Cloak

Summer Vespers, Week Three

A Reading from the Book of Wisdom

The Lord guided the righteous in right paths, showed him the kingdom of God, and gave him knowledge of holy things: made him rich in his travels, and multiplied the fruit of his labors. In the covetousness of such as oppressed him he stood by him, and made him rich. He defended him from his enemies, and kept him safe from those that lay in wait, and in a sore conflict he gave him the victory; that he might know that godliness is stronger than all.

When the righteous was sold, wisdom forsook him not, but delivered him from sin: she went down with him into the pit, and left him not in bonds, till she brought him the scepter of the kingdom, and power against those that oppressed him: as for those that had accused him, she showed them to be liars, and gave him perpetual glory, O Lord our God.

Homily:

Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I confess that I’ve been having rather a bit of fun with this vespers series on summer saints. Initially I chose the topic simply because it was ready made: the calendar of saints provides readings and celebrations throughout the month of June.

But it’s become something more. The saints we’ve been celebrating have, by coincidence or design, fallen into archetypal categories. The first week we had great adventurers, explorers, and missionaries, men of fame and renown. Last week we had a very different sort of saint, those whose stories focused not on heroic individualism but on the strong bonds friendship and family. And this week we have something else entirely with the tale of a young man named Alban.

He lived long ago in Roman Britain, the Empire’s farthest frontier, sometime in the third or fourth century. We don’t know much about him, save that during a period of persecution against the Church, a Christian priest sought refuge in Alban’s home. Moved presumably by compassion, Alban hid the cleric, who spent his days in watchfulness and prayer. The man’s devotion to God was by all accounts impressive.

But word got around—it’s hard to keep secrets in a small town—and at the report of a local prince, the authorities came calling, to make a thorough search of Alban’s home. Christians were a menace to the state, they said, a threat to national security. Why, didn’t Alban know that Christians practiced cannibalism, and refused to offer even the simplest of sacrifices to the patron deities of Rome? They were extremists, terrorists. Harboring one was a punishable offense.

But then Alban did something rather remarkable. Against all sense and reason, against all caution and prudence, Alban donned the clothes and cloak of the hidden priest and presented himself to the authorities as the man for whom they searched. “You heard there’s a priest here,” he said. “Well, that’s me.”

Thus Alban was taken before the prefect, and given the same opportunity granted to any accused Christian: offer a sacrifice to the gods. Just a pinch of incense to the Emperor, a token submission to Jove. Anything, really. Give us an excuse to set you free. But Alban answered as he knew the priest would have answered: “I worship and adore the true and living God who created all things.” Not your idols.

The judge, of course, was not fooled—he knew that Alban was not the fugitive priest—but he nonetheless declared that if Alban wanted to offer himself in that criminal’s place, then he would suffer as that criminal ought. A good flogging should shake his resolve. But no matter how they scourged him, Alban would not relent in this charade. Indeed, he seemed perversely joyful to be suffering in the other man’s place.

Very well. If he were so eager to die, then off with his head! And Alban was sentenced to death—beheading, as was his right as a Roman citizen. This must’ve caused something of a sensation; the crowds who gathered to watch choked the bridge en route to the hill of execution. And miracles were reported. Rivers drying up, springs leaping forth. They say the first executioner refused to do the deed, so shaken and moved was he by Alban’s example. As for the second—well, the story goes that his eyes bounced right out of his head the moment Alban’s severed skull hit the ground.

Alban was an ordinary guy. As near as we can tell he led a quiet, respectable life. Paid his taxes, didn’t make waves. He could’ve turned the priest away and no-one would’ve blamed him. He could’ve turned the man over to the authorities, all nice and neat and legal. He could’ve offered that pinch of incense, begged the forgiveness of Jove. After all, he was only playacting a priest, and everyone knew it.

Yet in one crazy, impulsive, astonishing moment, he put on the cloak of a criminal, and with it the condemnation of the law. He laid down his life for another, for a man he’d probably never met before he’d come seeking sanctuary at his door. What makes a normal man become in a moment a martyr? What causes a respectable citizen to throw it all away for a glimpse of goodness and beauty and truth? One good turn, one moment of clarity, one simple choice—and he becomes legend. He becomes a saint.

I recall a passage in Dante, wherein the author finds himself at the foot of Mount Purgatory, the base of the ascent into Heaven. And there he meets a freshly slain warrior who is overwhelmed by joy. This fellow spent his days in violence and murder, never once imagining that he might obtain the grace of God. Yet as he lay mortally wounded on the battlefield, weeping he gave his soul “to Him Who grants forgiveness willingly”—easier even than a pinch of incense—and here he found himself saved.

He had a long way to go, mind you. There were many sins of which he needed to be purged. But he was ecstatic to have been caught up by God in a single moment of humility, a single moment to reach out and pray, “Jesus, save me.” And He did.

Sometimes our lives are defined by a moment, a chance, a choice, that lifts us from obscurity up into holiness, up into Heaven. And this is not our work but God’s, who needs only the slimmest of cracks through which to shine His Light, the simplest of prayers through which to work our salvation.

Sometimes eternity greets us in a moment. Sometimes we are sainted in a second.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.