On this day in 1994, four men broke into the National Gallery of Norway and stole Edward Munch’s iconic painting “The Scream.” The thieves eventually returned the painting, saying it was keeping them up at night and frightening the neighborhood cats.

Today in the east we venerate Alexis (or Alexius), Metropolitan of Moscow (ca. 1296 – 1378). A boyar’s boy (born Elephtherios but it would be charitable not to press that), he became a monk while still in his teens (oddly, nothing is said about running away from home), worked for 20 years for Metropolitan Theognostus, then was made bishop of Vladimir. During a time of religious turmoil, he nipped off down to Constantinople to consult with the Patriarch (one Callistus), who gave him the title of “All-Venerable Metropolitan and Exarch” of Kiev and Great Russia.

On the homeward journey, the ship was bestormed, and Alexis vowed to create a church dedicated to whoever the saint of the day was on the day the ship landed. They landed on August 16, the feast of the Image Not-Made-By-Hands. (He kept his promise.) Upon his landing, we are told, “Moscow delightedly came out to meet the saint,” which is pretty amazing when you consider that the closest shore of the Black Sea is some 600 miles away from Moscow as the double-headed eagle flies. (I’m not even going to consider the possibility they sailed from Constantinople to St. Petersburg, which was a swamp at the time anyway.)

This was a time of great political turmoil for Russia, and Alexis rode the storm with aplomb. He served for a time as regent for the Great Princeling, intervened in squabbles with Tver and Nizhny Novgorod, and fended off the Golden Horde, at one point by restoring, through his prayers, the eyesight of the Khan’s wife (she was a looker). All this while founding multiple monasteries and churches and writing multiple letters and sermons. After his peaceful death he was buried in the Chudov Monastery (which he founded), exhumed and reburied 50 years later, then finally moved to the Epiphany Cathedral after Chudov was destroyed by the Communists.

In the west today we venerate Julian the Hospitaller (fl. 1st century?). Thought by some to be merely a pious fiction (we assume he forgives them), Julian was jinxed at birth by pagan witches to grow up to (spoiler alert!) kill both his parents. His father was determined to get rid of the lad, but his mother refused, although she often wept when she thought Julian couldn’t hear. Eventually he got the story out of her, and walked all the way from Italy (or France, or Belgium) to Galicia, married a virtuous woman (who can find?), and settled down.

Many years later his parents decided to look for him. (I can hear you shouting at the screen.) Somehow they ended up in Julian’s town, and asked the first passer-by for lodging. This was (who else?) Julian’s wife, and she greeted them joyfully, and put them in the master suite to wait for Julian to return from his hunting trip. An enemy (Satan?) came to Julian while he was hunting and said his wife was at that moment committing adultery in his own bed. He rushed home and, finding two people snoozing on his Posturepedic, pulled out his sword and killed them. Then he went down to the kitchen for a bite, where his wife greeted him joyfully. “Honey, guess who—”

It swiftly came out what had happened, and the two set off to Rome to seek absolution. (The witches seem to get off scot-free.) For penance, they built an inn (somewhere in Italy) for travelers and the sick. Our story ends with Julian finally obtaining forgiveness. A leper nearly frozen to death came seeking shelter, and Julian gave up his own bed for him. The leper turned out to be an angel sent from God, who announced that Christ had granted forgiveness to Julian, then disappeared without paying his bill. Julian is the patron saint of boatmen/ferrymen/etc., clowns/fiddlers/jugglers/carnies/etc., innkeepers/etc., pilgrims/travelers/people who can’t find lodging/etc. — and murderers.

Copyright © 2013 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

On this day in 1859, the French Government passed a law to set the A-note above middle C to a frequency of 435 Hz, in an attempt to standardize the pitch, after complaints by sopranos that the constantly-rising pitch of the orchestras of the day was cramping their style. Altos testified that the sopranos had no style, but the basses and tenors in Parliament merely laughed.

Our eastern saint today is Romanus the New Martyr (d. 1694). (He is also celebrated on January 5, but it’s too late for that, so here he is on his other feast day.) Romanus was illiterate and from Karpenisi, although there’s no reason to hold either of those against him. On a pilgrimage to Jerusalem he learned about martyrdom, and decided that was the life (well, death) for him. He hastened to Thessaloniki, where he told the judge that Islam was risible, and called Muhammad names. “This ought to do it,” he thought. They tortured him a bit, then turned him over to the admiral of the fleet, thinking a spot of rowing would probably finish him off. After a short while, though, some Christians bribed the captain of his ship, and hustled him off to Mount Athos. There he pined for martyrdom, and after his abbot had a vision (we shudder to think of the contents), he let him go to seek his (mis)fortune.

He then went to Constantinople where he adopted a stray dog, leading him around on a leash and telling anybody who asked, including the Vizier, that he fed his dog the way the Christians fed the Turks. (I don’t get it either.) He was seized and tossed into a dry well, where he fasted (somewhat involuntarily) for 40 days (and nights; I’ve always wondered why it’s necessary to say “and nights” as if you could have a string of days without them). Seeing this didn’t work, they hauled him out and took him off to behead him. All along the way he greeted Christians he saw and joyfully told them he was going to a wedding, not an execution. They said (approximately), “Um, yeah.” After his death his body glowed for three days, then was purchased (for 500 piasters, back when 500 piasters could actually buy you something) by an Englishman, who took it to England. A cloth soaked with his blood is kept at the Monastery of Docheiariou on the Holy Mountain, although our sources don’t mention any miracles associated with it.

Our western saint today is Juliana of Nicomedia (d. ca. 304). Born of pagan parents and betrothed at a young age to Eleusius, a Roman Senator, she secretly converted to Christianity while nobody was looking. When it came time for her to marry Eleusius, she refused. Thinking maybe she wanted somebody of a higher station, Eleusius spent a good deal of money and political capital to become governor, and pressed his suit again (it was quite wrinkly by then). Juliana demanded that he first convert to Christianity, saying, “It is impossible for our bodies to be united while our souls are at war,” which I’m sure you’ll agree is a great line.

The governor (which is to say, Eleusius) ordered her stripped and flogged and subjected to the usual panoply of gruesome tortures. After each round she was miraculously healed and strengthened for the next. (I think personally I’d rather just be tortured once and die and get it over with. I’d probably make a lousy martyr.) After demonstrating his love in this way, Eleusius said, “Tell you what, if you marry me I’ll let you go on being a Christian and worshipping with them.” Hope springs eternal, I guess. She was also taunted and tormented by the Devil, although he apparently had no desire to marry her. Eventually she was beheaded. She was 18. Eleusius went on to a kind of fame when he was shipwrecked and eaten by a lion. For reasons I am completely unable to fathom, Juliana is patroness of childbirth.

Copyright © 2013 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

On this day in 1975, the Today Show featured the first live, televised kidney transplant. Over 20,000 people, two cows, and a confused chicken named Smedley called in after the show, offering to donate a kidney — making 20,000 kidney failure patients and two hungry surgeons very happy.

Both Catholics and Orthodox today venerate Porphyry of Gaza (ca. 346 – 420). At 25 Porphyry (aka Porphyrius) left his cushy life in Thessaloniki to seek a monastic calling. He spent some time in Skete (Scetis), Egypt, where he lived under the rule of Macarius the Great, and met Jerome the famous Bible translator. Then, after a brief visit to the Holy Places, he settled down as a solitary hermit in a cave in the wilderness beyond the Jordan. All went well for about five years, when he developed some kind of leg condition (not the good kind), prompting him to make a trip to the holy city, which had a better assortment of doctors than the Jordanian wilderness, at least in those days. At the foot of Golgotha he had a vision in which Christ, coming down from the Cross, told him, “Take care of this wood for me.” When he woke up there was no wood anywhere, but his legs were healed. At this point, a friend and disciple named Mark comes into the narrative out of thin air. He was sent to Thessaloniki to sell off Porphyry’s property, and when he returned, the two distributed the proceeds to the poor. Then Porphyry, feeling the entrepreneurial bug, took up shoemaking.

When he was 45, the Patriarch of Jerusalem priested him, and put him in charge of the Wood of the True Cross™, fulfilling the vision he had had years before. When the bishop of nearby Gaza died, the Metropolitan of Caesarea (John by name) appointed Porphyry to the job. (One of my sources attaches this incident to his 45th year, rather than his priesting — you know how sources are.)

Things in Gaza were pretty grim, and the three little Christian churches there felt pretty put upon by their pagan neighbors, who had temples by the score, and idols in every one. The Christians were being passed over for all the cushy government posts, and even had a higher tax rate than the pagans. To make matters worse, when our saint got to town, they were suffering a terrible drought. Well, to be honest, the pagans were suffering the drought too, and were vexed their gods weren’t answering their prayers. Porphyry called for a fast and served an all-night vigil, and whammo! Instant clouds and rain, complete with lightning. Seeing this miracle, many pagans converted to Christianity. Did I say “many”? There’s no need to be vague. It was 127 men, 35 women, and 14 children.

Still, things remained tough for the Christians. Porphyry sent Mark to Constantinople, but when that didn’t change anything, he and Metropolitan John caught the next regularly scheduled ferry to the capital. There they proposed a deal with the Empress Eudoxia, mother of many daughters — if she would prevail upon Emperor Arcadius to give them permission to destroy all the pagan temples in Gaza, they would prevail upon God to give her a son. She agreed, both sides came through, and soon the Empress was nursing an heir, and the two bishops were winging it back to Gaza with an edict and a bank check (covering the cost of one new cathedral) in hand. Eight temples were destroyed, and on the site of the largest, a new church called the Eudoxiana (named after you-know-who) was built.

In 415, Porphyry attended the Council of Diospolis, at which Pelagius, a British (or Bretagne) monk named after a famous heresy, was deemed to be in agreement with the teachings of the Church. Foolishly, Pelagius went on to write nasty things about Augustine, which caused his case to be re-examined, leading to his anathematization. Which is a fun word to say – try it!

Porphyry lived out his days in office, protecting his flock from “vexatious” pagans (whatever could they be unhappy about?), and died in peace.

Copyright © 2013 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

On this day in 1881, the combined Barnum & Bailey Circus debuted. Hailed as “the Greatest Show on Earth,” it had more clowns under one roof than any other circus in the world, save the U.S. Congress.

Our saint from the east today is Ambrose (né Besarion) the Confessor (ამბროსი აღმსარებელი ) of Georgia (1861 – 1927). Besarion went to the Kazan Theological Academy upon the death of his wife, writing a master’s thesis about the struggle between Christianity and Islam in Georgia entitled, “The Struggle between Christianity and Islam in Georgia.” After graduating he became Hieromonk Ambrose, and joined in the fight for the autocephaly of the Georgian Orthodox Church (which had been somewhat unilaterally revoked by the Russians in 1811). In 1908 he was suspended and exiled to Russia for (allegedly) conspiring to kill the Exarch. He was later exonerated and unsuspended, but kept in Russia. When the February (1917) Revolution came, Ambrose escaped back to Georgia and took part in the Synod voting to make the Georgian Church autocephalous. He was made Metropolitan of Chqondidi (which would make a great name for a songbird).

In 1921 the Bolsheviks invaded, and Georgia’s young independence was ended. Thousands of churches and monasteries were destroyed or converted to vulgar use, and clergy were persecuted. When the old Catholicos-Patriarch died (of cholera), Ambrose was chosen to replace him. Less than a year later he sent a memorandum to the Conference of Genoa (an international convention convened to fix the financial crisis in Europe) (it didn’t work) (but you knew that), delineating the depredation of Georgia and calling for help. The Bolsheviks, furious at being embarrassed on the international stage, arrested Ambrose and conducted a show trial (he was accused of hiding church treasures so the government couldn’t melt them down – no transparently trumped-up charges for that court). At the trial he very quotably said, “My soul belongs to God, my heart to my fatherland; you, my executioners, do with my body what you will.” The international stage nattered with consternation, and the Soviets backed off a little on the destruction of the Georgian culture, at least until the international stage was looking the other way again (as is ever its wont). Instead of execution, Ambrose received imprisonment, which destroyed his health. He died a year after being released in 1926, and was glorified by the Holy Synod of the Church of Georgia in 1995.

Our saint from the west today is Abraham Kidunaia (ca. 296 – ca. 366). Born into high-society Edessa, young Abe was forced into an arranged marriage, so on the day of the nuptials he walled himself up in a nearby building, leaving only a gap through which his family could feed him, and through which he could tell them he really wanted to be a monk. (None of our sources mention waste disposal issues, so don’t ask.) The family called off the wedding, and he settled quietly into walled-up life.

After ten years of this the bishop ordered him to come out, ordained him a priest (over his protestations), and sent him to Beth-Kiduna, an “intransigently pagan” village, as missionary. There, according to two of our sources (I think one was plagiarizing), he “built a church, smashed idols, suffered abuse and violence, and set a good example” (of what, they don’t say). It is from this village he gets his title “Kidunaia” – I kidunot. Within three years the whole village was converted, and he went off to be a hermit again, returning only to convert his niece. Said niece was a former anchoress who, seduced by a wayward monk, ran off to the city to lead a dissolute life. Abraham dressed as a soldier, and when she took him home to dinner, he talked her into returning to her former life. She went on to become Saint Mary of Edessa, which is better than anybody in the family dared expect. Abe’s (eventual) funeral was attended by a “large throng” (as opposed to a small throng), and his life was written by Ephraim the Syrian.

Copyright © 2013 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

On this day in 1845, Henry Jones of Bristol patented self-raising flour, freeing hundreds of foster bakers to adopt other meals.

Today both Churches hail Patrick (Pádraig) of Ireland (ca. 387 – ca. 460). Born in Britain to a deacon, and grandson of a priest, at 16 Patrick was kidnapped into slavery in Ireland. There he prayed daily as he toiled as a shepherd until, some six years later, he had a vision telling him, “Your ship is ready.” Immediately he raced to the harbor, conveniently located some 200 miles away. Fortunately the ship was still waiting for him, and before he knew it he was home.

In a subsequent vision he heard the people of Ireland calling him back, saying, “Come back.” So he returned to Ireland, and although (Saint) Palladius had beaten him there, Patrick was the better evangelist, earning the title “Enlightener of Ireland.” He founded many churches and monasteries, converted many pagan chieftains, and either did or did not take money from rich women, depending on whether you believe Patrick (didn’t) or his hagiographers (did). He was assaulted, and denigrated for being a foreigner (his accent gave him away), but he persevered.

In one story, Patrick, already a bishop, set up camp near Tara, home of the Irish kings. It was Holy Saturday, and he lit an outdoor fire, probably knowing this was not allowed within sight of Tara on (as it happened to be) Beltane. The king was outraged and called his archdruids, who told him if this fire wasn’t quenched that very night, it would spread over all of Ireland. (That’s metaphor, that is.) They rode to where the saint was preparing for the holy Pascha, and when one of the druids spoke insolently to him, Patrick glared at him, then prayed, and the man flew up into the air and fell on his head, dying (one hopes) instantly. “Get him, boys!” cried the king.

I’m guessing that this was about midnight (let the reader understand) because Patrick then said, “Let God arise! Let his enemies be scattered! Let those who hate him flee from before his face!” It went completely dark, and the king’s soldiers, in disarray, fell to fighting each other. It is said that seven times seven men perished, mostly because that sounds more poetic than just saying 49 men died. The king then pretended to venerate Patrick, but as he was departing he called to him, hoping to dry-gulch him. Patrick knew what he was thinking, though, and as he walked over to the king he blessed his companions, who turned into deer and bounded off. The king returned to Tara in defeat. Sucker.

The next day one of the druids came to challenge Patrick, but first he poured something into Patrick’s goblet. Patrick said a word over it, and turned the cup over, whereupon only the poison fell out. He said another word, and the wine turned back to liquid. Seeing this, the druid challenged him to a clerics’ duel, and started it by making it snow. “Pretty good,” said Patrick, “now make it melt.” “I—I can’t do that,” said the druid. “Ha!” said Patrick. “You can do evil but not good!” He made the snow melt away, and the crowd cheered. Their duel went on for many more paragraphs but I’m running out of space.

Aside from his autobiography in which he defends himself against his detractors, Patrick also wrote a letter to one Coroticus, excoriating him (as only Patrick could) for enslaving and killing Christians. Legend says that when Coroticus didn’t repent, he was turned into a fox and never seen again. Except, one supposes, by other foxes. Wrapping up with some tidbits: He did use a three-leafed shamrock to teach about the Trinity. He apparently didn’t drive the snakes out (there never were any snakes in Eire), unless by “snake” you mean “Druid” (some of them had snake tattoos, according to one source). Finally we have no reason to believe he ever drank green beer. Which makes me love him all the more.

Copyright © 2013 Alex Riggle. All Rights Reserved.

On this day in 1962, Bob Dylan released his eponymous first album. It was a total flop. It would be discourteous to say this was because it was primarily traditional songs and covers, and thus depended more on his voice than his writing. So I won’t say it.

Our eastern saints today are Chrysanthus and Daria (d. 283/284), a nobleman’s son and daughter-in-law. Having read the Gospels (and Acts — he read quickly), Chrysanthus sought out the priest Carpophorus, and was catechized and baptized. This angered his father, who tried to get his son to deconvert, going so far as locking him in a room with “shameless girls.” (I’ve seen ads for a video with that title but I’ve never watched it.) Chrysanthus however “gained the victory over himself” and remained a virgin. Seeing this didn’t work, his father forced him into a marriage with Daria, a virgin priestess of Diana. Two people religiously dedicated to maintaining their virginity. Yeah, that’ll work. Sure enough the kids talked it over and agreed to live as brother and sister, and Daria even decided to become a Christian. Chrysanthus: 2. Dad: 0.

In due time they were nabbed by the authorities and tortured. Their torturer, Claudius, was so impressed by their fortitude that he became a Christian himself, and he and his entire family were done in in various ways. Eventually C & D were thrown into a deep pit, which was then filled with stones. Later a church was built on the site (the drainage was good), and when pagans discovered Christians praying in a cave nearby (the church was closed for renovations, perhaps), they covered the entrance, with the results you would expect. Chrysanthus and Daria are also commemorated in the west, on 25 October.

Speaking of west, today we honor Joseph, the Husband of Mary (d. before 30). We know from Luke’s gospel that he went to Bethlehem because he was “of the house and lineage of David” (and not for the food as has been sometimes reported). He was both just and compassionate — when he learned Mary was pregnant, he decided to quietly divorce her, rather than make a spectacle that would lead to her death. He was a carpenter — when our Lord visited Nazareth, the people said of him, “Is this not the carpenter’s son?” (or “carpenterovich”).

He had great faith — he believed the angel about Jesus’ divine parentage, and when the same angel told him to head out for Egypt, he grabbed Mary and Jesus and hit the camel path. Tradition tells us that James, the brother of Jesus, went on this trip, and he is often depicted leading the donkey carrying Mary and Jesus. “Say what?” I hear you cry. “I thought Jesus was her firstborn son.” You are so right. The church teaches that the siblings of our Lord in the Gospels are Joseph’s children from his first marriage. (Time travel can’t be entirely ruled out, but in this case I’m going to go out on a limb and say nay. Plus the church also teaches Mary’s perpetual virginity.)

According to ancient sources (and the “Cherry Tree Carol,” although that may not be an independent witness), Joseph was old when he married the blessed Virgin. The story goes like this: The priest Zachariah was told to choose a husband for Mary from among the widowers of the city, so he gathered all their staffs (staves?) and took them into the temple. When Joseph’s staff budded with flowers (or a dove flew out of it; pick your source), he was chosen. Some say this was to fool the Devil, who knew the Messiah would be born of a virgin. At the time of this writing, however, the Devil did not answer our request for an interview.

After the incident in which Jesus argued with the Rabbis while his parents frantically searched the overhead bins, Joseph drops out of the narrative entirely, and is thus believed to have died not long after. He is the patron saint of the Church Universal, as well as carpenters, fathers, and social justice.

On this day in 1929, the first telephone was installed in White House. It was a wrong number.

Easterlings today venerate Nikon of Sicily (d. ca. 250). Nikon grew up unbaptized but secretly instructed in the Christian faith by his mother. He was still a pagan, though, when his army company were surrounded by enemies. Suddenly remembering his mother’s teachings, he crossed himself and promised God he’d get baptized if only he got out of this predicament alive. Suddenly he was filled with strength from on high, and (without even the jawbone of an ass) slew enough of the enemy that his company was saved. Naturally he returned home to tell his mother about this triumph (the mails were notoriously untrustworthy), and she suggested he find a priest and fulfill his vow. Sadly there were none in the vicinity, so he sailed to nearby Chios (some 650 miles SE), where he climbed a mountain and spent a week in fasting and prayer, begging God to help him find where the priests were — or at least one of them.

After eight days an angel from Rand McNally appeared and led him to Mount Ganos (some 190 miles NE), where Bishop Theodosius and 199 monks were hiding from the government. They greeted Nikon with joy, baptized him, and monkified him. After three years an angel came to the bishop, saying Nikon should be made bishop, and take all the monks to Sicily. Theodosius explained his vision, made Nikon a bishop, and promptly died. Nikon and the monks (great name for a rock group or what?) sailed away, stopping to say Hi to Nikon’s mom in Naples. She greeted him with tears of joy at his being both a monk and a bishop, and promptly died.

Once in Sicily, they had some years of peace before the governor decided that the island’s Christian-to-Pagan ratio needed lowering. He berefted 199 of them of their heads, keeping Nikon aside for torturing. That worked as well as it ever does in this kind of story. They tried to burn him, but the flames wouldn’t touch him. They tried to drag him behind horses, but the horses wouldn’t move. They threw him from a high cliff, but he was unharmed. And so on. Eventually they beheaded him, and left his several parts to feed carrion. Just then a shepherd possessed by an evil spirit happened by. Coming upon Nikon’s body, he fell to the ground, and the evil spirit came out of him, shrieking about being in the presence of a saint, I’m tormented, where can I flee — the usual. The shepherd went into town and told his tale, and when the bishop of Messina heard of it, he and his clergy went out and buried the martyrs.

Westerlings today venerate Gwinear (d. 460). Son of (pagan) King Clito of Ireland, Gwinear met Patrick when he visited their court, and later converted while hunting on horseback (however that might work). He let the horse (which has no name) run free, and took up living as a hermit. When Clito died he went back to the palace, rounded up 770 people (including his sister Piala), and sailed to Wales and Brittany (consecutively? in separate vessels?) to do missionary work. One day, whilst near Pluvigner in Brittany, he ran out of water. No doubt cognizant of the time-honored method of producing water out of nowhere, he struck the ground, and not one, not two, but three springs gushed forth — one for him, one for his horse, and one for his dog.

Gwinear was martyred by King Teudar of Cornwall, who had a penchant for throwing Christians into a reptile pit. Gwinear was, fortunately for him, merely beheaded, and spared being gator (or whatever was in that pit) chow. A basilica was built on the site of his grave, and there is a town in Cornwall named after him (which is more than you can say for Teudar). In Pluvigner he is known as Saint Guigner, and a well there bears his name. Oh, and for you Tolkien fans: one of his companions was named Meriadoc.

On this date in 1831, soldiers marching on the Broughton Suspension Bridge in Manchester, England, caused it to collapse. In shame, the engineers who designed the bridge moved to Tacoma, Washington.

Our eastern saint today is Isaac of Spoleto (d. 550), aka Isaac the Syrian, who should not be confused with the far famouser Isaac of Syria. Our Isaac emigrated from Syria to Spoleto, where he was given permission to remain in the church. There he prayed for two and a half days before being struck by one of the wardens, who called him a hypocrite. Immediately an evil spirit entered the warden. He cried for help, Isaac exorcised him, and before you could say “I’m not really a hypocrite I just like to pray,” people were lined up around the block seeking Isaac’s blessing, offering to build him a monastery, and so on. Overwhelmed, he headed out into the sticks to live as a hermit, with the usual results — disciples materialized, a lavra was formed, and he became a model abbot.

One evening, Isaac instructed his monks to leave their shovels in the garden, and put extra glop in the breakfast pot. While they slept, thieves snuck in to steal from the garden, but upon seeing the shovels they squealed with delight and worked all night digging. In the morning, Isaac thanked them for their work, fed them, and told them to come back any time and take whatever produce they needed. Heh. Another time, beggars dressed in rags begged for money for new clothes. Isaac sent a monk to a certain tree in the woods, and he came back with beautiful new clothing for the beggars. Which, of course, was the beggars’ own. Heh, heh. Yet another time, a man sent his servant with two baskets of meat (or beehives) for the monks, but he hid one and only brought one to the lavra. “Thank you,” Isaac said. “But let me warn you: some poisonous snakes have crawled into the other basket (or beehive). You could get bit.” He might well have added, “Here, take this shovel.” Gregory the Great, who wrote these things, said Isaac’s sense of humor ran toward “extreme joviality.”

Our western saint today is Sabas the Goth (334 – 372). When the Christians in his town were commanded to eat meat sacrificed to idols, some of their pagan relatives conspired to swap out the guilty meat with innocent meat, so the Christians could eat it with a clear conscience. “No true Christian would do such a thing!” Sabas said, wringing his hands and/or pointing his finger. He was so obnoxious they kicked him out of town, but soon everybody cooled down and he was welcomed back. A year later, the officials came around looking for Christians. The pagans were going to swear they’d all gone away, but Sabas made such a fuss about it, they said, “Just one.” The officials took one look at him and decided to go persecute somewhere else.

The next year, Sabas was staying with a priest named Sansala. The officials raided the house, bound Sansala, and dragged him out of the narrative. Sabas, naked, was bound and dragged through the briars, and also whipped and whapped. When day came, he pointed out that despite his rough treatment, he had no wounds or marks. (We are not told he said, “Nyah.”) His captors tied him to a makeshift rack. When they stopped for the night, a peasant woman untied him, and he helped her fix breakfast for everybody (hopefully with at least an apron on). The officials were told to kill him, but as they dragged him off, one of them said, “Nobody’s going to know if we let him go.” “Whoa, what are you saying?” Sabas said. “I’m all set to wear the martyr’s crown and you’re getting cold feet? Get on with it.” So they tossed him in the river and held him under with a log until they were sure he was good and dead. His body was found by local Christians and shipped to Cappadocia, along with the story you just read.

On this date in 1742, George Frideric Handel’s oratorio Messiah made its world premiere in Dublin, Ireland. Every O’Malley would be elated. E-la-ted. Ela-aaa-aaa-aated.

Artemon the Hieromartyr (d. 303) is our eastern saint today. When he was an old and venerable priest, Artemon with some other Christians broke into a temple of Artemis and smashed and burned all the idols. When Patricius, the local military commander, went there to offer sacrifices and found the place in ruins, he set out in wrath to find the Christians who did it. Just then he caught a dreadful chill that left him near death. He called for Sisinius, the Christian bishop, and promised he would become a Christian if he were healed. He was, but he didn’t, and set out once more to find the temple-trashers. He came upon Artemon in the company of some tame wild animals, and had him arrested. One of the deer fled to Sisinius and said, “They’ve captured Artemon.” (My source tells me not to marvel at this, and consider Balaam’s ass. Be advised.) Meanwhile Patricius had tossed Artemon into a temple filled with snakes, which he killed with his breath. (If you’re expecting a wisecrack about bad breath, forget it.) About then the doe turned up, laid down at Artemon’s feet, and calmly told Patricius he would be tossed by two birds into a cauldron of boiling pitch.

“Boiling pitch! What a great idea!” said Patricius. He had a cauldron of pitch prepared, and no sooner had it come to a boil but two birds (they were really angels in disguise) picked him up and tossed him in. Artemon glorified God, and when a spring of water sprang up by his feet, he used it to baptize all those converted by the spectacle, including Vitalius, one of the pagan priests, who went on to become a bishop in Palestine. Artemon became a missionary in Asia Minor, and was finally martyred by pagans there, no doubt after many more colorful exploits.

Blessed Margaret of Castello (1287 – 1320) is our western saint today. Born blind, lame, and deformed to either a prominent noble or poor mountain family, she was either abandoned at five, or walled up inside a chapel at six and abandoned at either fourteen or twenty — in any case after prayers at a shrine failed to restore her sight. She was adopted by Grigia, a peasant woman whose brood hardly noticed the addition of one more. Or wouldn’t have, if Margaret hadn’t been so doggone sweet and holy. She could make any group of unruly children calm, reciting psalms to them and so on, to the extent that soon she was being loaned out to families with fighting kids to restore peace. Her reputation earned her an invitation to join a local convent, but they were such slackers that she put them to shame, and they sent her back home with prejudice. She later became a Dominican tertiary.

Grigia’s home became a destination for perplexed pilgrims, and Margaret prayed for them all. She was favored with heavenly visions, and was known to say, “Oh, if only you knew what I have in my heart!” She was also associated with many miracles, both before and after her death. Once, when a fire broke out in the home, Grigia hollered to Margaret, who calmly suggested that if Grigia threw her cloak over the fire, it would go out. She did, and it did. Another time, she cured one of her stepsisters who looked likely to lose her eyesight (see what I did there?). When she died, the townspeople turned out in droves, and insisted that she be buried in the church. The priest at first refused, but when a crippled girl was healed at the funeral, he relented. Later, when her incorrupt relics were exhumed, an autopsy was performed (for reasons unstated), and it was discovered that what she had in her heart were three pearls carved into “holy figures.” A movie of her life was made in 1986. Her canonization is pending; write to your representative on the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints. She is the patroness of (among others) people rejected by religious orders.

On this date in 1862, troops led by Ignacio Zaragoza halted a French invasion in the Battle of Puebla in Mexico. To celebrate, the troops went to a cheap Tex-Mex restaurant and drank Dos Equis and Corona. Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Irene the Great Martyr of Thessalonica (IV cent.) was born in Persia to Licinius, a governor. One day while she sat there, a dove flew in the window and dropped an olive branch on the table, an eagle brought in a wreath of flowers, and a raven dropped a snake. Her tutor Appelianos laid out the following chart by way of explanation: Dove=education; olive branch=baptism; flowers=success in life; snake=suffering and sorrow. He said the Lord wished to betroth her to himself, so she told her father she was done with the suitor thing, thank you very much. Dad tried to entice her to renounce Christ by tying her behind horses and having her dragged, but one of the horses turned on him, and he lost an arm. As the horse was dancing the Persian Rhumba on his guts, the horrified witnesses untied the saint. She rushed to her father’s side, shooed (not “shoed”) the horses, reattached his arm, and completely healed the rest of him.

Amazed, Licinius, Mrs. Licinius, and 300 witnesses turned to Christ right then and there. Lucinius resigned, and his successor Secidius tossed Irene into a pit of snakes for being a sorceress (does it occur to these guys that a real sorceress could easily take care of things like snakes? don’t answer that), but she got away. He was later deposed by his son Savorus, who was struck and killed by lightning when he refused Irene’s invitation to stop persecuting Christians.

She then became an itinerant evangelist, converting thousands to Christ. In Callinicus she was placed (sequentially) into not one, not two, but three ox-shaped bronze furnaces (that’s a lot of bull—er, bulls), emerging each time unscathed. With the help of an executioner she lost her head in Constantina, but managed to find it again and resume preaching. Finally she found the tomb she wanted to be buried in, walked inside, and asked her followers to close the door. When it was opened again two days later, it was empty.

But why Thessalonica, I hear you cry? I can’t help you there. As near as I can tell Irene never left Asia. It’s also not clear, from this version of the story, how she’s a martyr. She is nevertheless the patron saint of Greek policemen, and of people who want to get happily married in a hurry.

Hilary of Arles (ca. 400 – 449) was a pagan in Gaul. His relative St. Honoratus, abbot of Lérins, sought to convert him to the faith and drag him back to the monastery. Hilary dithered for a good while, but finally accepted the twin offers of vocation and salvation. When Honoratus became bishop of Arles, he invited Hilary to come and be his secretary. When Hilary demurred, Honoratus went to Lérins and hauled him back by the ear. When Honoratus was promoted to glory (as they say in the Salvation Army), Hilary became the bishop of Arles, and almost immediately started getting in trouble. He deposed a certain Cheledonius — bishop in an area that may or may not have been under his jurisdiction — for having married a widow, and for condemning someone to death. Cheledonius appealed to Rome, and the two of them argued before the Pope (St. Leo the Great). Cheledonius was reinstated.

Hilary later replaced a bishop who appeared to be at death’s door, but who then found his way back down the walkway and into the street of life. Now the see had two bishops, and Hilary had one angry pope. He had his authority to appoint bishops taken away, and the archbishopric was moved from Arles to Fréjus. Through all of this, however, he lived with monastic self-denial and strict hours of prayer. After his death many called him saint, including Leo who referred to him as “Hilary of sacred memory.” I want to say he’s the patron saint of people who get in trouble with their boss, but alas.

On this date in 1770, 14-year old Marie Antoinette married 15-year-old Louis-Auguste, who later became king of France. Immediately after the ceremony, young Marie was heard to say, “Let us eat cake!”

Theodore the Sanctified (d. 368) grew up in the lap of luxury in Egypt, either as a pagan or a Christian. He yearned early for the monastic life, which was just then being invented out yonder in the desert. His hankering for sanctity was so great that once, when his parents threw a big party, he hid in the basement, lest the lavish entertainment turn his head from seeking God. At fourteen, he ran away to a nearby monk shack. Soon he heard about St. Pachomius the Great, the inventor of monasticism, and thought either, “This guy is going to be famous some day; I want to be able to say I knew him when,” or, “This guy can help me find the path to righteousness; I should go learn from him.” At any rate he sought and found him. Pachomius had days before received a theogram indicating Theodore was on his way.

Theodore took to the cenobitic life like a thistle seed to air, excelling in his work, and in his love for the brethren. As is not infrequently the case for people who run away to monasteries, his mother tracked him down, but fearful of a messy confrontation, Pachomius met her in the parlor, explained the monastic life to her, and recommended the monastery just down the block where his sister was abbess. Theodore’s mom checked it out, and checked herself in.

When Pachomius desired to get away from the hustle and bustle for some serious prayer time, he put Theodore in charge of Tabennisi, his flagship monastery. Theodore is called “the Sanctified” because of his holiness of life, or because he was the first Tabennisite to be priested; or maybe those are the same thing. Although details of this period are thin, we have to think he wasn’t too awful an abbot. He looked after Pachomius in his final days, and was with him when he died. After a long and holy life, he too died, as is not unusual.

Did Brendan the Navigator (ca. 484 – ca. 577) discover America? Let me get back to you on that.

Brendan was born in Ireland, studied monkery, and became a priest. He built monastic cells in many places, founded the Clonfert monastery and monastic school, and was friends with St. Brigid, St. Columba, inter alia. He also made a missionary voyage to Wales and Scotland.

But what about America? Well, a ninth century chronicle called The Voyage of Brendan the Navigator tells of how he and 60 (or some other number of) other monks set out in a leather-clad boat to find the Garden of Eden. They sailed west from Ireland, and found an island with rich and luxuriant vegetation (if that’s not redundant). Here the experts (recall that “x” is an unknown quantity and “spurt” is a drip under pressure) start to disagree. Did this voyage take place? If so, did they really find such a place? If so, was it in the Americas? Pick your expert. At any rate, they were away for seven years, which is more than enough time to find America several times over.

Along the way they landed on an island on Easter, said Mass, and kindled a fire. When the island began to move on its own accord, Brendan realized, “that’s no island!” It was the sea monster (whale?) Jascon. Sadly the sources don’t say how they discovered the name of the monster. “Excuse me, Mr. Whale, sorry for lighting a fire on your head. What’s your name?” The mind boggles.

Brendan died while visiting his sister, St. Briga, and, knowing that his relics would be in demand, he arranged in advance to have his body conveyed in a luggage cart to Clonfert, where it remains. He is, and I do not kid, the patron saint of — wait for it — whales.

On this date in 1910, the Earth passed through the tail of Halley’s Comet, producing two long meteor showers. There were rocks around the clock, all right.

David & Terichan of Georgia (d. 693) lost their father when they were small, and their mother Tagine’s pagan brother Theodosius seized all their possessions. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story. Somehow thinking it would take their mind off his treachery, he resolved to convert his nephews to his faith, whatever exactly it was (you know how sources are). He started on Tagine, saying, “Hey, Sis, if you and the boys convert to my faith, whatever exactly it is, I’ll adopt them as my own sons.” Sis wasn’t buying it. “First you steal their inheritance on earth, and now you want to steal their inheritance in heaven.” Theodosius glowered at her. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story.

Next he appealed directly to the boys, plying them with sweetmeats and soft words, saying, “You are my sons and all that is yours is mine — I mean all that is mine is yours. Now be good boys and join my religion, whatever exactly it is.” The boys thought for a moment, then said (whether in unison or in parts, our source does not specify), “You’re not our real dad! We’ll stick with Christ, even if it kills us.” Theodosius glowered at them. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story.

Tagine feared her brother, so she and the boys moved to the Tao that could be spoken. Theodosius sent spies, learned where his newphews were shepherding, and went to meet them with a passel of armed men. Seeing his uncle coming, David ran to embrace him, whereupon he was stabbed to death. He let go his staff, and it turned into a great tree, which was later whittled into bits for souvenirs or relics, take your pick. Seeing this, Terichan raced to the nearest village, but the aforementioned armed men got him first, and he soon joined his brother in Paradise. At that moment, Theodosius’s eyes were put out by an unseen hand. Before long he came to see (in a manner of speaking) that he had done evil.

Coming upon her sons’ bodies, Tagine wept bitter tears, and said some bitter words about her brother too, as you can well appreciate. Coming up to her, he said, “I am unworthy, but I want to become a Christian. Please pray to the holy martyrs for my soul.” Tagine realized the “holy martyrs” he referred to were her sons, and she forgave her brother. She took some of the mud that their blood had made in the dust, and anointed his eyes, and his sight was restored. He later repented before the Catholicos himself, was baptized, and built a church to the honor his nephew David. The local villagers built another to house Terichan’s relics.

Pope Saint John I (d. 526) was old and frail when he was made pope, but that didn’t stop the heretic King Theodoric from sending him to Constantinople to ask Emperor Justin to slacken up on the Arians. Theodoric was not happy that the Latins and Greeks were getting along so well — he feared it portended the return of Italy to imperial control, which he considered less than optimal. Nasty dude that he was, he intimated he’d be, um, unkind to Trinitarians in Italy if John failed, so John went.

John was the first pope ever to travel to Constantinople, and he was well received there, but his diplomatic mission was not a rousing success — he won only minor concessions. When he got back to Ravenna (Theodoric’s capital), he found the evil king had killed his personal friend, the great philosopher Boethius. John himself was arrested for conspiracy, and left to die of ill health in jail, for which reason he is accounted a martyr (by some — there appears to be some controversy). His remains were removed to Rome, and are buried at St. Peter’s Basilica.

On this date in 1927, Charles Lindbergh touched down in Paris, becoming the first man to fly solo nonstop across the Atlantic. Also on this date in 1932, Amelia Earhart landed in Ireland, becoming the first woman to fly solo nonstop across the Atlantic. The panoply of human sexual dimorphism thus fulfilled, no first-ever solo nonstop trans-Atlantic flights have since been recorded.

Constantine the Great (ca. 272 – 337), Equal to the Apostles, was on his way to fight for the emperority of the Roman Empire when he had a variously described vision. According to one variation, he saw a chi-rho in the sky above the sun, and the words “Εν Τούτῳ Νίκα,” usually translated as “in hoc signo vinces,” which is a lot like, “in this sign, conquer.” Confused as to what this meant, he dreamed a little dream of Christ, who told him to use that sign against his enemies. He was conveniently camped within blocks of the “In by 7, out by 5” banner shop, so he had a standard whipped up, and went on to win the battle.

This put him in such a good mood about Christianity that the next year he (together with Licinius but this isn’t his story) issued the famous Edict of Milan, allowing Christians (and anybody else for that matter) to worship as they pleased, thus striking down requirements for worshiping pagan gods, burning incense to idols, or going to Justin Bieber concerts. He went on to sponsor churches, promote Christians to high-ranking offices, sponsor Bible production, and many other things that in general made Christians happy and pagans less so. There have since been questions about how politically-motivated all this may have been, but these have never troubled the Orthodox Church and they’re not going to trouble this essay.

When the Arian controversy got controversial, he asked Hosius of Córdoba what he should do. Hosius asked his bishop buds, who said, “Well, in the New Testament, they held a council,” so a council was convened in Nicea. It declared that Christ was of the same ούσιος (technical term meaning “ousios”) as God — not created, as was taught by Arius & the Arians (which would be a really dismal name for a rock band).

Constantine did a lot of other stuff, but the one that had the hugest implications for the Church was the founding of Constantinople, which became the de facto capital of the rump empire after Rome was sacked by the Goths, Visigoths, Bieberites, and so on. Constantine took the tiny Greek town of Byzantium, renamed it New Rome, endowed it with courtiers and Senators and big stone buildings and what-not, and set it on the trajectory to being the glorious hub of the eastern Mediterranean for the next 1000 years, capital of the so-called Byzantine Empire. (Nobody actually called the empire that until over 100 years after its demise, but it appears to be the term we’re stuck with.)

Godric of Finchale (ca. 1065 – 1170) was a sailor and perhaps pirate who landed at Lindisfarne and had a life-changing encounter with St. Cuthbert, who had been dead and buried for over 300 years (which could sober anybody up). He pilgrimaged to Jerusalem, where he vowed to go barefoot the rest of his life (which he did). After traveling about, he spent two years with a hermit named Aelric in Wolsingham; after Aelric’s death he returned to Jerusalem, working in a hospital as a doorkeeper. (Details about this period are scant but I think it only fair we assume he kept the door very well.) He lived out the remainder of his days in a hovel in the forest near Finchale (in England). The prior at Durham sent a priest regularly to say Mass, and persons obscure and great came with some regularity seeking advice. All his life he was in tune with the sea, getting urpy on stormy nights, and sometimes stopping what he was doing to pray for a ship that was foundering.

Four songs by Godric constitute the oldest English songs for which both words and music have been preserved.

On this date in 1503, a Treaty of Everlasting Peace was signed between Scotland and England. It lasted ten years.

Heliconis (d. 244) moved from her hometown of Thessalonica to Corinth just in time to get caught up in the persecution of Christians. No shrinking violet (or Thessalonican violet equivalent), she began exhorting pagans to abandon their unhearing, unseeing, etc., idols and convert to Christianity. Predictably, this led to her arrest, and soon she was standing before Governor Perinus, who predictably tried to (in turns) entice and threaten her to sacrifice to idols.

When all that failed, he had her thrown into a “hot” (what? no adverbs?) furnace, from which she emerged without so much as a glow, due to a handy angel coming to cool the flames. This convinced the governor that she was a sorceress. Something of a sadist (a not uncommon property in these governors, as we’ve seen), he had her subjected to a number of gruesome tortures, then when none of those caused her to apostatize, offered her honors and titles if only she’d just burn a li’l ol’ bit of incense to the gods.

“Okay, take me to the temple,” she said, and they thought they had won their woman. She was escorted to the goditorium with drums and trumpets. “Let me be alone with the gods a while,” she requested, so they closed the door and did whatever it is pagan priests do when they’re waiting for somebody else to worship their statues.

“She’s been in there a while,” they finally said. When they opened the door, she was wiping the dust from her hands — every idol had been cast down and smashed to bits in a feat of superhuman strength. “She’s a witch! Kill her!” they screamed, while she softly sang, “I am Christian woman, hear me roar.” They tossed her in jail, where her wounds were personally healed by our Lord Jesus Christ and the Archangels Michael and Gabriel. After five days, she was dragged out to be devoured by three ferocious lions, who came and laid down by her feet and purred softly. “She’s a witch! Kill her!” roared the crowd, which so angered the lions (“Hey, this is our friend you’re talking about”) that they leapt into the stands and made havoc among the fleeing people. We have no detailed casualty report from this event, but I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.

Perinus finally had Heliconis beheaded, which is how these things usually end. Her body was recovered, and reverently buried by the Christians of Corinth.

Margaret Pole (née Plantagenet), Eighth Countess of Salisbury (1473 – 1541), had more royals in her family tree than Kansas City has in its baseball stadium on Alumni Appreciation Night. She was the niece of Edward IV and Richard III, and first cousin once removed to Henry VIII, who made her Countess of Salisbury “in her own right” when her husband Richard Pole died. She served as governess to Hank’s daughter Mary, but incurred his ire when she spoke out against his marriage to Anne Boleyn. (Harry just didn’t understand why people opposed this match – “She’s got such a good head on her shoulders,” he would say.)

When Margaret’s son Reginald Cardinal Pole (yes, that kind of Cardinal) wrote a negative review of the Act of Supremacy, the family’s days were numbered. Since Reggie was in France at the time, Harry had Margaret, her son the Duke of Montague, and another close relative the Marquis of Exeter, arrested. The men were executed, and all three had their rights and lands stripped. Margaret was found guilty of treason by virtue of a silk tunic which had the Five Wounds of Christ embroidered on it, and which may have been planted among her effects, perhaps by Cromwell. She was thrown into the Tower with a suspended death sentence, which was executed two years later after an uprising in York which nobody even pretended she had anything to do with. She walked calmly to the block, and suffered terribly under an apprentice headsman, who took ten strokes to get the job done. She was beatified in 1886 by Leo XIII.

On this date in 1913, Igor Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” debuted in Paris, provoking a riot. Twenty-seven years later it was used in the soundtrack to a Disney cartoon. Remember this next time you think a piece of music is particularly provocative.

Theodosia of Tyre (d. 307) went from there to Caesarea, where (on Easter Sunday) she bumped into a number of Christians in chains waiting to be interrogated. She stopped to ask them for their prayers, and was nabbed by the guards and taken to the governor. Upon being asked, she refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods, resulting in her being tortured in ways that don’t bear repeating before, during, or after dinner. All this she endured without complaining. The governor implored her to reconsider and save herself. She informed him that she was seeking martyrdom for herself when she went into the square, and he was playing right into her hands. In one source she even calls him a fool. I hope that one is right.

Wroth with wrath, the governor ordered her drowned, and in all but one source that’s where it ends. In that one, she was rescued by angels and returned to shore. She was then thrown to wild beasts who were decidedly not interested (“What’s for supper? martyr? again?”). In the end, she was beheaded.

After she died, she appeared in a vision to her parents, who had earlier tried to talk her out of seeking martyrdom. She showed them the crown on her head, and her resplendent robes, and the gold cross in her hand, saying, “This is the glory you tried to deprive me of!” The source doesn’t record what their response was. (Serving suggestion: “Oh, now we see what you were talking about.”) After all he put Theodosia through, the governor’s fury was sated, and he allowed the aforementioned chained Christians to live, albeit as slaves in a copper mine. Theodosia’s relics visited Constantinople for a time, then settled down in Venice, where they are lovingly appreciated.

Theodosia of Constantinople (d. 729 or 745) was the product of a significant amount of prayer by her previously-barren parents. They may have been rather old by the time she came along, as she went to be raised at a monastery after they died. She used some of her inheritance to commission three gold and silver icons, gave the rest to the poor, and became a nun.

When Leo III the Isaurian became emperor, he prohibited the making, use, and existence of icons, and began a campaign of eradication of same. Now, at the Bronze Gate there was a 400-year-old icon of our savior (made of bronze, of course). When a workman came to remove it for destruction, the nuns saw what he was doing, and went out to harass him. They harassed him to death, and I do not mean that figuratively — Theodosia shook the ladder he was standing on so hard that he fell off and expired. Flush with victory, the nuns betook themselves to the Patriarch’s house, and pelted it (and perhaps him) with rocks.

They were of course arrested. As the ringleader, Theodosia was thrown in jail and given a hundred lashes a day. (The other nuns drop out of the narrative at this point.) After a week of this she was brought to the Forum of the Ox, so called because of the enormous hollow metal bull used for executing especially undesirable criminals. (A wonderfully humane form of execution the Christians inherited from the pagans. So glad not all of the old culture was lost.) They weren’t about to give Theodosia any bull, however. She was killed by being stabbed in the neck with a ram’s horn.

When icons were restored, she was recognized as a saint and martyr, and her relics were placed in the church at the monastery of St. Euphemia. The church was renamed after her in the fourteenth century. Her prayers are invoked by the infirm, especially since she was implicated in the miraculous healing in 1306 of a deaf-mute.

On this date in 1678, Lady Godiva made the first of her famous bare—um—back rides through the streets of Coventry. It is thought that she rode side-saddle, and the cheers of the onlookers were the origin of the exclamation, “Hooray for our side!”

Hermias of Comana (d. 160) served long in the Roman army, but when it came time to retire, he refused to take his severance pay and instead confessed his Christian faith as he signed the discharge papers. This was clearly the wrong thing to do, and before he knew it he was standing before Sebastian, the proconsul in Comana (which is in Pontus, which is in northeastern Anatolia). As you might expect, he was enjoined to renounce his Christian faith and do obeisance to the emperor. As you might expect, he refused. As you might expect, he was tortured in various ways. At one point he was thrown into a burning furnace (shaped like a bull? we’re not told!) for three days, and when they came to take out the cinders, he was brought out unharmed (if a little thirsty).

Sebastian then sent him to a sorcerer named Marus, who concocted a poisonous (but hopefully quenching) brew for Hermias to drink. “Thanks, mate,” said the saint, “I can’t tell you how parched I am.” Okay maybe not. But he drank it and came to no harm. “Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy,” said Marus, and he threw everything he had into the next draught. “Aaaaah,” said the saint, perhaps wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You do know how to mix ’em.” Marus, realizing that Hermias was being protected by Christ, confessed his faith in Jesus, whereupon he was immediately beheaded as a martyr. Sebastian stepped up the torments for Hermias, including hot oil, various body part modifications, and hanging upside-down for three days. Sebastian sent some underlings to determine if Hermias were dead yet, and when they saw him alive and not kicking, they were struck blind. They begged Hermias to help them, and calling upon the name of Christ, he healed them. At last Sebastian took his own sword and cut off Hermias’ head. Christians came and buried his body, of course, and many healings have been associated with his relics.

Was Petronilla of Rome (I or III cent.) the daughter of St. Simon Peter? It has been thought so, but not always. One tradition says she was so beautiful that her father had her locked in a tower. Another says that when a pagan king named Flaccus asked for her hand, she went on a hunger strike, from which she died. We do know that at one point she was considered a martyr, based on a crypt painting dated to around 356 in which she is shown welcoming the newly deceased into heaven — she is indicated by her name and the abbreviation “mart.” Then for a time she was downgraded to virgin (that sounds wrong), but by the time Bede came along (late VII cent.) she was back in the martyr rolls. The omission of her name from the fourth century matyriology argues for a date of her death in the late first or early second century (for reasons of some sort).

In 757 her remains were removed to a repurposed fourth century mausoleum near St. Peter’s in Rome. An earlier sarcophagus is attested to, but has been lost; she has had to make do with the eighth century one ever since. In the Renaissance her chapel was “embellished” by Michelangelo, which is nothing to sneeze at. Her chapel became a burying ground for French kings, due to her patronage of Charlemagne and Carloman, which is due to their being hailed as (spiritual?) sons of St. Peter, and Petronilla being (as it was supposed) his daughter. On her feast day, a mass is offered at St. Peter’s for France, heavily attended by French expats in Rome (well, the Catholic ones anyway). She is the patron saint of mountain travelers, treaties between the Popes and the Frankish emperors, and the Dauphin of France (because the now-lost sarcophagus sported a painting of a dolphin, which is what “dauphin” means (but you knew that, right?)).

Hagiography, Lives of Saints, Miracles, Monasticism, Orthodox Church, Roman Catholic Church, Saints, Saints’ Lives, Christianity, Lady Godiva, Coventry, Hermias of Comana, Romans, Roman army, Christian faith, Proconsuls, Torture, Emperors, Renunciation, Burning furnaces, Sorcerers, Poisons, Protection, Christ, Jesus, Beheadings, Martyrs, Oil, Beheadings, Burial, Relics, Miraculous healings, Petronilla of Rome, Simon Peter, Beauty, Pagans, Kings, Martyriology, Virgins, Mausoleums, St. Peter’s Basilica, Sarcophagi, Renaissance, Michaelangelo, French, France, Charlemagne, Carloman, Patron saints, Dauphins

On this date in 1974, the Heimlich maneuver for rescuing choking victims was published in the journal Emergency Medicine. Prior to this it had been known only in the oral tradition.

Justin Martyr (ca. 100 – ca. 165) was born in Flavia Neapolis, which maps onto Nablus in modern Palestine. He slyly tells us he came of pagan, not Jewish, stock by specifying the configuration of his configurable.

Justin first studied under a Stoic philosopher, until he realized he had learned nothing about God, and that his teacher had nothing to teach him on that subject. (“Hey, wait a minute….”) He then fell in with a Peripatetic, but realized the guy wasn’t a real philosopher when the invoice came (that, and he sat down a lot). He then turned to a Pythagorean, but the Pythagorean refused to teach him about God until he first learned music, astronomy, and geometry (seems reasonable to me), and Justin wasn’t interested in those things (Philistine!). His last attempt to learn from the philosophers came in the form of a Platonist, who delighted Justin, for a time. Something must still have been lacking, though. Around age 30, Justin was visiting Ephesus when he fell into a chance seaside discussion with an old Palestinian Christian (as one does). The old man averred that God could not be approached through mere human knowledge such as the teachings of the philosophers, but must be revealed by the prophets. This kindled a love of Christ in Justin’s heart, and witnessing (or remembering witnessing) some Christians go fearlessly to their martyrdom — which, he reasoned, they could not do if they were living for sinful pleasure — sealed the deal. He was baptized shortly thereafter, and began teaching and writing. He eventually ended up in Rome (all roads…), where he opened a school.

Especially notable among his works are his apologetics — explanations and defenses of Christian teachings. When the emperor (Antoninus Pius) cranked the persecution knob to 11, Justin wrote an apology (now called the “First Apology” to distinguish it from a different one) in defense of certain Christians who were condemned to die. In it, he argued that they were being slandered merely for calling themselves Christians (for values of “being slandered” equaling to “being condemned to death” and not “being insulted on Facebook”), and that people shouldn’t be killed unless they, like, broke a law or something. The emperor relented, and sent Justin to Asia Minor to call off the persecution there as well.

The First Apology (ca. 155) is an important source for our knowledge of Christian practice and belief in the mid-second century. Justin defends Christianity as a rational philosophy, equating Jesus with the Logos of the Greek philosophers. For him the Logos is reason itself, and he holds that people before Christ who spoke with reason were in some sense Christian. Their truth, he says, is nevertheless only partial truth, whereas Christianity represents the fullness of truth. (No, it does not add, “So there!”)

Of the Holy Eucharist, he says, “the food which is blessed by the prayer of His word, and from which our blood and flesh by transmutation are nourished, is the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh.” He describes the thanksgiving of “considerable length” said over the bread and “cup of wine mixed with water,” and how the blessed Food is distributed to the people by the deacons. He witnesses to the practice of fasting in preparation for baptism, and to Christian worship being on Sundays (it being the day on which Christ rose from the dead). He refers to Gospels in the plural, and describes them as “memoirs of the apostles.”

After trouncing the Cynic philosopher (and sore loser) Crescens in debate for the umpteenth time, Justin was falsely accused (of what I could not discover) to the emperor (Marcus Aurelius). He and six others were then tortured and beheaded. His relics reside in the church of John the Baptist in Sacrofano, just a couple of miles north of Rome on the SP35b. He is, of course, the patron saint of philosophers.

On this date in 1953, Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge while practicing for the Olympics. His death was later ruled a suicide by people who missed the issues of “Divers Quarterly” in his bedroom.

Dmitry of Uglich (1582 – 1591), Tsarevich of Russia, was the son of Ivan the Terrible, but that’s not his fault. When Feodor Ivanovich was nominally Tsar and Boris Godunov (who wasn’t nearly good enough) was his regent, Godunov sent Dmitry, his mother, and her brothers into exile in Uglich. On 15 May 1591, he was found in the palace courtyard, dead from a knife wound in the throat.

An official investigation at the time ruled that the death was an accident. He was playing with his knife, it was said, and suffered an epileptic seizure. Astute mathematicians, however, added two twice and got five. Epileptic seizures (they argued) result in the palms being opened, making it difficult to stab oneself. Also, Godunov’s motives were questioned: with Dmitry out of the way, Godunov became heir to the throne, and indeed became Tsar when Feodor died seven years later. “When the political circumstances changed” (it doesn’t say in what way), the lead investigator recanted his report and said that Godunov ordered the murder. (“I admit the deed!”) Be that as it may, the immediate aftermath of Dmitry’s death was a riot in Uglich in which forty “accomplices” were lynched. After the investigation, Dmitry’s mother was forcefully tonsured and exiled to a monastery.

After his death, Dmitry appeared to a monk and (accurately) foretold Godunov’s death. When his tomb was opened fifteen years after the murder (if murder it was), his body was found incorrupt. It was reinterred at the Church of the Archangel Michael in Moscow.

Clotilde (475 – 545) was the daughter of the king of Burgundy, and was surrounded by crimson. Her father was killed by his brother, her mother was sent swimming with a stone necklace, and then there’s her kids (about whom more anon). She caught the eye of Clovis, King of the Franks, and they were married within a year of their first date. Keen to have a Catholic family, she had their first child baptized, but when he died shortly thereafter, the pagan (or Arian?) Clovis blamed Clotilde and her religion. Nevertheless she succeeded in having their second son baptized as well, and after an initial sickness (time to disinfect the baptismal font, guys?) he recovered. Clovis was finally convinced during a battle with the Alemanni which he was sure he was about to lose. He prayed to “Clotilde’s God,” promising to be baptized if he could just win this one eensy teensy little battle. He won, and was duly baptized. The two of them subsequently founded the Church of the Apostles in Paris (I’ll bet you didn’t know there were Apostles in Paris), which later was renamed after St. Genevieve .

Once Clovis dies it becomes confusing. Sons Chlodomer, Childebert, and Chlothar split up their dad’s kingdom, and attacked Clotilde’s cousin Sigismund of Burgundy, ultimately resulting in his assassination. Clotilde either provoked them to do this, or castigated them for it afterwards, although there’s no reason it couldn’t be both. Clotilde’s daughter Clotilde Jr. was bargained away as a wife to Amalaric, a Visigoth Arian (or Arian Visigoth), to buy peace. It didn’t work. Chlodomer was killed in battle, and Clotilde took his sons under her protection, but when two of them were killed by Chlothar, she put the third, five-year-old Clodoaldus (or Cloud), into a monastery. Meanwhile Clotilde Jr. was being abused by her husband Amalaric, so Childebert killed him. Unfortunately Clotilde Jr. died on the way home (wherever exactly “home” was at that point).

Clotilde entered the convent at St. Martin’s at Tours, and did penance for her sons (and presumably for herself). She cared for the sick and poor, built churches and monasteries, and prayed for the Frankish kingdom(s). It is said that when she died, a dazzling light and heavenly incense filled the room. She is the patron saint of people with abusive husbands, and “disappointing children.” (Children who disappoint? Or the act of making children feel disappointed? Both could surely use a patron saint.)

Hagiography, Lives of Saints, Miracles, Monasticism, Orthodox Church, Roman Catholic Church, Saints, Saints’ Lives, Christianity, Ode to Billy Joe, Olympics, Diving, Dmitry of Uglich, Tsareviches, Russia, Ivan the Terrible, Feodor (Tsar), Boris Godunov, Uglich, Accidents, Deaths, Knives, Epilepsy, Seizures, Riots, Investigations, Monasteries, Incorrupt relics, Relics, Moscow, Church of the Archangel Michael, Clotilde, Fratricide, Clovis (King), Franks, Catholics, Pagans, Arians, Baptism, Battles, Alemanni, Paris, Genevieve, Chlodomer (King), Childebert (King), Chlothar (King), Sigismund (King), Burgundy, Amalaric, Clodoaldus, St Martin’s at Tours, Penance, Poor

On this date in 1956, Elvis Presley introduced his new single, “Hound Dog”, on The Milton Berle Show, scandalizing the audience with his suggestive hip movements. The knees, they didn’t so much mind.

Constantine, Metropolitan of Kiev (d. 1159), was sent by Grand Prince Yuri to get the Seal of Approval™ from the Ecumenical Patriarch to become the Metropolitan of Kiev. It seems Yuri’s predecessor Izyaslav had forced the bishops of Russia to elect Schemamonk Clement as metropolitan without Constantinopolitan approval. (Not all the bishops went along with this, bless their hearts.) Constantine returned carrying the patriarchal imprimatur, deposed Clement, and disordained Clement’s ordainees. (Unordained? De-ordained?) When Yuri went to the great Kremlin in the sky, bickering arose as to who was the rightful Metropolitan. The princes decided to reshuffle the deck and re-deal — they asked the Patriarch to depose both Constantine and Clement, and send them somebody new. The Patriarch agreed, and Theodore was made Metropolitan. Constantine quietly withdrew to Chernigov.

Constantine got the bishop to promise to carry out his will sight unseen (don’t try this at home), and when the will was read, the assembly was horrified — it specified that his body be dragged out of the city and left for the dogs to eat, as penance for the troubles he felt he had brought upon the church. The bishop felt constrained by his word, so the body was dumped in a field outside the city limits. Immediately there arose strong winds, earthquakes, thunder, lightning, and other elements of the pathetic fallacy. (Eight people were struck by lightning simultaneously, which ought to be in Guinness if it’s not.) At night, three pillars of fire appeared above the deposed Metropolitan’s body. After three days of this, Prince Svyatoslav ordered that the body be buried with fitting honors. The clouds parted, birds sang, the earthquakes stopped, and the people gave thanks to God.

Boniface of Crediton (680 – 755), né Winfrid, decided at age five to become a monk. At seven he started school in Exeter. At fourteen he moved to the abbey school in Winchester, where he studied under Winbert, and was monkified. He eventually became director of the school, and wrote the first Latin grammar published in England. He was priested at 30, and went off (over the grumbling consent of his abbot) to join Willibrord as a missionary in Friesland. This missionary trip failed, our source avers, due to the “ascendancy of the pagans.” What exactly that means is left as an exercise for the reader.

When Winbert died the monks tried to abbotify Winfred, but he escaped to Rome, where Pope (Saint) Gregory II gave him the name Boniface and sent him to evangelize Hesse (in Bavaria). When the local ruler Radbod (stop that) died, Boniface fell back to Friesland, but when Willibrord tried to make him his successor, he returned to Bavaria. After a whirlwind trip to Rome to be bishopified, Boniface took an axe to the Oak of Thor, a sacred tree near Fritzlar. He then stood on the stump and said to the aghast pagans, “My God’s bigger than your god.” When nothing happened, many of the pagans realized their gods were powerless. We’re not told what the other ones thought. In another place, he found the locals playing a game involving throwing sticks to knock down other sticks (this was before lacrosse had been invented, and entertainment was thin). Boniface reinterpreted the game to signify purity of spirit knocking down demons. Our source doesn’t say if he changed the scoring rubrics.

Eventually he was made Metropolitan of trans-Rhine Germany. He created sees, founded monasteries, presided over synods, and even crowned a king. In his old age he heard that Christian Friesenlanders were deconverting, so he resigned his see and headed back. After he had enjoyed some success there, his camp was one day attacked by a hostile band (perhaps Megadeth). He was killed while reading a book, and for centuries the blood-stained book was displayed as a relic. He is called the “Apostle of Germany,” and is the patron saint of brewers, which seems wonderfully fitting.