Michael “the Black-Robed” of St Sava Monastery (IX cent.) was born in Edessa, and after distributing all his worldly goods to the poor, wandered off to Jerusalem, then under “Mohammedan” (how often do they update these websites?) control. He settled into St. Sava’s Monastery, living a life so quiet that the hagiographers have nothing to say about it until a certain fateful day. On that day they sent him to Jerusalem to sell “goods,” presumably produced by the monks to earn their living. (Tapestries? Woven baskets? Tofu pemmican? Drat these sources!) At any rate the goods were well-made and fine, and pleased Empress Seida’s eunuch so much that he took Michael back to the palace, so he could present them in person.

The empress took a liking to Michael, if you get my drift, and attempted to lead him into sin (which sin? if you have to ask…). When this didn’t work she got downright unhappy, and ordered him beaten with rods, then brought before the emperor on charges of being an enemy to Islam.

The emperor grilled him (metaphorically in this case, although that’s not always the case), and implored him to convert to Islam. “Look,” Michael said, “let’s quit the pussyfooting around” (my interpolation). “Either let me go back to my monastery, or admit Jesus is Lord and get baptized, or just kill me so I can go to meet him.”

“Here, have a refreshing drink,” the emperor said, handing Michael a cup laced with poison. “Don’t mind if I do,” said Michael, drinking the draught and coming to no harm at all. Now it was the emperor’s turn to be unhappy, and he ordered Michael beheaded. The monks from St. Sava’s came and collected the body, and Daniel, igumen of the Kievan Caves, saw the holy martyr’s relics on a visit to Jerusalem some 300 years later.

But why, I hear you cry, is he called “black-robed”? I wish I could tell you.

Desiderius of Vienne (d. ca. 608) was born in Autun, France, and if that’s the worst thing you can say about somebody, they’ve led a good life. He was educated in Vienne (which is not Vienna, in case you were confused — I was). He became bishop there, and set about to calling to task both the clergy and the royalty, who had become rather lax, for values of “lax” that you don’t share with the grandkids. Of the clergy’s reaction, I have no reports, but the royalty were not amused. Queen Brunhildis (or Brunehaut), whom he accused (no doubt accurately) of incest and other things, sought revenge by writing to the pope (Gregory the Great) that Desiderius had been teaching pagan works to the priests (he was lecturing on Latin grammar from classical works). Gregory wrote the bishop telling him to knock it off, and also asking him to put up Augustine (who would soon be called “of Canterbury”) on his way through town.

Desiderius was temporarily banished (the timing here is confusing – did he not put up Augustine? did some further letter come from the pope?), but when Gregory finally wised up to Brunhidis’ lies, Desiderius was restored, and began immediately to call people onto the rug for what they did under the duvet, including Brunhildis’ grandson, King Thierry (II, for those keeping score) of Burgundy. In a fit of projection, Thierry accused Desiderius of an improper relationship (with a lady named Justa), and once again the bishop was exiled. He returned having apparently not learned his lesson, for he once again rebuked Thierry for his shouldn’t-ottas. He was taken into custody by a contingent of soldiers, three of whom took it upon themselves to relieve him of his life (via either strangling or stoning). The place this took place is now called St.-Didier-de-Charalaine. His relics have managed to remain in Vienne, which is admirable — you know how peripatetic some relics can be. His prayers are invoked against fever. I wish I could add, “and against teachers of Latin grammar.”

Basiliscus of Comana (d. 308) was arrested with his brothers, but while they were killed, he was sent off to prison in Comana. In a vision he was promised divine help, but told he’d die a martyr anyway. He asked his guards to let him go say goodbye to his family, and knowing his honesty and miracle-working reputation, they gave him a three-day pass. He was just on his way back when a detachment of soldiers, sent by the enraged governor (“you let him what?”), was sent to fetch him. They draped him with chains, nailed shoes onto his feet, and marched him back to Comana.

Stopping for a drink in the heat of the afternoon, the soldiers went into a house (owned by a woman named Troana, although it’s not clear why that matters) and left Basiliscus tied to a tree out front. He prayed, and there was an earthquake, after which a spring of water gushed up where he could drink from it. The house emptied as all came to see what had happened. Somewhat unnerved, the soldiers set Basiliscus free, and he healed a number of sick people from the local village who came to see the man who made an earthquake.

Eventually he ended up before the governor, who predictably ordered him to offer a sacrifice to the pagan gods. “My sacrifice is praise and thanksgiving to the true God,” Basiliscus said. Unimpressed, the governor had him dragged to the local temple, but just as they arrove, it was struck by lightning and obliterated. The governor then flew into another of his trademark blind rages and ordered the saint beheaded, and his remains tossed into the river. They were soon after fished out and respectfully interred, and a church was eventually built to house them. It is said that the saint appeared to John Chrysostom shortly before his death, telling him, “Tomorrow we shall be together.” We are not told what John replied. Basiliscus’ relics and prayers have been associated with many healings.

Rita (Margarita) of Cascia (1381 – 1457) wanted to join an Augustinian convent, but bowed to her elderly parents’ wishes and married at age 12. Her husband was “cruel and brutal,” and my source says everybody in the district knew it. She put up with him for 18 years, at which point he was murdered, to the regret of few. Her sons, however, determined to get revenge, but Rita begged them not to, and they obeyed her. The source doesn’t call this is the first of her miracles, so she must have done some previously.

When her sons died, she applied for admission at the closest Augustinian convent, but they turned her down — ostensibly because she wasn’t a virgin, but one source says relatives of her husband’s murderers were sisters there. Sex or politics: you make the call. She applied a few more times, then bypassed the abbess and sent her application straight to Augustine himself, as well as two other saints, just to be safe. The next morning the nuns awoke and found her in the middle of the locked convent, looking like nothing at all had happened. She was admitted to the sisterhood.

As a nun she was severe in her self-mortification, and efficacious in her prayers. Once, after she heard a sermon on our Lord’s crown of thorns, she felt a sharp pain in her forehead, and over the next few days an inexplicable wound opened up there. Except for one brief respite, it remained with her until her death. When that was near, a visitor asked if there was anything she could get her. “A rose from my family’s estate,” said Rita. It was January, but out of love for Rita the visitor went to the estate and, lo! a rose was there blooming.

She is the patroness of people in abusive marriages, and of lost causes.

Constantine the Great (ca. 272 – 337), Equal to the Apostles, was on his way to fight for the emperority of the Roman Empire when he had a variously described vision. According to one variation, he saw a chi-rho in the sky above the sun, and the words “Εν Τούτῳ Νίκα,” usually translated as “in hoc signo vinces,” which is a lot like, “in this sign, conquer.” Confused as to what this meant, he dreamed a little dream of Christ, who told him to use that sign against his enemies. He was conveniently camped within blocks of the “In by 7, out by 5” banner shop, so he had a standard whipped up, and went on to win the battle.

This put him in such a good mood about Christianity that the next year he (together with Licinius but this isn’t his story) issued the famous Edict of Milan, allowing Christians (and anybody else for that matter) to worship as they pleased, thus striking down requirements for worshiping pagan gods, burning incense to idols, or going to Justin Bieber concerts. He went on to sponsor churches, promote Christians to high-ranking offices, sponsor Bible production, and many other things that in general made Christians happy and pagans less so. There have since been questions about how politically-motivated all this may have been, but these have never troubled the Orthodox Church and they’re not going to trouble this essay.

When the Arian controversy got controversial, he asked Hosius of Córdoba what he should do. Hosius asked his bishop buds, who said, “Well, in the New Testament, they held a council,” so a council was convened in Nicea. It declared that Christ was of the same ούσιος (technical term meaning “ousios”) as God — not created, as was taught by Arius & the Arians (which would be a really dismal name for a rock band).

Constantine did a lot of other stuff, but the one that had the hugest implications for the Church was the founding of Constantinople, which became the de facto capital of the rump empire after Rome was sacked by the Goths, Visigoths, Bieberites, and so on. Constantine took the tiny Greek town of Byzantium, renamed it New Rome, endowed it with courtiers and Senators and big stone buildings and what-not, and set it on the trajectory to being the glorious hub of the eastern Mediterranean for the next 1000 years, capital of the so-called Byzantine Empire. (Nobody actually called the empire that until over 100 years after its demise, but it appears to be the term we’re stuck with.)

Godric of Finchale (ca. 1065 – 1170) was a sailor and perhaps pirate who landed at Lindisfarne and had a life-changing encounter with St. Cuthbert, who had been dead and buried for over 300 years (which could sober anybody up). He pilgrimaged to Jerusalem, where he vowed to go barefoot the rest of his life (which he did). After traveling about, he spent two years with a hermit named Aelric in Wolsingham; after Aelric’s death he returned to Jerusalem, working in a hospital as a doorkeeper. (Details about this period are scant but I think it only fair we assume he kept the door very well.) He lived out the remainder of his days in a hovel in the forest near Finchale (in England). The prior at Durham sent a priest regularly to say Mass, and persons obscure and great came with some regularity seeking advice. All his life he was in tune with the sea, getting urpy on stormy nights, and sometimes stopping what he was doing to pray for a ship that was foundering.

Four songs by Godric constitute the oldest English songs for which both words and music have been preserved.

Asclas of Antinoe (d. ca. 287) suffered under Egyptian governor Arrian, who was under Emperor Diocletian, who was under the impression he could wipe out Christianity through state-sponsored terrorism. Invited to sacrifice to the pagan gods, Asclas refused, and moreover prophesied that Arrias would be forced to call Jesus Christ the true God. Arrias ordered him viciously tortured, but when one of those present said, “I think he’s dead,” Asclas replied, “No, I’m not.”

Arrias had a meeting across the Nile in Antinoe the next day, and ordered Asclas carried across, hoping to pop in on the execution during the lunch break. In answer to Asclas’ prayers, Arrias’ boat stopped in the middle of the river. Strain as they might, the oarsmen could make no headway at all. At the time, the governor was writing (or dictating) the charges against Asclas, and when he wrote (said), “he worships Jesus, the true God,” the boat was freed, and they were able to complete their crossing.

He ordered Asclas burned, and when that didn’t work, drowned, which worked. As he was being hauled to the river, the holy martyr told the Christians encouraging him, “Find my body and the rock, and bury them together.” The soldiers tied a rock around his neck and flung him in. Three days later, the Christians found his body, and the rock, and buried them together.

Columba of Rieti (1467 – 1501) was serenaded by angels on the day of her birth, and visited by a white dove on the day of her baptism. Her parents were perpetually poor out of charity and almsgiving. She learned to read from the local nuns, and memorized the Little Office by listening to it a lot. Throughout her life she was a devotée of Catherine of Siena.

At twelve she prayed to know her vocation, and had a vision of saints standing around the throne of Christ. Consulting her copy of Dream Interpretation for Italian Adolescents, she took a private vow of chastity, planning a life of solitude. Unfortunately, she neglected to inform her parents of these plans. They of course had procured a nice young man to marry her, neglecting on their part to inform her — until he was actually sitting in the parlor, waiting to take her to dinner and a movie.

In a vision she was informed of a custom by which cutting off all one’s hair and giving it to one’s unwanted suitor would make him realize one desired to be a nun. Fortunately her suitor also knew this custom (presumably through more pedestrian channels), and got the hint. (There is no word about what he did with the hair.) This enraged Columba’s brothers, who tormented her about it (up to and including attempted murder) until she left home.

Throughout her life, Columba had visions and ecstasies, including events from the life of our Lord. After one particularly vivid ecstasy of the Passion, she prayed not to have that one again, lest it kill her. (Mel Gibson, eat your heart out.) In another vision she saw the Christ Child, which made up for the nativity set her confessor had promised her but kept forgetting to give her.

At nineteen she was received into the Dominican tertiaries, and immediately set off on a pilgrimage to Viterbo, about 100 km west on the S S79. Along the way she exorcised a woman who had been possessed by a demon for 18 years, and her fame went before her to such an extent that when she got to Narni, the people there decided to kidnap her and adopt her as their own pet wonderworker. She managed to outsmart them and return to Rieti.

Eventually she was made Mother Superior of a Dominican Tertiary community in Perugia, which she ruled with compassion and tenderness until her death from unspecified “natural causes.” She is called upon in the prayers of those suffering from magic, sorcery, temptation, or living in Perugia.

Cynethryth, mother of Dunstan of Canterbury (909 – 988), was in church on Candlemas when all the candles blew out. Suddenly hers and only hers burst into flame again. This foretold that her future son would bring eternal light to the Church in England. Eternity hasn’t happened yet, but we’re still reading about him 1000 years later, and that’s a pretty good start.

Young Dunstan was schooled by Irish monks at Glastonbury, served under Uncle Anselm at Canterbury, and finally joined the court of King Æthelstan. He quickly became a favorite, which aroused jealousy, which resulted in a charge of witchcraft, which in turn resulted in being ejected from the court, which was closely followed by being beaten and thrown into a cesspool. He was nursed back to health by a friend, and removed to Winchester to serve his uncle, Bishop Ælfheah.

Uncle Ælf (as his nephew assuredly never called him) suggested the monastic life, but Dunstan doubted he had the celibacy gene. A terrible attack of tumours (possibly a result of the beating) changed his mind (not sure why — it is perhaps best we don’t try to reconstruct his reasoning). He was monkified and returned to Glastonbury, where he lived in a tiny cell, played his harp, and worked in the smithy. It was there that he had a close encounter with the devil’s nose — Dunstan was attacked with temptation, and fought back with tongs.

When Æthelstan died, his successor Edmund summoned Dunstan to his seat at Cheddar (no cheesy jokes, please) and made him a minister. Once again jealousies arose, and Dunstan was dismissed, but not for long. Soon thereafter, when Edmund was hunting stag and found himself careening headlong toward a precipice, his entire treatment of Dunstan flashed before his eyes. He promised he would make amends if his life were spared, whereupon the horse stopped at the very cliff edge. He (Edmund, not the horse) was as good as his word, and appointed Dunstan abbot of Glastonbury. As abbot, Dunstan established the Rule of Benedict, rebuilt buildings that had fallen into ruin, and put his brother Wulfric in charge of preventing monks from escaping (don’t ask).

When, some years later, then-King Eadwig was late for a meeting, Dunstan went to find him and walked in on the king, um, entertaining a young noblewoman and her mother. When the king refused to, um, break it off, Dunstan physically dragged him to the meeting and forced him to denounce the girl (but, curiously, not her mother) as a “strumpet.” Eadwig, enraged, had the monastery sacked and plundered. That day, Dunstan saw a travel brochure extolling the wonders of Flanders, and caught the next boat train. Not long after, Eadwig was deposed by his brother Edgar. Dunstan was recalled to England and made bishop of first London and then Worcester. When word came that the appointed Archbishop of Canterbury had died crossing the Alps (going to procure the pallium from the Pope), Dunstan was conferred the honor. Fortunately, he survived his pallium-procurement peregrination.

Upon his return, he became de facto Prime Minister, and effectively ruled both church and state. He ended the practices of simony and clerical nepotism, enforced monastic celibacy, and implemented many other reforms. Interestingly, the coronation service he wrote for Edgar has been used for every crowned head of England/Britain since.

When, a few kings later, Æthelred the Unready took the throne under questionable circumstances, Dunstan spoke up, and (was) “retired” to Canterbury, whence he continued to strengthen and reform the Church. When he knew his end was near, he shopped for a tomb, then went to bed for the last time. He was buried at Canterbury, and although the monks at Glastonbury claimed his body had been moved there in 1012, they were proved wrong when Canterbury produced the bones. Sady, these were destroyed in the Reformation.

Dunstan is the patron of every kind of metalsmith, as well as lighthouse keepers.

David & Terichan of Georgia (d. 693) lost their father when they were small, and their mother Tagine’s pagan brother Theodosius seized all their possessions. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story. Somehow thinking it would take their mind off his treachery, he resolved to convert his nephews to his faith, whatever exactly it was (you know how sources are). He started on Tagine, saying, “Hey, Sis, if you and the boys convert to my faith, whatever exactly it is, I’ll adopt them as my own sons.” Sis wasn’t buying it. “First you steal their inheritance on earth, and now you want to steal their inheritance in heaven.” Theodosius glowered at her. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story.

Next he appealed directly to the boys, plying them with sweetmeats and soft words, saying, “You are my sons and all that is yours is mine — I mean all that is mine is yours. Now be good boys and join my religion, whatever exactly it is.” The boys thought for a moment, then said (whether in unison or in parts, our source does not specify), “You’re not our real dad! We’ll stick with Christ, even if it kills us.” Theodosius glowered at them. If his villainy had ended there, this would be a happier story.

Tagine feared her brother, so she and the boys moved to the Tao that could be spoken. Theodosius sent spies, learned where his newphews were shepherding, and went to meet them with a passel of armed men. Seeing his uncle coming, David ran to embrace him, whereupon he was stabbed to death. He let go his staff, and it turned into a great tree, which was later whittled into bits for souvenirs or relics, take your pick. Seeing this, Terichan raced to the nearest village, but the aforementioned armed men got him first, and he soon joined his brother in Paradise. At that moment, Theodosius’s eyes were put out by an unseen hand. Before long he came to see (in a manner of speaking) that he had done evil.

Coming upon her sons’ bodies, Tagine wept bitter tears, and said some bitter words about her brother too, as you can well appreciate. Coming up to her, he said, “I am unworthy, but I want to become a Christian. Please pray to the holy martyrs for my soul.” Tagine realized the “holy martyrs” he referred to were her sons, and she forgave her brother. She took some of the mud that their blood had made in the dust, and anointed his eyes, and his sight was restored. He later repented before the Catholicos himself, was baptized, and built a church to the honor his nephew David. The local villagers built another to house Terichan’s relics.

Pope Saint John I (d. 526) was old and frail when he was made pope, but that didn’t stop the heretic King Theodoric from sending him to Constantinople to ask Emperor Justin to slacken up on the Arians. Theodoric was not happy that the Latins and Greeks were getting along so well — he feared it portended the return of Italy to imperial control, which he considered less than optimal. Nasty dude that he was, he intimated he’d be, um, unkind to Trinitarians in Italy if John failed, so John went.

John was the first pope ever to travel to Constantinople, and he was well received there, but his diplomatic mission was not a rousing success — he won only minor concessions. When he got back to Ravenna (Theodoric’s capital), he found the evil king had killed his personal friend, the great philosopher Boethius. John himself was arrested for conspiracy, and left to die of ill health in jail, for which reason he is accounted a martyr (by some — there appears to be some controversy). His remains were removed to Rome, and are buried at St. Peter’s Basilica.

Euphrosyne of Moscow (d. 1407) was born Евдокия Дмитриевна (Eudoxia Dmitrievna), daughter of the Grand Prince of Nizhny Novgorod (or maybe Suzdal). She married the Grand Prince of Moscow, thus bringing stability between Suzdal (or maybe Nizhny Novgorod) and Moscow. She was a spiritual disciple of St. Alexis, Metropolitan of Moscow, and St. Sergius of Radonezh.

Eudoxia did not shirk her political and religious duties, even while raising her five (or maybe twelve) children (this seems a very odd thing for sources to disagree on). While her husband was off fighting the Blue Horde (which, when mixed with the White Horde, became the Gold Horde – don’t ask; hordes aren’t paint), she held the fort in Moscow. (She wanted to leave, but the Muscovites wouldn’t let her.) During a later battle, she arranged to have the Vladimir Icon of the Theotokos transferred to Moscow, and this was believed to have turned the tide of war. Speaking of icons, she also commissioned the icon of the Archangel Michael that became the focal point of the Kremlin’s Archangel Cathedral. In short, she was the very image of an iconodule.

After her husband’s death, she founded the Church of the Nativity of the Theotokos, now the oldest building in Moscow, as well as the Ascension Monastery. At the latter she later was nunnified, taking the name Euphrosyne, and it is there that she is buried.

Paschal Baylon (1540 – 1592) was born on Whitsunday, and was therefore named “Easter,” due to exigencies of the Spanish language it probably wouldn’t pay to go into. He worked for his parents as a shepherd, carrying religious books into the field and tapping passers-by for reading lessons, which (amazingly enough) worked. He attempted to join the Franciscans after a vision at age 18, but they sent him away. He read a few more books interovinially, and was accepted when he came back at 24.

He served as doorkeeper or cook for various impoverished friaries (places where impoverished friars grow — not to be confused with chippies, which are places where fatty fish & chips grow). When he wasn’t doorkeeping or cooking, he liked to spend time in the presence of the reserved Sacrament, about which he had no reservations. He is called the “Seraph of the Eucharist” (not the “Cherub of the Eucharist,” for obvious reasons) because of this devotion. He often experienced visions and ecstasies while kneeling before the altar, but he played these down. He definitely shied from taking credit for his piety, which definitely is to his credit, ironically.

For reasons entirely not elaborated, he was sent to bear a personal message to the head of the Observants (the Franciscan Friars — keeping track of the various threads of Franciscanery can be a chore; I do not blame the reader for not taking notes), who was in France at the time. Given the religious wars then going on, walking on foot from eastern Spain over the Pyrenees Mountains and on into France was not as easy as it sounds. Paschal insisted on wearing his habit, however, which led him into several scrapes. At one point he was accosted by a Calvinist preacher and got into a protracted argument in which, before an audience of onlookers, he defended the Real Presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist. History does not report who won the argument, but we at the Onion Dome would have put our money on Paschal. He also got stoned by a party of Huguenots, by which we mean he had rocks thrown at him, sustaining injuries that plagued him to the end of his days.

The end of his days came on a Whitsunday, just as the bells were ringing for Mass. He was buried in Villareal, and his tomb became a pilgrimage destination, until it and his relics were destroyed in the Spanish Civil War, about which grrr. He is the patron saint, against all reason, of Italian women.

Theodore the Sanctified (d. 368) grew up in the lap of luxury in Egypt, either as a pagan or a Christian. He yearned early for the monastic life, which was just then being invented out yonder in the desert. His hankering for sanctity was so great that once, when his parents threw a big party, he hid in the basement, lest the lavish entertainment turn his head from seeking God. At fourteen, he ran away to a nearby monk shack. Soon he heard about St. Pachomius the Great, the inventor of monasticism, and thought either, “This guy is going to be famous some day; I want to be able to say I knew him when,” or, “This guy can help me find the path to righteousness; I should go learn from him.” At any rate he sought and found him. Pachomius had days before received a theogram indicating Theodore was on his way.

Theodore took to the cenobitic life like a thistle seed to air, excelling in his work, and in his love for the brethren. As is not infrequently the case for people who run away to monasteries, his mother tracked him down, but fearful of a messy confrontation, Pachomius met her in the parlor, explained the monastic life to her, and recommended the monastery just down the block where his sister was abbess. Theodore’s mom checked it out, and checked herself in.

When Pachomius desired to get away from the hustle and bustle for some serious prayer time, he put Theodore in charge of Tabennisi, his flagship monastery. Theodore is called “the Sanctified” because of his holiness of life, or because he was the first Tabennisite to be priested; or maybe those are the same thing. Although details of this period are thin, we have to think he wasn’t too awful an abbot. He looked after Pachomius in his final days, and was with him when he died. After a long and holy life, he too died, as is not unusual.

Did Brendan the Navigator (ca. 484 – ca. 577) discover America? Let me get back to you on that.

Brendan was born in Ireland, studied monkery, and became a priest. He built monastic cells in many places, founded the Clonfert monastery and monastic school, and was friends with St. Brigid, St. Columba, inter alia. He also made a missionary voyage to Wales and Scotland.

But what about America? Well, a ninth century chronicle called The Voyage of Brendan the Navigator tells of how he and 60 (or some other number of) other monks set out in a leather-clad boat to find the Garden of Eden. They sailed west from Ireland, and found an island with rich and luxuriant vegetation (if that’s not redundant). Here the experts (recall that “x” is an unknown quantity and “spurt” is a drip under pressure) start to disagree. Did this voyage take place? If so, did they really find such a place? If so, was it in the Americas? Pick your expert. At any rate, they were away for seven years, which is more than enough time to find America several times over.

Along the way they landed on an island on Easter, said Mass, and kindled a fire. When the island began to move on its own accord, Brendan realized, “that’s no island!” It was the sea monster (whale?) Jascon. Sadly the sources don’t say how they discovered the name of the monster. “Excuse me, Mr. Whale, sorry for lighting a fire on your head. What’s your name?” The mind boggles.

Brendan died while visiting his sister, St. Briga, and, knowing that his relics would be in demand, he arranged in advance to have his body conveyed in a luggage cart to Clonfert, where it remains. He is, and I do not kid, the patron saint of — wait for it — whales.

Pachomius the Great (ca. 292 – 346/348) was a soldier in the Roman army who benefitted from C.A.R.E. (Christians Aiding Roman Enlistees) packages, and vowed to investigate Christianity upon his discharge. He did, was baptized, and within three years was apprentice-hermiting under Palaemon. After seven years he struck out on his own, imitating St. Anthony of Egypt, whom he admired and lived near. One day he heard a voice telling him to build a monastery. “Monastery?” he said. “What’s that?” Not long after, an angel dressed as a schemamonk (of which there were none yet) explained the concept and gave him a rule to use on his future monks. (This means a set of principles to guide them, not a stick to hit them with.) Thus he became not only the first hermit to become an abbot, but the one of the few to do it on purpose. For this reason he is called the Father of Monasticism. He also invented the prayer rope, but due to some unknown injustice he is not called the Father of Prayer Ropism.

Pachomius himself founded nine monasteries, and within a generation after his death there were 7,000 monks and nuns living the cenobitic life — that is, as members of a monastic community with a common rule of life. His sister, if tales be true, was the first abbess. His cenobitic, rule-based idea was taken to Caesarea by St. Basil, and from there it spread, ultimately inspiring St. Benedict of Nursia, whose Rule, based in part on Pachomius’, is the backbone of western monasticism. He (Pachomius) died from some kind of illness (the sources hint at, but won’t commit to, plague), after passing on the mantle to his disciples. He is one of few post-biblical saints to be honored by both Catholics, Orthodox, and the Oriental churches (Copts, Ethiopians, Armenians).

Isidore the Farmer (ca. 1070 – 1130) was a day-laborer on a farm near Madrid. After their son died young, he and his wife chose to live in Continence, which was a little to the west of Reproductionville. (She now drops out of the story, but at least she has a name — Maria de la Cabeza.) Isidore worked hard, but he always showed up late for work on account of going to daily Mass. The other laborers complained to the farm owner, so the next day he spied on Isidore to see if this were true. It was. After church he followed Isidore into the fields, and saw beside Isidore’s furrow a second plough, drawn by ghostly white oxen, but there was no one at the helm (so to speak). He ran towards it awefully, but it vanished, leaving only Isidore and his plain, ordinary oxen (whose names are not given, but you can call them José and Jorge, if you like). The farmer, whose name was Juan (really), asked Isidore about it, but he said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

One snowy winter’s day (which seems redundant, but then they’ve been having some odd Spring weather in Minnesota, I’m told), Isidore, who had a kindly heart for all beasts and most men, saw some pitiful birds looking pitiable. He took pity on them and, opening the sack of grain he was carrying to the mill, poured out fully half of it (which is an oxymoron, for pity’s sake). All of the other laborers laughed and called him names, and vowed to never let poor Isidore join in any day-laborer games. Yet when they got to the mill, Isidore’s sack was full again, and what’s more, when it was ground, it yielded double the amount it had any right to.

Isidore died in peace, and a shrine, a cultus, a hagiography, and a body of miracles soon grew up around him. Aside from farmers, ranchers, laborers, and twenty-odd other cities, he is the patron saint of Madrid.

Isidore of Rostov (d. 1474), of either Slavic or Prussian extraction, was born near Brandenburg. It bothered him that Slavs in the area were pressured to convert to Catholicism, so he foreswore his inheritance — gold rings, parents, power yacht — and took to wandering, searching for the perfect swamp to build a hut in. He finally found it in Rostov (near Moscow). Choosing a spot just above mean higher high water, he stuck some bulrushes together and called it home. By then he had become Orthodox, and he took to wandering the streets committing random acts of foolishness, sleeping on dung heaps, decrying wickedness, and dispensing spiritual advice to those who approached him from upwind.

One day a ship was foundering at sea (somewhere), and the crew cast lots, determining that a merchant from Rostov was their Jonah (let the reader understand). They chucked him overboard and tossed him a plank, and as he sank with a prayer, he saw Isidore walking on the water. “Isidore! Save me!” he cried. “This is just between us, okay?” said the saint, hauling him onto the board. The two of them surfed on it back to the ship, and before he could say, “Thanks, Isidore,” the merchant was back on board and the saint had disappeared. Whenever they met after that, the merchant would prostrate himself, and Isidore would say, “Not a word.”

Another time Isidore heard that the archbishop was coming to the prince’s house. Wanting to bless the prince à la Matthew 10:42, he hurried to the house and asked one of the servants for a cup of water in the name of the Lord. The servant drove him away, and when the family sat down to dine, they found they were all out of wine. The prince asked the servants if anything, you know, different had happened that day, and he learned how Isidore had been refused a drink. He sent a servant to find the fool, but the fool wasn’t findable. Then, as the meal was ending, Isidore appeared. He handed the archbishop a piece of prosfora, saying, “I just got this from the Metropolitan in Kiev.” And suddenly the wine casks were full again.

When Isidore died, his body immediately gave off a sweet scent which could be smelt throughout the town. The merchant related the whole story of his rescue, and with the bishop’s blessing built a wooden church on the site of the little hut. It was later replaced with a stone church.

Boniface of Tarsus (d. 307) was (ostensibly) the servant of noblewoman Aglae. She liked to put on shows for the local citizenry, and Boniface liked to drink, although he was also generous to strangers. Mostly the two of them liked to spend time in each other’s company, if you get my drift. This went on for some years, when Aglae said, “You know, we’re not getting any younger, and we’re going to have to stand before God and answer for our, um, actions. Why don’t you sail off and bring back some saints’ relics, so we can pray and repent and all?”

Boniface did not say, “Why do we need relics to pray and repent?” and we do not know why. He did say, “What if they make relics out of me?” whereupon Aglae laughed at him, apparently not being as familiar with foreshadowing as you and I. The longer Boniface sailed the more penitent he became, and when he finally found some real, live martyrs (in Tarsus), he yelled to them, “Pray for me, for I too am a Christian!” This resulted in his being tortured in various ways, mostly involving molten things that are usually solid at room temperature. In the end he was decapitated, and his relics were gathered and returned to Aglae by her servants. She built a church to bury him in, lived fifteen to eighteen years longer in simplicity and repentance, and was buried next to him.