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About three months ago, I told you about wanting to be a radio announcer, a government spy, or even an airline pilot. That was in my more lusty and youthful days. Now in my declining years I would give anything (except my comforts and my sins) to be a saint.
Of course, there's a difference between day-dreaming and my long-ago aspirations. I recognize it now for what it is, a mere sigh of the soul, the immemorial fantasy of old age. Yes, I'm a hero-worshipper! Saints have become the heroes I choose to stare at for the excitement of their achievements as well as for their charms and eccentricities.
I enjoy saints like Philip Neri, for his jokes and riddles, as well as his piety. I like Hilda of Whitby, because in her time there wasn't much personal hygiene, but she bathed every day.
One saint I especially favour is Boniface. An early English monk, he established the Christian faith in various parts of Europe. Although he never drank anything stronger than water himself, one finds him writing to Egbert, Archbishop of York: ‘Instead of the kiss which I am prevented from giving you, I am sending two kegs of wine. As you love me, I beg you to use it for a day of rejoicing with your friends.’
Boniface reminds me a bit of William Law, a chaplain to Edward Gibbon, the 18th century historian. Law rose every morning, at 5 a.m., said his prayers, milked four cows and, with the milk, gave to the poor who were gathered outside the Gibbons' house. Then, at about 9 a.m., after his own tasks were finished, woke the Gibbons (who were a formidable family) for their prayers and breakfast. From time to time he also purchased caged birds and released them from capture—an early environmentalist!
The wonderful thing about saints is that they were human. They lost their tempers, got hungry, scolded the Almighty, were impatient, made mistakes and regretted them. But still they went on blundering toward heaven.
So let us rejoice for these saints of yesteryear. These people give us hope and a little grace.
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