Today the church remembers an unusual 13th Century Saint of the church, Saint Juniper, Fool and Friend.
Juniper was a companion of St. Francis of Assisi, but may have been even more extreme than him when it came to eccentricities. Juniper was known as a “fool for Christ,” and, like your aunt with an unending purse in church, was known for continually giving away all of his possessions and living in such a publicly exuberant way that he was constantly in trouble with authorities.
Eventually his monastic superiors ordered him to no longer give away his outer robe to beggars, which he had a habit of doing. Moments after the directive, he encountered a beggar and is supposed to have said, “I have been told not to give you my clothing, but if you decide to take it off of my back, I will not put up a fight.”
Juniper is a winsome saint who reminds the church, and all of us, that everything we have is always on loan, and in living that way we learn to better enjoy not only what we have, but also the moment we give it away.
Because much of the church honors Saint Solange on May 10th, I would propose we move the commemoration of an 11th Century saint also honored on the 10th to today: Saint Isidore the Farmer, Commoner and Tiller of the Land.
Saint Isidore is by most accounts utterly unremarkable.
This is, of course, why I like him.
He never penned a single thought that we’ve ever found. He never joined a religious order, never wrote a hymn, and never recorded a mystic vision for historical memory.
Instead he lived his life and tried to live it well, and for this he has my heart.
Born in the late 11th Century in Madrid, Spain, Saint Isidore was born into a working poor household and would die as a member of the working poor. He was a farmer by trade (often called a “husbandsman” having less to do with marital status and more to do with how he raised livestock), tilling the land for a wealthy landowner and working the farm, never fully able to buy the land outright. He married a young woman, Maria, and they had a beautiful baby boy who would not live past his elementary years.
Saint Isidore knew beauty and heartbreak, love and loss…like most of us in this mortal coil. He was you and me.
His shadow darkened his local parish hall weekly, and his prayers were said faithfully. He was known to have a lovely glow about him, despite his relatively meager existence. Some reported that they would see angels working with him in the fields, helping to push his plow.
Though Saint Isidore had very little money, he was known for being generous with his parish, with his family, and with his friends in need. Generosity is, after all, not a matter of means but rather a matter of the heart.
I’ll say that louder for the people in the back.
He died on May 15th in the year 1130, but because May is chock full of commemorations, sometimes they’re rearranged to fit them all in. May 11th is a relatively free day when it comes to saints worth remembering, so I’d suggest we lift up Saint Isidore today.
In his meekness he was mighty.
Saint Isidore is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that the ordinary life is extraordinary, by God.
-historical bits gleaned from Clairborne and Wilson-Hartgrove’s Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals and common sources
-icon is from Monestaryicons.com written in a classic style
Today parts of the church, especially those of Frankish origin, remember a 9th Century saint whose story is all too familiar: Saint Solange, Patron Saint of Sexual Assault Victims and Resistor of Rape.
Saint Solange was the daughter of poor vineyard workers in central France. She eventually took on the role of shepherdess, tending her sheep in the fields of the area. She was raised devout in the faith.
Her beauty attracted the attention of a local nobleman. She rebuffed his advances, even though he continually sought her out, especially while she was doing her work in the fields, alone.
Yet, she persisted.
Frustrated by her lack of interest in him, he snuck up on her one night and, using brute force, kidnapped her. In the moments after being taken Saint Solange struggled violently and, as a result, fell from the horse he had tied her to as they were crossing a stream. Her abductor was so angry at her reluctance to do what he told her to and give up her body to him, he killed her on the spot.
The year was 880 A.D.
But it was also this year. And last. And every year before it.
She is remembered as a strong woman who, when accosted by the wealthy and powerful men who thought they could do what they wanted to her and with her, resisted. Her tale is one of bravery, fear, and one all too often repeated in this life.
She is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church, that patriarchal systems of power must never be reinforced, must never be taught and, where they are found, must be resisted and fought against.
And we need to teach this to all our children, regardless of gender.
Let those with ears to hear, hear.
-information gleaned from public sources as well as Daily Magic by Judika Illes
Today the church remembers an obscure, but important saint, especially for those of us who find ourselves Lutheran in the Carolinas.
Today we honor Nicolaus Ludwig, Count von Zinzendorf, who may be considered the founder of the modern Moravian Church.
Zinzendorf was raised in an Austrian Lutheran family, and trained at Wittenberg University. Being of noble heritage, he took up a post in the court of King August the Strong of Saxony.
While there, he opened his home to Austrian Protestant immigrants, mostly of Bohemian descent. His hospitality, and the colony growing under his care, flourished, and he resigned his political post to attend to “the Lord’s watch,” as it came to be known.
He was a little too pious even for the Lutherans, but all the same was considered a Lutheran theologian. He was exiled from Saxony for his extreme piety, and founded communities in the Baltics, the Netherlands, England, the West Indies, and North America.
In 1737 he was consecrated a bishop in the Church of the Czech Brethren, a branch of the church that John Hus followers formed after his death. Because the church was founded around Moravia, it became known as the Moravian Church.
Zinzendorf also had great concern for social justice, a streak which continues in the Moravian Church to this day.
In the United States, and particularly Pennsylvania and the Carolinas, the Moravian Church and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America maintain a special relationship. Here in Carolina it’s not unusual for families to have both Lutheran and Moravian members, and for churches close to one another to work together in mission. We are close theological cousins, and though there are certainly differences, we share pastors and are in full communion.
While many might know Moravians for their thin, wafer-like sweet cookies (and a pretty good thing to be known for!), they should be known more-so for their continued care for the poor and the oppressed around the world.
As Mothers Day approaches, I’m compelled to note that today the church honors the mother of mystics, 15th Century icon: St. Julian of Norwich, Enigma and Anchoress.
We know little about St. Julian, though she left us a treasure trove of writings from which to grow from. She became an anchoress of St. Julian’s Church in Norwich, a statement which means little to our ears, but explains that she lived in a shack adjacent to a particular church, in exile and voluntarily alone. She sought the contemplative life without distraction, and at the time this was seen as a benefit to her and her insights. We would later know it was certainly a benefit for our collective knowledge, but may have done her personal harm in the long run.
St. Julian called her insights “showings,” and she has recorded fifteen of them for the world. She was only around thirty years old when these visions happened to her, and they show both her admiration for the Divine and what she believes the Divine was showing her. In these experiences she recounts a God who is close, intimate, and “homely,” according to her description. She draws upon scripture and other medieval writings of the time to extrapolate on these extraordinary experiences.
St. Julian (sometimes called Dame Julian) was sought out for her wisdom. Though she lived as a recluse, others traveled far to hear her thoughts and seek her guidance.
St. Julian of Norwich died in the year 1417, and has long been honored on May 7th or May 8th by much of the church.
My favorite quote of hers, which was scribed while she was on her death bed, is, “All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
She is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church, that insight into the Divine can happen to anyone, anywhere. And sometimes the most feeble amongst us holds the most acute lens.
-historical bits taken from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
Today the church remembers two of the original twelve disciples: St. Philip and St. James the Less, Apostles, Martyrs, and Friend of the Obscure.
While there are disciples of Jesus with fewer speaking roles than Philip and James the Less (lookin’ at you Simone the Zealot and Mattias!), St. Philip and St. James the Less are pretty obscure, with James taking the lion’s share of that cloud of mystery. Nevertheless, like many characters in the scripture, these two deserve remembering because they “were in the room where it happened,” and went on to work in the world even after it happened.
St. Philip is more well-known, hailing from Bethsaida, that fishing village that birthed St. Peter and St. Andrew. He’s remembered for two main stories in the scriptures: his call story in John 1:43-51, and the Feeding of the Five Thousand (John 6:5-7). He’s mentioned a few more times, but most people will recall these two tales more readily.
St. Philip is said to have traveled to modern day Turkey after the Pentecost story, preaching and teaching with reported success. Lore says that he was married and had two daughters who accompanied him. His death came at the hands of the townspeople of Hierapolis in Phrygia (Turkey), where he was either stoned or crucified, depending on which literature you follow. He was buried there and his daughters, who remained unmarried, survived him and are also buried there.
In iconography you’ll often find St. Philip depicted with a “Tau Cross” (T-shaped), and/or with two loaves of bread, referencing both his death and the Feeding of the Five Thousand.
St. James the Less (a moniker that distinguished him from James the brother of John), is simply noted as one of the disciples of Jesus and his mother may have been one of the Mary’s present at the crucifixion. Apparently they were at a loss for names in the ancient world, hence why there are so many named Mary and James…but I digress.
Post-Pentecost we don’t really have any stories of note about James the Less other than that he was said to have been martyred using either a saw or a “fuller’s club,” a large club with spikes or knobs. One of these two images usually appear in his iconography.
St. Philip and St. James are commemorated by the Roman church on this day, May 3rd, though Lutherans and Anglicans usually commemorate him on May 1st (which is more traditional). But in 1955 Pope Pius XII declared that May 1st should be a day dedicated to remembering the working class, and so he put St. Joseph the Worker’s feast day on that day, and transposed these two obscure apostles to May 3rd.
Honestly, it’s six in one hand and half a dozen in the other, because half of the church honors them on May 1st and the other half on May 3rd. Decide which candle to light and do your thing, Beloved.
St. Philip and St. James the Less are a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes in life all you get to be remembered by is your name.
And sometimes that’s enough, by God.
-historical notes from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
-it is worth noting that Pfatteicher encourages the church to adopt the older commemoration date of May 1st to honor these saints
Today the church remembers 4th Century Bishop St. Athanasius, who presided in Alexandria and was not known for brevity.
Athanasius is known as “the father of Orthodoxy,” arguing vehemently with the Arians who denied the full divinity of Jesus. Because of him the phrase “of one Being with the Father” became central to the Nicene Creed at the Council of Nicaea in 325.
He assumed the Bishopric as the successor of Bishop Alexander, but many opposed his selection and, like he with Arius, brought him up on heresy charges. He appealed to Constantine himself, and was mercifully exiled to northern Gaul.
After Constantine’s death he was allowed to return to Alexandria and resume his duties. Yet, it wasn’t before long that he was charged again by those who disliked him. Pope Julius I convened a council in the late 330’s and declared Athanasius innocent.
He would be brought up on heresy charges again, of course, and by his death he would see exile from the church five times.
The Athanasian Creed, named after Athanasius (though not written by him) is still sometimes recited on Holy Trinity Sunday in some parishes. It is yet a further “circling of the wagons” of the creeds of the ancient church, leaving less room for interpreting God’s work in the world.
Athanasius is seen as a great “doctor of the church,” but he should also be seen as a case study for what happens when our search for what is “correct” overwhelms the church. The one who cried heresy against others was quickly charged of heresy himself…and it would mark his whole life.
The schisms in our own Lutheran legacy are a testament to this deep and unfortunate truth.
If the faith is contingent solely on right and inerrant interpretation, you eventually end up with a church of one: yourself.
-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
Today the ancient Celts would celebrate the festival of Beltaine, welcoming May as a month where the increasingly hot sun (the “tene” part of the word above) would warm the greenery enough to produce harvest. The “bel” portion of the word is a mystery, as it could stand for an ancient Celtic sun-god, Belanos, or could just be a form of the ancient word for “brilliant”
At dusk, having let their own hearth fires die out (which they only let happen once a year), the whole clan would ascend a nearby hill to get as close to the setting sun as possible. They’d set up huge poles and dance around them with flowers in their hair. They’d drink, and feast, and sing. They’d create flower garlands to adorn their doors or trees near their houses.
They’d create huge fires which they believed would help warm the sun, and they’d jump over the fires as a way of emboldening themselves for summer work, and if you were planning to be married soon, you’d do it three times for good measure. The elderly would circle the flames reciting prayers, and mothers would carry newly born infants near the coals as a way to ensure they’d be protected in childhood.
Fire, for them, purified the air of disease, and they believed that a bit of the hair from the same dog could be the cure, as they hoped setting these fires now would protect the unborn harvest from lightening strikes or other natural fires in the hot days.
As the fires smoldered each family would take a coal home to start their new hearth fire, and the rest was scattered throughout the crops for good luck.
If you stayed up all night on May-day, those who observed the sun rise would swear it danced for joy three times upon the horizon before jumping up in summer glory.
Today the church unofficially honors one of its moveable commemorations: Good Shepherd Sunday.
The lectionary (prescribed calendar of readings for the church) annually incorporates shepherd imagery into this Sunday of Eastertide, giving a nod to both the agrarian notes of the ancient scriptures as well as an allusion to the Davidic tradition within the canon.
Ironically, of course, this Sunday’s reading from John focuses more on Jesus being a gate than a shepherd, but we won’t go there today.
The image of a shepherd king is a striking one, though it probably doesn’t feel that way to our modern sensibilities. Shepherds were not highly thought of (they couldn’t testify in ancient courts because they were seen as too “woodsy” and “backwater” to tell the truth), and their work was seen as menial labor. Yet it is from this stock that the Divine chose the preeminent king, David. And it is to these people that the angels first came to sing of the birth of the Christ.
It’s ironic that both Christ’s birth and Christ’s resurrection were first proclaimed to people who couldn’t offer official testimony in court (shepherds and women). God chooses the lowly and marginalized to hold Divine promises.
What passes for popular Christianity would do well to remember this as they pass laws in state houses to further marginalize the marginalized and silence voices who they consider ”other.”
Shepherds in the ancient world would rescue sheep, fight off predators, and sometimes carry errant, injured, or wayward sheep on their shoulders, keeping them with the flock (often despite the sheep’s best efforts).
On this Good Shepherd Sunday, though, perhaps it’s more appropriate to remember that in Jesus we see a God who is not “kind and caring” so much as a person on the margins themselves.
Which makes me wonder: if God is embodied in the marginalized, why do we treat folks on the margins of society so badly?
My boys will look at a Blue jay and turn to the coloring page and, choosing the yellow crayon, go to town on the bird before them.
They call it a “blue jay,” but it is canary yellow.
And instead of saying, “that’s wrong,” which is my instinct, my training by a world that thinks in boxes… (like damned auto-correct for the creative heart)
I’m now just jealous.
Of that kind of insight.
The kind of insight that can see what is and riff on it like a jazz player.
The kind of insight that can make a new world using bits and pieces of this one.
Reluctant Xtian 