November 3: Classic Saint Marty, Saint Martin of Tours, New Cartoon

It's late, and I've been working all day.  Cleaned out my front porch.  Put up Christmas decorations.  Had a birthday party for my wife.  Forced my daughter to do her homework.  Made up a lesson plan.  Corrected quizzes.  I am T-I-R-E-D.

I do have a Classic Saint Marty for you this evening.  This one comes from the very beginning of Saint Marty the blog.  It currently has never been viewed by anybody.  And I think it's pretty damn good.  You be the judge, though.

Saint Marty is ready for B-E-D now.

November 11, 2010:  Saint Martin of Tours

Martin of Tours was a Roman soldier when he had what the writer Flannery O'Connor would have called his moment of grace.  Martin was stationed in Amiens, France, when he encountered a half-naked beggar at the city's gates.  Martin took his sword, cut his cloak in two, and gave the beggar half of it.  That night, Martin had a dream.  In the dream, he saw Jesus Christ wearing his torn cloak.  Christ was telling angels how Martin had clothed Him when He was cold and naked.  When Martin awoke, he decided to devote his life to following Christ.  Martin of Tours is now the patron of beggars and soldiers.

I like that story for a few reasons.  First, I like it because  it's about a guy named Martin, and that's a great name.  Second, I like it because it's about unsolicited charity, an act of kindness that somehow proves to me that people are basically good.  Third, I like it because it involves a cool, ecstatic vision.  That just doesn't happen any more.  Jesus doesn't make very many personal appearances these days.

Martin's story also underscores a pretty basic lesson I learned in Sunday School a long time ago (sing it with me):  "Whatsoever you do to the least of My people, that you do unto Me."  You better be good to that one-armed, club-footed, blind server at Red Lobster, because she just might be Jesus in drag.  It's a rule I try to remember, but it's also a rule I don't always follow.  I have a really bad habit of being too judgmental.  If you have read any of my previous posts, you might have noticed that sarcasm comes pretty naturally to me.  Which means that I have ridiculed or insulted Jesus Christ on more than one occasion.  That's probably not a good thing to do on a regular basis.

I have a close friend right now who's going through a really tough time with a loved one.  Without getting into too much detail, it's a situation that requires my friend to exercise a lot of tough love, doing stuff like letting the loved one flunk out of college, lose a job, be stranded alone at Christmas.  It's a horrible position to be in.

I remember one Christmas when my wife and I were separated.  She was living an hour-and-a-half away and was driving a minivan that had over 200,000 miles on it.  Its door was broken; she had to use a bungee cord to keep it closed.  She had moved out of our home about four months before and was in the grips of her sexual addiction completely.  I was raising our daughter alone, and I was having a difficult holiday season.  I didn't even put up a Christmas tree until my daughter begged me.

On Christmas night, I went to my wife's sister's house for a family get-together.  My wife's family had been very supportive of me.  They'd helped me paint my daughter's bedroom, cleaned my house from top to bottom, straightened the junk in the attic.  The get-together was warm and light.  My wife was there, and our daughter was overjoyed to be with her.  On only a few occasions did things get tense, but I worked to stay upbeat and Christmasy.  At the end of the evening, I was packing up my daughter's presents when my wife approached me.

"I was wondering if I could spend the night at the house," she said quietly.

I looked at her, at her pleading eyes.

It was a cold night, about fifteen below zero.  It was the kind of night where the snow doesn't crunch underfoot.  It snaps.  I didn't want to send her back to her apartment.  I didn't want her to drive her shitty vehicle over two hours through an arctic night to an empty home.  I didn't.

I looked back at her for almost a full minute.  Finally, I said, "I don't think it would be a good idea."  I told her it would confuse our daughter.

She nodded and smiled.  "Yeah, I know," she said.  "I understand.  Merry Christmas."  She kissed me on the cheek.

When I got home that Christmas night, I put my daughter to bed.  Then I cried for two hours straight.  I had done the right thing.  I knew that.  (My wife and I are together now.  We have a two-year-old son.)  But that didn't stop me from feeling like I'd just kicked Mary and Joseph off my doorstep into the cold, that I'd just unwrapped the baby Jesus from His swaddling clothes and placed Him on a snowbank, exposed and vulnerable.

Sometimes, love requires you to do some really difficult things.  I learned that.  My friend is learning that.

Sometimes, love means you leave the beggar half-naked at the city gates.

Confessions of Saint Marty

November 6: Many Thousands, Saint Martin of Tours, Saint of the Week

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.  Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, Sir."

The gentleman speaking to Scrooge here is attempting to obtain a charitable contribution from him.  Of course, at this point in the novel, Scrooge rejects him flatly, even mocks him.  At the end of his sojourn in the spirit world, Scrooge is singing a different carol, though.  He meets this gentleman in the street on Christmas morning and makes a monetary pledge that leaves the gentleman speechless.  That is the greatest miracle of this book:  a man's stingy heart is opened, and he sees Christ in the poor and destitute of the world.

That is the story of my saint of the week, as well.  This week, my saint happens to be another Saint Marty--Saint Martin of Tours.  Martin of Tours is the saint I was named for.  His feast day is November 11, and he is the patron saint of beggars and soldiers.  The story behind this patronage is remarkable.

When Martin was a young Roman soldier in France, he met a beggar at the gates to the city of Amiens.  The beggar was naked and freezing.  Without thinking, Martin cut his military cloak in half and shared it with the beggar.  That night, as he slept, Martin had a vision of Christ wearing the half-cloak he had given away.  Jesus was telling the heavenly host of angels, "Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptized; he has clad me."  When Martin woke up, his cloak was whole again.  (The details of this story come from Wikipedia.)

That is why I love Martin of Tours.  He is a saint who feeds and clothes the poor.  He is a saint who recognizes Christ in everyone.  Martin could be one of Dickens' Ghosts of Christmas.  The message of Martin's story pretty much coincides with the message of any one of those yuletide Spirits--Past, Present, or Future.  Take care of all the Tiny Tims of the world, and you will be blessed.  Ebenezer Scrooge learned that lesson.  Martin of Tours learned that lesson.

As I head out to vote today, I am going to keep that lesson in mind, as well.  Who is going to hoard his wealth, make the rich even richer and the poor even poorer?  And who is going to share his cloak, take care of all of the Christs, no matter how sick or dirty or impoverished?

Saint Marty thinks he knows the answer to that question.

I'm voting for Saint Martin of Tours

November 11: Saint Martin of Tours

Martin of Tours was a Roman soldier when he had what the writer Flannery O'Connor would have called his moment of grace.  Martin was stationed in Amiens, France, when he encountered a half-naked beggar at the city's gates.  Martin took his sword, cut his cloak in two, and gave the beggar half of it.  That night, Martin had a dream.  In the dream, he saw Jesus Christ wearing his torn cloak.  Christ was telling angels how Martin had clothed Him when He was cold and naked.  When Martin awoke, he decided to devote his life to following Christ.  Martin of Tours is now the patron of beggars and soldiers.

I like that story for a few reasons.  First, I like it because  it's about a guy named Martin, and that's a great name.  Second, I like it because it's about unsolicited charity, an act of kindness that somehow proves to me that people are basically good.  Third, I like it because it involves a cool, ecstatic vision.  That just doesn't happen any more.  Jesus doesn't make very many personal appearances these days.

Martin's story also underscores a pretty basic lesson I learned in Sunday School a long time ago (sing it with me):  "Whatsoever you do to the least of My people, that you do unto Me."  You better be good to that one-armed, club-footed, blind server at Red Lobster, because she just might be Jesus in drag.  It's a rule I try to remember, but it's also a rule I don't always follow.  I have a really bad habit of being too judgemental.  If you have read any of my previous posts, you might have noticed that sarcasm comes pretty naturally to me.  Which means that I have ridiculed or insulted Jesus Christ on more than one occasion.  That's probably not a good thing to do on a regular basis.

I have a close friend right now who's going through a really tough time with a loved one.  Without getting into too much detail, it's a situation that requires my friend to exercise a lot of tough love, doing stuff like letting the loved one flunk out of college, lose a job, be stranded alone at Christmas.  It's a horrible position to be in.

I remember one Christmas when my wife and I were separated.  She was living an hour-and-a-half away and was driving a minivan that had over 200,000 miles on it.  Its door was broken; she had to use a bungee cord to keep it closed.  She had moved out of our home about four months before and was in the grips of her sexual addiction completely.  I was raising our daughter alone, and I was having a difficult holiday season.  I didn't even put up a Christmas tree until my daughter begged me.

On Christmas night, I went to my wife's sister's house for a family get-together.  My wife's family had been very supportive of me.  They'd helped me paint my daughter's bedroom, cleaned my house from top to bottom, straightened the junk in the attic.  The get-together was warm and light.  My wife was there, and our daughter was overjoyed to be with her.  On only a few occasions did things get tense, but I worked to stay upbeat and Christmasy.  At the end of the evening, I was packing up my daughter's presents when my wife approached me.

"I was wondering if I could spend the night at the house," she said quietly.

I looked at her, at her pleading eyes.

It was a cold night, about fifteen below zero.  It was the kind of night where the snow doesn't crunch underfoot.  It snaps.  I didn't want to send her back to her apartment.  I didn't want her to drive her shitty vehicle over two hours through an arctic night to an empty home.  I didn't.

I looked back at her for almost a full minute.  Finally, I said, "I don't think it would be a good idea."  I told her it would confuse our daughter.

She nodded and smiled.  "Yeah, I know," she said.  "I understand.  Merry Christmas."  She kissed me on the cheek.

When I got home that Christmas night, I put my daughter to bed.  Then I cried for two hours straight.  I had done the right thing.  I knew that.  (My wife and I are together now.  We have a two-year-old son.)  But that didn't stop me from feeling like I'd just kicked Mary and Joseph off my doorstep into the cold, that I'd just unwrapped the baby Jesus from His swaddling clothes and placed Him on a snowbank, exposed and vulnerable.

Sometimes, love requires you to do some really difficult things.  I learned that.  My friend is learning that.

Sometimes, love means you leave the beggar half-naked at the city gates.