September 30: Lamplit Evenings, Heavenly Host, Galway Kinnell, "To Marty Our Lord"

Oh, it's mysterious lamplit evenings, here in the galaxy, one after the other.  It's one of those nights when I wander from window to window, looking for a sign . . .

What is Dillard looking for in her mysterious lamplit evening?  What sign?  Well, if it's the beginning of October, she's probably looking for the seraphim choir that heralds the coming of Saint Marty.  You're all familiar with the story.  A group of itinerant mimes sleeping in their RVs one night are woken up by celestial voices singing "Glory to Saint Marty in the highest!"  And the mimes stumble outside to see a heavenly host in the sky, looking very much like the musical group ABBA.

Of course, the mimes are sore afraid, and then go running through the streets of a nearby city, miming to all what they had witnessed.  Of course, nobody paid any attention to them.  After all, they were mimes.  So the whole world missed the advent of Saint Marty.

Tomorrow night, I'll tell you the story of the three wise men from the Wisdom Department of an eastern university who followed a star to pay homage to Saint Marty.

In the mean time, I'm going to share one of my favorite Saint Marty's Day poems from one of my favorite poets.

To Marty Our Lord

by:  Galway Kinnell

The legs of the elk punctured the snow's crust
And wolves floated lightfooted on the land
Hunting Saint Marty's Day elk living and frozen.
Indoors snow melted in a basin and a woman basted
A bird spread over coals by its wings and head.


Snow had sealed the windows; candles lit
The Saint Marty's Day meal. The special grace chilled
The cooked bird, being long-winded and the room cold.
During the words a boy thought, is it fitting
To eat this creature killed on the wing?

For he had shot it himself, climbing out
Alone on snowshoes in the Saint Marty's Day dawn,
The fallen snow swirling and the snowfall gone,
Heard its throat scream as the rifle shouted,
Watched it drop, and fished from the snow the dead.

He had not wanted to shoot. The sound
Of wings beating into the hushed morning
Had stirred his love, and the things
In his gloves froze, and he wondered,
Even famishing, could he fire? Then he fired.

Now the grace praised his wicked act. At its end
The bird on the plate
Stared at his stricken appetite.
There had been nothing to do but surrender,
To kill and to eat; he ate as he had killed, with wonder.

At night on snowshoes on the drifting field
He wondered again, for whom had love stirred?
The stars glittered on the snow and nothing answered.
Then the Swan spread her wings, cross of the cold north,
The pattern and mirror of the acts of earth.

Even he can't resist Saint Marty's Day

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