Fr. Roger J. Landry
The Anchor
Putting Into the Deep
November 14, 2008
On Tuesday we celebrated the feast of one of the most famous and influential saints of the early Church, St. Martin of Tours. His conversion story, charity, reputation for holiness, and defense of the faith in fourth century Europe made him a model for Christians in succeeding centuries and it’s unsurprising that so many families in various Christian countries named their sons Martin because of devotion to him.
In many places today, however, particularly in Europe, his memory has been eclipsed by cultural associations that not only have little to do with the events of his life but against which he probably would preach if his strong voice could still be heard. Just as many people caricature St. Francis of Assisi as little more than a Medieval Doctor Doolittle, so many have reduced St. Martin to an early Christian Bacchus, a patron of wine and partying.
There are three reasons for this. The first is somewhat historical. St. Martin and the monks who associated themselves with him did plant vines in the fertile soil of western France, became experts in pruning them, and seem to have originated the Chenin Blanc grape from which most of the white wine of the Touraine region comes.
The two principal reasons have little to do with history. One is that his feast day, November 11, is traditionally the day when, after the fall harvest and crushing of the grapes, the grape must converts into wine. For that reason, it was a day to taste the “new wine” and to toast the saint of the day.
The other is that during the Middle Ages, there was a 40 day Advent fast that began on November 12 and extended to just before Christmas. St. Martin’s feast day became, therefore, a type of “Carnival” featuring all types of eating, drinking, costumes and gift-giving that people in our country normally associate with “Mardi Gras.” St. Martin predictably became the favorite saint of many who often did not seek to follow the saints’ example.
The real life of St. Martin, however, is more uplifting than anything one can consume from a glass.
The son of a pagan high-ranking Roman army officer, he was compelled to join the army at 15. One brutal winter he was stationed in Amiens in northern France. As he was passing through the city gates during a snow storm, he saw a half-naked poor man shivering as he was begging for alms. The passers-by were simply ignoring him as they passed on with haste. Touched with compassion, Martin wanted to give him some alms, but all he had was his weapons and his clothes. So he took out his Roman lance, removed his fine Roman cloak, and sliced it in two. He gave half to the poor man and wrapped himself in the other like a shawl, which elicited mockery from some of the bystanders for a Roman soldier’s dressing like a woman.
Later that night, Martin had a dream in which Jesus appeared to him. Martin already knew of Jesus despite his pagan upbringing; on his own initiative he had enrolled as a candidate for baptism at the age of ten but, because of the constant moving of his family and then of his own regiment, he had not yet had the opportunity to finish the catechumenate. In the dream, Jesus appeared dressed in the half-cape Martin had given to the beggar and said, “Martin, who is not yet baptized, has covered me with his garment.”
Martin discovered in an indelible and life-changing way the truth of Jesus’ words, “Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me,” and after this encounter with the Lord in a shivering disguise, an early biographer tells us, he “flew to be baptized.”
A short time later, when he was 20, the Roman army in Gaul won a decisive victory against the barbarians. When the soldiers went to receive their bounty, Martin stepped forward and stated that rather than war spoils he wished to receive a more lasting treasure. “Up until now, I have served you as a soldier. Let me now serve Christ. Give the bounty to these others soldiers but I am a soldier of Christ.” He was accused of cowardice, but he said he was prepared to go unarmed into battle and advance alone in the name of Christ, much like David did against Goliath. He was thrown into prison but eventually, in a general amnesty, was released and discharged. He traveled to Poitiers in order to advance in faith under the guidance of St. Hilary, who embraced him with joy.
After a while, filled with zeal for the faith, he decided to cross the Alps and bring the Gospel to his family, who lived in present-day Hungary. His mother and siblings converted, but his father did not. While preaching the Word of God in surrounding villages, he discovered that the Arian heresy was rampant. Condemned at the Council of Nicaea in 325, Arianism taught that Jesus was not really God but merely the greatest creature who ever lived. Martin preached against the Arians with so much zeal that he was arrested, publicly scourged, and forced to leave the country. He went to Italy where he learned that the Arians had spread through France and had even gotten St. Hilary banished. Eventually when St. Hilary was able to return in 360, Martin went with him, desiring to support Hilary by his prayers as a monk within his diocese.
Soon Martin’s reputation for holiness began to attract many other men around him and the first monastery in the history of France, the present Solesmes, was formed. He spent a decade forming his monks and with them going out to preach the Gospel in the countryside against both pagan and Arian ideas. In 371, after the people of Tours clamored for him to become their bishop, he was compelled against his will to accept it and was ordained.
He continued to live as a monk in a cave close to Tours, but would leave his cell and travel by foot, donkey and boat to reform each of the areas of his diocese, rooting out paganism and planting the seeds of the Gospel.
When the heresy of Priscillianism began to spread — another version of the gnostic and Manichean dualistic falsities that taught that all matter was evil — Martin traveled as far as Spain to refute it. When the emperor, however, wanted to execute the Priscillianists for the spiritual toxins they were spreading, Martin interceded to preserve their lives. It was enough for him that they be declared heretics and excommunicated in the hope of their conversion and to remove all scandal. He ferociously hated the sin but compassionately loved the sinner.
In late 397, he received a revelation of the Lord that, after so many years of exhausting in a tough vineyard, the time of his visitation was approaching. His faithful, however, upon hearing this news, pleaded with him not to leave. Martin, despite a burning desire to be with the Lord in heaven, took their petitions to the Master. “Lord, if your people still need me,” he prayed, “ I will not withdraw from your work. Your will be done.” The Lord’s will was done, and it was to take Martin to receive his well-earned imperishable wreath.
Martin had once covered the Lord in his Roman cappa, but spent the rest of his life as a soldier of Christ, dressed in the whole armor of God, with truth as his belt, holiness as his breastplate, faith as his shield, the Gospel as a his shoes, salvation as his helmet as the Word of God as his sword (see Eph 6:11-17). Like a soldier, he knew there was a war, who the enemy was and what means would defeat him.
There’s great fittingness in God’s eternal providence that Veteran’s Day falls on his feast. St. Martin battled for decades against spiritual barbarism — and he won. Now it’s our turn to celebrate him, not by drinking, but by enrolling in that same army St. Martin did and following his example.