik and can be purchased at oramaworld.com.