Today the church honors the feast day of a number of saints in the mystic tradition including St. Catherine of Siena, Johannes Tauler, and Blessed Henry Suso.
But I’d like to lift up one of my favorite 14th Century mystics, Meister Eckhart.
Eckhart, whose formal name is Johannes, was born sometime around the year 1260 in Germany. He was trained as a Dominican, and true to form was known as a wonderful preacher.
His teachings were not only deeply mystic and spiritual, but were also seen as being on the fringe for his day (and still may be considered so, today!). Because of this, he was brought up on heresy charges by the Archbishop of Cologne, and died before the matter was settled.
Years after his death a papal bull was distributed that named some of his writings as heretical, noting that “he wished to know more than he should.”
My favorite quote of the great Meister is:
“What good is it to me that Mary gave birth to the son of God fourteen hundred years ago, and I do not also give birth to the Son of God in my time and in my culture?
We are all meant to be mothers of God. God is always needing to be born.”
Eckhart is a reminder for the church, and for each of us, that the quest to “know more than we should” is one to be risked.
It’s important to note that on April 25th, the most perfect day in the whole calendar (not too hot or too cold, just enough for a light jacket in the morning) the church remembers the writer of what many consider to be the perfect Gospel account: Saint Mark, Evangelist and Friend of Brevity.
In the ancient days the church would take to the hillside on April 25th singing the Greater Litany in an attempt to neutralize any mildew that might even think about affecting the budding wheat harvest, a nod to the many agrarian examples that dot the Gospels, including the Gospel of Mark.
Mark’s Gospel is, as far as we can tell, the oldest Gospel in the canon (though certainly not the oldest writing in the New Testament). He is usually associated with John Mark, mentioned in the book of Acts, though the name “Mark” in ancient days was kind of like the name “Mary” back then: everyone and their brother seemed to bear the name (in fact, John Mark’s mother was named Mary).
Speaking of John Mark’s mother, if the Gospel writer is the same Mark as the one written of in the Book of Acts, then his mother hosted one of the first house churches recorded in the scriptures (check out Acts 12:12). Some even think it was perhaps this house, Mark’s house, where the disciples met for the Last Supper.
The John Mark of Acts went with his cousin St. Barnabas and St. Paul in their first missionary work (with St. Barnabas taking the lead…we forget that Barnabas taught Paul, not the other way around). Somewhere on this journey St. Mark and St. Paul became frienemies (Paul had a way of making enemies of those who would be his friends), and Paul decided that St. Mark would not be joining him on his other missionary journeys. Though they eventually made peace with one another, it’s interesting to note that the early church leaders were often butting heads.
Especially the loudest ones.
Saint Mark is often called the “interpreter of Saint Peter,” mostly because tradition holds that Saint Mark wrote his Gospel using the memory banks of that sage and salty Apostle. It is said Saint Mark went on to become the Bishop of Alexandria (though this may be mostly lore), and that he was martyred in 64 C.E. because he attempted to keep people from worshiping the god Serapis. In the mid 9th Century the remains of Saint Mark (or, at least what was called his remains) were moved from Alexandria to Venice, and are now in the cathedral there.
In many places throughout the world April 25th has been a “rogation day,” marked by processions through crop fields and prayers for a good planting season. In the 7th Century the church coopted this pagan processional meant to keep biological pests at bay through prayer and purification, and made it a liturgical act. In fact, once the church coopted this practice, the legend grew that it was on April 25th that Saint Peter entered Rome for the first time, and since Saint Mark is Saint Peter’s interpreter…well…they gave Mark the feast day and he forever became associated with both the litany and rogation festivals.
Saint Mark’s apostolic symbol is that of a lion. This figure, borrowed from the prophet Ezekiel, gives a visual to what Mark’s Gospel account is: fierce and loud, striking hot and fast. In Mark Jesus is always on the move. In Mark little details are swiped over in deference to big picture ideas. In Mark Jesus is the most human, seemingly glib to his Divine appointment in many instances.
All of the above makes Mark my favorite Gospel by far. I’m not big on Matthew’s attempt to fulfill prophecy, Luke’s penchant for inane details, or John’s flowery words and tortured imagery.
Mark gets the point and invites the reader/hearer to draw their own conclusions.
I like that.
Saint Mark is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes brevity says more than tortured details can ever say. May everyone who writes a sermon hear.
-historical bits gleaned from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
Today the Church remembers an obscure, but important, contemporary saint: Toyohiko Kagawa.
Toyohiko was the biological son of a member of the Japanese Cabinet and a geisha girl, and was raised by his father’s wife. He was eventually sent to live with an uncle, and learned English through a Bible course. At 15 he became a Christian, and was rejected by his family of origin.
He dedicated his life to serving in the slums of Japan. He lived in the most impoverished slum, Shinkawa, for most of his young adulthood, abiding in a 6ft by 6ft hut with his wife Haru.
From there he began organizing.
In 1912 he organized the first labor union in Japan for shipyard workers. in 1918 he founded the Labor Federation and in 1921 the Farmer’s Union. He was arrested numerous times in worker strikes and street riots, and in 1925 he worked successfully for universal male suffrage in Japan.
His work in both unionizing and social welfare was born from what he saw as the Christian ideal for social order, lifting up the poor and the marginalized. His writings helped the powerful see the plight of the poor in Japan.
As nationalist fervor started to bubble, he founded the Anti-War League in 1928. In 1940 he was arrested in Japan for apologizing to China for Japanese aggression, and in 1941 he was part of a group who came to the United states to try to avert the war.
Despite all of this, the climate in Japan during the war influenced him greatly, as did the fear of political retribution. He was known, during the war, as being a nationalistic hardliner.
After the war, Kagawa led efforts to establish democratic institutions in Japan. He died in Tokyo on this day in 1960.
Kagawa is a wonderful example of how the complexity of a heart for the poor and geo-political realities affect humanity. Hindsight leads us to see where we have succeeded, and where we have stumbled, and despite our best efforts to keep our feet under us, no one leads an unblemished existence.
His commemoration is a good reminder, for all of us, that our missteps should not, in the end, erase the times we were in alignment with justice. No saint is perfect, after all.
-historical information gathered from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations: A Proposed Common Calendar of Saints
Today the church remembers not a particular saint, but rather the Mother to us all: Earth Day.
The first Earth Day was held in 1970 with the rise of the environmental movement. As the Industrial Revolution quickly began taking its toll on the planet, humans began noticing some tangible changes in the way things looked, tasted, and smelled in the world…and it was not good. Though these changes smelled like prosperity to some, others knew it was a warning sign that the Earth was…is…dying, and that death was being accelerated by humans.
In those early days, pollution was the main focus of most Earth Day activities. And while that is still true today to some extent, we’ve now recognized global warming as the true danger to life on, and the life of, this planet.
In the opening lines of Genesis we find the Divine carefully crafting the earth, separating this from that, throwing birds in the air and playing ultimate “catch and release” with the fishes of the sea. The plants are coaxed from their ground, and humans are shaped out of the black soil. This poetic vision of the creation was not meant to be science…it was art. The art of the Divine being infused in every good thing that inhabits this planet.
And then, as the Creator rested, they charged humanity with tending all that had been made.
Earth Day is a reminder for me, and for the church, that this planet was not given to humans, but rather entrusted to them. In our efforts to thrive we’ve stumbled and sacrificed the lives of so many of our fellow creatures…remember: we’re all creation. And while we may not be able to stop global warming, we can slow it and shape it a bit.
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?
Today the church remembers the embattled Bishop: St. Anselm, Scholar, Erstwhile Bishop of Canterbury, and Preeminent Theologian.
Born in northwestern Italy, Anselm’s childhood was privileged in many ways. His parents were wealthy nobles and, after the death of his mother and an argument with his father, St. Anselm left home at the age of twenty-three to explore the world and further his education.
He found the Benedictine monastery of Bec in Normandy and, though he had been left all the family land by his father (who died while Anselm was abroad), he entered the brotherhood as a novice in 1060. Bec was the intellectual seat of the church at the time, and under St. Anselm’s influence grew ever more so. St. Anselm soon became the prior of Bec and then abbot of the monastery. He encouraged the church to move beyond the recitation of the faith and into an exploration of it. He prized Mary as the mother of God, but argued against her immaculate conception (he didn’t think it was a necessary doctrine). He formalized a process of theology known as “substitutionary atonement,” though it would be his students who would turn it into the (largely heretical) doctrine most know today.
He prized the life of the mind.
Soon he was summoned to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, replacing one of his teachers in the seat. There he entered into a power struggle with the King of England (Rufus…that name didn’t stick) over ultimate authority in the land. Rufus refused to recognize the Pope and, smelling an intense struggle, St. Anselm went to Rome and made his home there for a bit…just until things quieted down in England.
In Rome he worked hard on the Council of Bari (Pope Urban I had appointed him to it) that sought to reunify the Eastern and Western church. It didn’t happen, but St. Anselm’s contributions to the council remain distinguished.
Ultimately King Rufus died and King Henry I (that name did stick!) summoned St. Anselm back to Canterbury. Unfortunately the power struggle continued for the little island to the north, catching St. Anselm in the hot seat there. Now at the end of his days and in poor health, St. Anselm died on Wednesday in Holy Week on this day in 1109.
One of my favorite quotes of St. Anselm is this little ditty about the Christ, a totally feminist viewpoint:
“Are you (Jesus) not a mother too? Indeed you are, and the mother of all mothers, who tasted death in your longing to bring forth children to life.”
St. Anselm is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that the life of the mind is far superior to the recitation of stale doctrine.
-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
Today the church remembers the first Archbishop of Canterbury to die by martyrdom (but certainly not the last): St. Alphege, Bishop, Martyr, and Resistor.
St. Alphege was born in the year 954 and, having been raised in the faith, became a Benedictine monk. He served as the prior of the abbey at Bath, and then as Archbishop of Canterbury in the days when Viking attacks were rampant on the island.
In the year 1012, Viking raiders captured Canterbury. Alphege pleaded with the marauders to spare the town, but the Vikings did not listen. They pillaged the town, killed many of the people, burned the cathedral, and kept Alphege as their hostage.
From the remaining townspeople the Vikings demanded a ransom in exchange for Alphege’s freedom. Alphege knew his townspeople were poor, and refused to play their game, choosing imprisonment in perpetuity. The Vikings, incensed by his refusal, stoned Alphege. One Viking, a Thorkell the Tall, attempted to shield the Bishop from the blows, but the raiders ultimately prevailed.
St. Alphege died on this day in the year 1012.
St. Alphege is a reminder for me, and should be for everyone, that sometimes you prevent cycles of injustice by simply refusing to play the games of the powerful any longer.
-historical notes from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
Today the Celtic arm of the church remembers the Eve of St. Expedite: Carrier of Messages.
St. Expedite, despite the humorous name, is an actual saint that the Roman church canonized, yet took from the rolls due to lack of ”lived evidence.” Like Sts. Christopher and Valentine, this saint doesn’t have much historical backing to legitimize their existence.
And yet, they remain an important part of lore. Why?
Glad you asked…
Expedient soldiers were Roman officers who carried no packs and could move with ease. They were often employed to deliver special messages or deliver pertinent materials to other divisions in quick step.
St. Expedite was thought to be an Armenian Christian who, rather than give worship to the Emperor, died a martyr as a faithful member of the faith, running their errands as necessary.
Calling the phrase “Hodie,” this fast runner yelled “today!” before him, delivering messages far and wide.
Yes, this saint is largely lore. But why are they important?
Because “today” is really the only day we’re promised, Beloved.
And this saint, like so many of the Celtic tradition, draws our attention to what is needful in the world.
So, as St. Mary Oliver rightly asked, what will you do with your, “One wild and precious life?”
Today the church remembers a 17th Century saint, the first Native American that the church officially canonized: St. Kateri Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawks.
St. Kateri was born to an Algonquin mother who was a practicing Christian and a Mowhak Turtle chief, who was not a Christian. When she was just four years old, a smallpox epidemic took both of her parents and her brother, leaving her with damaged eyesight and noticeable scars on her face. She was taken in by her uncle, who did not approve of her mother’s faith.
At the age of 18, St. Kateri secretly started studying with Jesuit missionaries, and she decided to be baptized and assume the name “Kateri” in honor of St. Catherine of Siena.
A year after her baptism, French conquerors came through and massacred her people and burned their village. St. Kateri escaped by taking to the St. Lawrence River. She was taken in by a First Nations tribe down river who happened to be Christian, and she dedicated her life to prayer and the care for the sick.
At the age of twenty-three St. Kateri contracted tuberculosis, and died shortly before turning twenty-four. Her final words were reportedly, “Jesus–Mary–I love you.”
She was canonized by Pope John Paul II in 1980, the first First Nations saint to be canonized (though, truly, many are canonized in the hearts of those who know their stories). She is often referred to as Lily of the Mohawks.
St. Kateri is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes those who have walked the most unjust roads are the perfect companions for those in need. St. Kateri’s life was ravaged by white invaders who brought their diseases, guns, and unbridled ambition to take over a land and subjugate a people they had no claim to, often in the name of religion and the church.
But, like her Jesus whom she loved so much, St. Kateri was a model for them of true discipleship.
-historical bits gleaned from Claiborne and Wilson-Hartgrove’s Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals
For the ancient Celts, April was the month of new life long before the Christians invaded their lands. They saw the blossoming of the ground and understood deep in their bones that resurrection was not only possible, but probable in this life (and others).
One of the things they took the time to do in these days was connect with trees. They imagined that the trees had their own kingdom, and their own way of communicating (which they do…Google the latest science on the matter!). Tolkien understood this, which is why the Ents played a lovely part in his fantasy world.
Here is the suggestion for deepening your relationship with trees (honestly, they would do this):
-Wander through different groves. Quiet your mind. Touch the trunk of a tree or two and pay attention to it.
-Take a leaf from a tree and rub it between your fingers.
-Sit against a trunk and imagine in gratitude that it gives you shade and fruit (whatever kind it gives) and life.
-Fall into a state of peace and just be with it for a while.
As trees awaken in these April days, the Celts believed humanity, the ground, and the animals would follow that energy and awaken, too.
Reluctant Xtian 