Servant of God Dorothy Day: A Personal Witness

 

"Don't call me a saint, I don't want to be dismissed that easily." 

 ~ Dorothy Day

"Once you get to know her, she's just like any other crabby old lady." 

 ~ Stanley Vishnewski

Even so, many thanks, Dorothy. Pray for me. 

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St. John Paul II, Pope: A Testimonial

 

John Paul II was an athlete and an artist. A scholar and a saint. But to me and countless others, the Polish Pontiff was simply Papa.
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Bl. John of Cetina & Bl. Peter de Dueñas

The dramatic saga of John of Cetina and Peter de Dueñas can be summarized in a single line: “Franciscans of Spain,” writes hagiographer Basil Watkins, “they were sent to the Muslim kingdom of Granada in order to try and evangelize the inhabitants and were predictably killed.”

As you’d expect, there’s more to this story.

Born in 1340, John had a privileged childhood, but he gravitated to obscurity and penitence. In time he made his way to the Franciscans of Aragon, where he made his profession and was ordained. Although a popular preacher, John longed for solitude, and he retired to a cave in Valencia to take up an eremitical life.

Word of heroic Franciscan martyrdoms in the Holy Land reached Father John, and he committed himself to missionary work among the Moors, despite his solitary inclinations and the risks. John received permission to visit the Muslims of southern Spain in 1396, and he prepared for his journey.

At the time, Franciscan missionaries always traveled in pairs, and Father John chose Brother Peter to be his companion. Peter was around 19 years old and just starting out in his religious vocation. Nonetheless, he was eager to join Father John, and he rebuffed objections to his participation in such a dangerous undertaking.

It wasn’t long after the two arrived in Granada before they were arrested and hauled before the Sultan. Offered the choice between conversion to Islam and death, the two readily accepted the latter. The Sultan promptly complied, beheading them both by his own hand.

Pope Clement XII beatified the pair in 1731. The promulgation of their exploits likely spurred the missionary aspirations of another Spanish Franciscan, young Junípero Serra, who would eventually become the Apostle of California.

The memorial of John of Cetina and Peter de Dueñas is observed on May 19, the day of their martyrdom in 1397.
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A shorter version of this reflection originally appeared in Franciscan Magazine, Franciscan University of Steubenville.

A Saint for Pirate-y Things: St. Symeon of Syracuse

Real pirates, both past and present, aren’t amiable. They rape and pillage and kill. They’re nothing to laugh about.

Nevertheless, growing up, I thought of pirates as chummy and amusing when I thought about them at all. And I pretty much only thought about them when my family made its annual summer trek to Southern California for sun, swim, and Disneyland.

“Pirates of the Caribbean” was merely a ride back then (this was way before Johnny Depp), and the buccaneers who populated that ride were all smiles and joviality and “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.” I imagine it’s the same jokey image of pirates that younger generations adopted after repeated exposure to the VeggieTales Silly Song starring Larry the Cucumber and friends. “Well, I've never plucked a rooster and I'm not too good at ping-pong,” sings Larry the slothful swashbuckler. Heh-heh, pirates for kids – you gotta’ love ‘em!

It's an association that's in keeping with this hagiographic curiosity: St. Nicholas (as in Santa Claus) is not only a patron saint of children, but also the patron saint of pirates – yet only repentant pirates I’d think. You’d hope that saints wouldn’t be patronizing practicing pirates, right?

Right, although that raises a question: What if you’re dealing with one of the practicing kind? What if you’re sailing the Seven Seas and you get attacked – and it’s not VeggieTale attackers? Since St. Nick is busy with his pirates in rehab, who’s your go-to intercessor going to be?

Some might suggest St. Albinus of Angers, the 6th-century French abbot and bishop who used to ransom members of his flock who’d been snatched by pirates trawling the Loire River. However, prayers to St. Albinus would only make sense if you’d been taken by surprise and were already in fetters. What about a saintly somebody to plead your cause if pirates are just about to board your vessel – yikes! – and you’re hoping to escape unscathed?

That, my friend, is the purview of a saint whose feast is observed today (June 1): Symeon of Syracuse (also known as Symeon of Trier and Symeon of Mt. Sinai). Born in Syracuse, Sicily, around 970, Symeon’s mother was Calabrian, but his father was a Greek military officer, and so the lad was sent to Constantinople for his education. Eventually, Symeon decided upon a life in religion, was ordained a deacon in the Holy Land, and entered the ancient monastery of St. Catherine on Mt. Sinai.

In 1027, Symeon was charged by his abbot to travel to France to collect alms promised by a nobleman, but he was waylaid on the Nile near Alexandria by vicious (that is, decidedly not Disneyland) pirates. Despite the fact that the brigands wiped out the ship’s crew, Symeon somehow managed to escape – pfft! just like that – and he landed in Antioch where he received aid. After that, Symeon made a return trip to the Holy Land and visited Rome, and by the time he finally reached France, the nobleman was dead and the alms were never collected.

All that adventuring took its toll on Symeon, and he decided to skip the return trip to Egypt. Instead, in 1030, the settled as a recluse hermit in Trier, Germany, at the invitation of the archbishop there. Symeon was enclosed in a tower where he lived a life of prayer and fasting until his natural death on June 1, 1035.

By all means, then, if you’re setting out for a leisurely cruise or a Gilligan-esque “three hour tour,” keep St. Symeon in mind and be ready to enlist his prayers in case you spy a Jolly Roger on the horizon.

Landlubbers can invoke him as well, of course, although the pirates we face today tend to be less bloodthirsty and more given to subtler forms of plunder. “Aargh, me hearties! Your credit card interest is 18% and payment is past due!”

St. Symeon, pray for us. Ahoy!
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A version of this meditation appeared on Catholic Exchange.

Blessed Tommaso da Olera (1563-1631)

Sometimes holy people are declared saints right after they die. Take Benedict Joseph Labre for instance. Within minutes of his death, the youth of Rome were running through the streets shouting, “The saint is dead! The saint is dead!” – an assessment later affirmed by unanimous acclaim.

On the other hand, sometimes canonizations grind on and on...and on. Like Joan of Arc, whose sainthood wasn’t recognized until 500 years after her death.

Brother Tommaso da Olera’s cause falls into the latter class, which is in line with other delays that pepper his life story.

Born in 1563 in northern Italy, Tommaso labored as shepherd in his youth to help support his family. With no resources and no schools nearby, he missed out on an education, but eventually he did acquire a rudimentary literacy after joining the Capuchins at age 17.

Tommaso flourished in his vocation and advanced quickly in the spiritual life. A collection of his mystical writings, Fuoco d’amore (“Fire of Love”), was published 50 years after his death, and it reveals a sublime grasp of ascetical theology. It was among Pope St. John XXIII’s favorite spiritual works, and the Pontiff had portions of it read to him on his death bed.

The humble friar’s daily tasks included washing pots, collecting alms, and visiting the sick, but he also joyfully shared the Gospel with everyone he met. His reputation for holiness spread, and in 1619 Archduke Leopold V of Austria requested Tommaso’s assistance in confronting the spread of Lutheranism. Barely literate, Tommaso avoided disputation. Instead, with great success, he simply witnessed to Christ’s impassioned love for his Church.

Br. Tommaso died in Innsbruck in 1631, and it took another 356 years before Pope John Paul II proclaimed the friar Venerable in 1987. Pope Benedict XVI authorized Tommaso's beatification in 2012, and the beatification Mass was finally celebrated by a representative of Pope Francis in 2013.

Franciscans observe Bl. Tommaso's feast on May 4.
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A shorter version of this reflection originally appeared in Franciscan Magazine, Franciscan University of Steubenville. 

St. Benedict Joseph Labre (1748-1783)

A beggar. A bum. A stinking, dirty tramp. A saint. Benedict Joseph Labre is a stunning challenge to our sanitized images of sanctity and, while not a Franciscan, his total embrace of poverty makes him a true kinsman of St. Francis.

The son of a village shopkeeper, Benedict Joseph grew up amid comfortable surroundings in the French countryside. His parents interpreted his reserved manner, evident piety, and concern for the poor as signs of a priestly vocation and sent him away for an education.

Benedict Joseph Labre, depicted by Antonio Cavalluci (1795)

Benedict studied under his uncle, a parish priest, but the boy's heart was rarely fixed on his Latin lessons. Instead, he gravitated to the transient poor of the byways and lonely places, and he delighted to mingle with them, often emptying out his pockets among them. Labre's attraction to the despised appeared eccentric to his contemporaries, no less than to us, yet his impulse was right – he intuitively recognized the continuity between his time with outcasts and the long hours he spent before the Eucharist.

During a cholera outbreak, the priest and student selflessly cared for the sick and dying. After losing his uncle to the disease, Benedict left his studies and career behind, determined to follow his true calling – poverty, hiddenness, and prayer. He set out with his family's permission to locate a monastic family where he could lose himself in abandonment to God.

The Carthusians, the Cistercians, the Trappists – all turned him away due to his curious affinities and poor health. But he never gave into discouragement. He knew God was faithful and would lead him aright, and as it turned out, Labre's wanderings proved to be a providential trajectory that did indeed set him on his life's course.

For Benedict Joseph's calling was to be a monk with a singular vocation: His monastery became the world, his chapel the streets, and his habit rags and filth. Like St. Francis, Labre's heavenward gaze was so intense, so fixed, that he found it difficult to conform to any of the world's categories – even the best of them – and he found his niche by not having a niche.

Giving up on monastic life, Labre made a pilgrimage to Rome in 1770. In the next six years, the saint crisscrossed the European landscape: Always on foot, generally sleeping outside, rarely begging, and accepting only those alms he needed for any given day. With an old cloak, his Rosary beads, and a couple of books as his only possessions, he made multiple journeys to a variety of shrines, including Loreto, Compostela, and, fittingly, Assisi. His days were spent in prayer and his nights among the homeless poor. Since he never cared for his body, he was often reviled and abused – signs to him of God's special favor.

Eventually Benedict settled in Rome, and he served the rest of his life as the Eternal City's holy fool, destitute yet joyful. He frequented many of the city's churches, and had a particular enthusiasm for the then-popular Forty Hours devotion. The supplicant would sit for long stretches in silent meditation before the tabernacle, completely enveloped in the presence of Christ, and then retire to the ruins of the Colosseum, his adopted home, to spend a good part of his night in further, intense prayer. 

Labre's tomb in S. Maria dei Monti, Rome. The effigy was made by Achille Albacini in 1892.

In his last days, Labre's rapidly declining health forced him to find refuge in a poor house. On Wednesday of Holy Week, 1783, the 35-year-old beggar collapsed on the steps of a church; he later died peacefully in the home of a friendly butcher. Immediately the city's children took to the streets exclaiming, "The saint is dead! The saint is dead!" The entire populace turned out to pay their respects and extra police had to be brought in to control the crowds. As Donald Attwater says in his Dictionary of Saints, "The people of Rome never had any doubt about the holiness of this 'new St. Francis,' and he was eventually canonized."

Benedict Joseph is truly a saint for our times. His radical detachment – from possessions, from the world, even from himself – shows up the emptiness of modern self-absorption and greed. Not that we should all resort to a semi-contemplative existence on the streets, but we would do well to follow Labre's lead in cultivating detachment and put away whatever distracts us from God.

Therein lies sanctity and sanctity is our destiny – we only must seize it, and God gives us the grace to do so. God can fashion a saint from a homeless tramp; he can make saints of us. All he needs are the raw materials.

A version of this essay was originally published in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville.

St. Crispin of Viterbo (1668-1750)

St. Crispin of Viterbo, OFM Cap.

"I've got shoes, you got shoes, all God's children got shoes." The old spiritual conjures up numerous biblical images of feet, shoes, and hoofing it for the Lord. St. Paul tells the Ephesians to "stand fast, your feet shod in readiness for the gospel of peace" (6:15), and to the Romans he quotes the prophet Isaiah when he declares, "How beautiful are the feet of those who bring the good news" (10:15; Isa. 52:7).

St. Crispin of Viterbo was one well acquainted with footwear as well as the link between faith and feet, for though he worked as a shoemaker in his youth, he was destined to spend his latter days unshod as a Franciscan beggar for God.

Brother Crispin was born Pietro Fioretti to a poor family in Viterbo, a small town north of Rome. His mother dedicated Pietro to the Blessed Virgin at a local shrine, instructing her son that Mary was also his mother. Accordingly, Pietro grew up with a deep devotion to the Queen of Heaven and referred to her affectionately as his "other momma."

Pietro was vigorous in his pursuit of sanctity, but physically frail, so he was fortunate in obtaining a cobbler's apprenticeship from his uncle. This benevolent uncle also saw to his nephew's schooling and enabled the boy to acquire a rudimentary training in Latin from the Jesuits. Nevertheless, Pietro was unable to pursue a learned profession, and instead excelled as a shoemaker while all the time seeking perfection in the science of the saints. 

When Pietro was 25, he observed a group of Capuchin novices process through the streets of Viterbo, and the Lord gave him a clear interior message that he was called to religious life. Immediately presenting himself to the superior of the local Capuchin friary, Pietro requested admittance to the order, but was turned away due to his sickly appearance. The cobbler, convinced of God's call, was not dissuaded, and he doggedly made his case. Eventually, the superior relented and admitted Pietro to the Franciscan family.

The new novice took the name Crispin to honor the patron saint of his trade, although he forever put aside his shoemaking skills. At first he cooked for his community; then he took up work in the gardens and orchards. Crispin also worked in the infirmary, where he acquired a widespread reputation for healing, both physical and spiritual. Once he effected a cure for a Vatican chamberlain, and the pope's own doctor praised the Capuchin brother's art. Crispin demurred and humbly attributed his success to Mary's intercession, saying that "the Blessed Virgin can do more than all the physicians in the world."

Brother Crispin eventually settled in Orvieto where he was appointed questor, or "beggar of alms" – a role he fulfilled for over 40 years. Crispin was seen constantly in the streets, joyfully exhorting the rich to give of their abundance, and equally joyful in providing for the needs of the poor and his brother friars. Beloved by all, respected for his peacemaking abilities, and revered for the care he provided the sick, orphaned, and imprisoned, Crispin was considered by many in the town a close personal friend. Indeed, when the superior assigned another brother to be questor, the homemakers of Orvieto denied the newcomer entry, and flatly refused to support the community until Brother Crispin was restored to his post. 

Calling himself the "beast of burden of the Capuchins," Crispin cheerfully took on all tasks, no matter how difficult or unpleasant. When epidemics broke out among his brother friars in distant convents, he went to care for them, heedless of the risk to his own health. Also, he personally attended to the foundlings left on his community's doorstep, and not only provided for their immediate physical needs, but also arranged for their future training in a trade.

Brother Crispin's years of selfless service finally took their toll during the winter of 1747-48 when he contracted pneumonia. After two years of suffering from his infirmities, Crispin anticipated his death in the joyful spirit of the psalmist:

I rejoiced because they said to me, "We will go up to the House of the LORD." And now we have set foot within your gates, O Jerusalem (Ps. 122:1-2).

Pope Pius VII beatified Brother Crispin in 1806, and Pope John Paul II, in the first canonization of his pontificate, declared the Capuchin cobbler a saint in 1982. His feast is celebrated by Franciscans on May 21.

A version of this essay was originally published in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville.