Knight to Bishop

Pawn to King

Propers: Martinmas, A.D. 2018 B

Homily:

Lord, we pray for the preacher, for You know his sins are great.

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

I confess that I do so enjoy it when one of my favorite unsung holidays falls so obligingly on a Sunday. For indeed, to this day I take both great pleasure and great inspiration from the story of St Martin of Tours. I tend to think this world might be a somewhat better place if more of us knew of, and told of, and lived out his story within our own lives, communities, and homes.

Martin was born seventeen hundred years ago in what is today Hungary but back then was still Rome. Christianity had only just been legalized by the Emperor Constantine after centuries of bloody persecution. And while Martin’s parents were respectable pagans—his father being a senior military officer—Martin showed interest in Christianity from a young age, entering the catechumenate as preparation for his eventual baptism.

Law required him, however, to enroll in the family business, and Martin soon found himself traveling the Empire as a cavalryman beginning at the ripe old age of 15—which brings us to the most famous moment of his life. He was stationed in Gaul by 18, outside the city of Amiens, in what would one day become France, when he encountered a naked beggar at the city gate who implored him for aid in the name of Jesus Christ.

Martin, alas, had nothing to give. All he had on him were his weapons and his soldier’s mantle. Unsheathing his sword, Martin then cut the mantle in two, giving half to the beggar to keep warm in the night, while saving half in which to wrap himself. Evening came and the storm with it, and in the night Martin dreamt that Christ Himself stood before the assembled hosts of Heaven, saints and angels alike, robed in half of Martin’s cloak.

“Behold!” proclaimeth the Lord: “See how Martin the soldier has clothed Me!”

Some say when he awoke he tried to find the beggar, who had of course disappeared. Others claim that the cloak itself was miraculously restored to wholeness. Regardless of the details of that night, Martin’s life was forever changed. Immediately baptized, he remained with the army another two years, but only due to the pleadings of his superior officer. By 20 he was discharged, and the Emperor Julian, in whose bodyguard he had served, accused Martin of cowardice.

“With the sign of the Cross,” Martin replied, “I shall more certainly break through the ranks of the enemy than if armed with shield and sword.”

Immediately upon release from the army, he sought out Hilary, the Bishop of Poitier. Martin was ordained a priest; then bishop of Tours, where he founded a monastery along with 80 or so like-minded monks. His prayers were said to be powerful, healing the sick with oil, and casting out demons by the Word of God. Worshippers claimed to see a halo appear about his head when he celebrated the Eucharist. And like many great saints in their emulation of the Lord, Martin is said to have raised no fewer than three men from death to life.

Ever his reputation for holiness and humility spread. Late in life, while visiting a parish on the outskirts of his diocese, Bishop Martin took ill and found himself wracked by fever. He prayed for release from mortal pains, but as his disciples begged him not to go, he said simply, “Lord, if I am still necessary for your people, I will not refuse the labor. Thy will be done.”

At the point of death the devil appeared before his eyes, to whom he said, “What do you want, you horrible beast? You will find nothing in me that is yours.” And with that St Martin breathed his last, on November 11, in the Year of Our Lord 397.

Martin is remembered today for many things: as a patron of soldiers and, more importantly, of soldiers-turned-peacemakers; not to mention horsemen, beggars, vintners and alcoholics. The French still open their new wines upon his feast day. For generations the Kings of France carried about a holy relic believed to be his half-cape, or cappella, which they would house in little roadside shrines as they traveled about the land. Thence we derive not only our word for chapel, but also for singing a cappella, from the chapel.

Lutherans remember him because Hans and Margaretta Luther welcomed a bouncing baby boy on November 10, 1483, and had him baptized the next day on Martinmas: hence, Martin Luther. But surely his greatest legacy is that one hundred years ago, to the day, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the Great War that had so ravaged Europe from 1914 to 1918 ended with an Armistice poignantly chosen to go into effect on St Martin’s Day—the celebration of soldiers-turned-peacemakers.

Martinmas became Armistice Day, which then became Veterans Day: a day to honor those courageous enough to defend our lands and way of life, yet also compassionate enough to lay down the sword in order to follow the Prince of Peace. War is surely the greatest of humanity’s many sins, and it is altogether right and fitting that we should celebrate its end and pray that this scourge not touch our children.

St Martin of Tours inspires the world to this day by showing forth exactly how much good each and every one of us does whenever we set aside our egos and self-centered desires to let Christ shine forth through our lives. He was no king, no conqueror, no great academic. He was a kid from the country, a military brat, who served bravely and gave generously. And the stories of his life are not meant to be fantastical. Not really.

He healed the sick with oil, the medicine of his day, as we do today with our own. He clothed the naked, not in fancy dress but with what he had on hand, what he could do for the need immediately before him. True, he raised men from the dead, or so the story goes—but we do the same whenever we feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, instruct the ignorant, rebuke the sinner, uplift the grieving, care for the sick, visit the lonely, and love one another as Christ has first loved us. Christ does through us the same He did through Martin.

I have seen this congregation work miracles. I have seen the abundance produced out of nothing at our food drives. I have seen the destitute given shelter, direction, and counsel. I have seen children taught and loved, and families uplifted. I have seen the sick supported by the community of survivors in this place, seen meals delivered, advice offered, patients driven to appointments, and comfort given in grief. I have seen you be Christ for one another in the humblest of ways and the direst of situations.

And I want you do know that. I want you to see that. When we speak of Christ among us, this is not some wispy, ephemeral ideal. This is not some saccharine sentiment of make-believe. Nor is it the call to heroic achievement and herculean tasks. Christ is with us, among us, when we love one another, when we confess our sins together and hear the words of forgiveness amidst this community. He is here when parents support each other, when children learn together, and when we lay our dead to rest in Him.

He’s here with the quilters, here with the teachers, here with our women and our men and our youth, here when we baptize and marry and bury, here when we worship and sing and weep and laugh. He is here in the humblest and holiest of ways. He is here in and with and through you—which is exactly where He needs to be, exactly why He came for us. You may not know it, but when you do the simplest things in selfless love—when you give to a beggar a torn piece of cloth because that’s all you have on hand—you are serving Christ Himself.

And He proclaims your love before the assembled hosts of Heaven, saints and angels alike: “See how the people of St Peter’s have clothed Me!” For whoever gives even a cup of water in Christ’s Name shall surely receive His reward.

One last thing about Martinmas: it used to mark the beginning of Advent. People would feast on goose and drink good wine, then enter into a 40-day fast, rather like Lent, to prepare our hearts to receive the King and to celebrate the joyous 12-day feast to follow. Advent, these days, is neither so long nor much of a fast. But Martinmas still marks that first big plunge into our holiday preparations, and I would use it to encourage all of us to take a breath; to slow our hearts and our minds; to search out quiet however we can and to seek peace amidst all things.

Be generous. Be thankful. Let not your hearts be troubled by the coming winter storm. Seek out Christ amidst the craziness, and especially in the needs of our neighbor. For we are far more likely to find Him in the beggar at our gate than amidst all the tinsel so lovingly strewn prematurely upon our trees.

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