Saint Wannabes: Catholic Higher Education and the Pursuit of Holiness

Saints don’t have to found activist movements, start religious orders, or run colleges. They can also become saints by getting the kids to soccer practice, making dinner, and reading bedtime stories.  

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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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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 Luke Belludi (1200-1285)

Around my house, we joke about “salvation by association” – our facetious hope that we might ride on the eternal coattails of the holy men and women we’ve rubbed shoulders with over the years. Of course, salvific grace doesn’t work that way, but hanging around saints is certainly a prudent measure when it comes to pursuing sanctity for ourselves.

Biographer of saints Father Alban Butler certainly thought so when it comes to Luke Belludi, a disciple and dedicated companion of Anthony of Padua. “The devotion to St. Anthony of Padua is so widespread and of such an early date,” wrote Butler, “that we cannot be surprised if those more intimately associated with him have been irradiated with his glory.”

In truth, we know little of Blessed Luke aside from his connections with his more famous mentor and friend. What we do know is that Belludi grew up in a wealthy family near Padua, Italy, and that he received the habit of the Friars Minor from St. Francis himself in 1220 – the same year, it turns out, that St. Anthony entered the order. Not long after, Bl. Luke is said to have implored St. Anthony’s miraculous intervention on behalf of a mortally ill child.

Later, St. Francis directed the rhetorically gifted Anthony to preach missions among the heretics of northern Italy and southern France. Bl. Luke accompanied Anthony on these journeys, and returned with him to Padua in 1231. That year, Anthony’s relentless pace caught up with his sickly constitution, and he succumbed to an early death. Luke Belludi was among the friars who attended Anthony in his last agony, and afterwards he became the saint’s stalwart champion.

The Pontifical Basilica of Saint Anthony of Padua

Among other legacies, Belludi saw to the completion of the magnificent Paduan basilica in honor of St. Anthony, and it is there that Bl. Luke’s remains were put to rest in 1285 – in close proximity to the earthly remains of his saintly role model.

Luke Belludi’s own sanctity was confirmed by Pius XI in 1927, and his feast is celebrated among Franciscans on February 17.
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A version of this story originally appeared in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville.

Saint Amato Ronconi (1225-1292)

We don’t usually associate rock star status with sanctity, but there are exceptions – like Pope St. John Paul II, for instance, and Blessed Teresa of Calcutta. Both routinely attracted hordes of fans, and many of those groupies turned their lives around after their derivative brush with saintly fame.

Even hype is redeemable.

St. Amato Ronconi also generated a lot of publicity in his day, some of it good, some of it not so good – including money, fame, sex, and power, just like a real rock star! A son of privilege in the northern Italian region of Saludecio, Amato had a cushy start, but he lost his parents at an early age. The orphaned Amato moved in with his older brother, Giacomo, and took on the duties of a farmhand.

Giacomo’s wife, Lansberga, wanted Amato to marry her younger sister – mainly to keep the family estate intact – but Amato had other plans. Undoubtedly influenced by St. Francis of Assisi’s example (a saintly rock star himself and only recently deceased) and contacts with a neighboring Franciscan monastery, Amato ardently desired a celibate life given over to prayer and charity. He joined the Franciscan Third Order and adopted a penitential lifestyle augmented by extravagant generosity to the poor.

Lansberga complained that her young brother-in-law must be crazy, and she insisted Giacomo do something before Amato literally gave away the farm. To keep the peace, Giacomo divided the family estate and gave Amato his own piece of property – which the saint converted into a hospice for the indigent, the sick, and the many pilgrims on their way to Rome. Amato turned no one away, and when supplies ran out, he’d produce food seemingly out of thin air.

The pilgrim visitors spread stories about Amato’s wonder-working far afield, and it’s no surprise that the curious began flocking to Saludecio to gawk. The saint sought relief by becoming a pilgrim himself, making the Camino de Santiago to Spain on four separate occasions. Those trips capture the humility of St. Amato so well that depictions of him invariably include a pilgrim’s staff and the distinctive Camino scallop badge.

Amato’s sister-in-law, however, was not so impressed by her other-worldly relation, and she sought revenge for her thwarted schemes. She knew that Amato was particularly close to his sister, Chiara, who had herself adopted a Franciscan way of life in imitation of him. Lansberga started a slanderous rumor throughout the community that Amato and Chiara were having incestuous relations. When a city official investigated, a miraculous sign not only convinced him that the siblings were innocent, but that Amato himself was a saint.

On a fifth Camino attempt, an angel appeared to Amato and urged him to head back. Understanding this as a mortal premonition, he set his affairs in order and deeded his property to the Benedictines so that they could continue his apostolate to the poor. This they did for hundreds of years, and today a home for the elderly continues to operate on the same site.

Amato died on May 8, 1292, and Pope Francis declared him a saint on November 23, 2014 – the Feast of Christ the King. “Jesus has opened to us his kingdom,” the Holy Father declared at the canonization, but “his kingdom begins now – by being close in concrete ways to our brothers and sisters who ask for bread, clothing, acceptance, solidarity.”

In this, Amato excelled. May we follow in his footsteps.
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A version of this story appeared in Franciscan Way, 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.