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The ass who became a saint January 13, 2011

Posted by Beachcombing in Modern, Uncategorized.
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Yesterday Beachcombing visited the doghead legend of St Christopher and today, in sympathy for that early canine holyman he thought that he would recount the remarkable canonization of an ass. The version that Beachcoming is about to give appears in a rather obscure but very worthwhile book: The Life and Adventures of Nathaniel Pearce (1831) describing the doings of a ruffian Brit in nineteenth-century Abyssinia. This book has many interesting passages, some of which Beachcombing hopes to visit on another occasion. Unfortunately the story that Beachcombing is about to recount is somewhat disconnected from the narrative and is without any temporal indicators. More’s the shame!

An old negade, or Muslim trader, of Gondar, who had made several journeys from Gondar to Massowa, is passing through Hamazen when his beloved ass, Berke took ill and died. The negade decided to do right by his loyal servant and bury him:

Poor Berke!… he has made nine journeys with me, and I am determined that the hyenas shall not eat him. So brothers help me to make a pit for him’

 His men dug a pit and uncovered, quite by accident, a spring of water where they buried Berke ‘and the old man proceeded on his journey’.

Some time afterward the shepherds of the country observed this pile of stones and a moderate spring of water, which they were certain was not there many days before; they made this known to their respective villages, and [Christian] priests visited the spot, to pass their opinion upon it. It was immediately announced that some saint had died in heaven, and had been brought down by the angels and buried there. Accordingly, the whole of the neighbouring country assembled, and built a wall round this holy water, and the priests named it Kedaner-merrit. The circumstance soon became public throughout the whole country, and the lame and the blind, and those afflicted with disease, frequented it to wash and pray, and it acquired a great name; superstitious prejudice leading people to believe that numbers had been cured by this water, and it is held in veneration until this day.

Beachcombing has been unable to find Kedaner-merrit: perhaps one of his readers will have better luck? drbeachcombing AT yahoo DOT com 

In any case, back to the inevitable and painful denoument

About six years after the death of poor Berke, the old negade happened to pass that road again, and, being curious to see the grave of his ass, he walked towards the spot, where he beheld a church, and a wall round, and a number of priests, and people afflicted with diseases. The old man started for some time, quite amazed, and at last said to a priest, ‘What, in the name of God, has caused the people to build a church here in this wild place?’ The priest, in reply, told the old man that it was the grave of a saint, who had sent forth water from the earth, that cured all sorts of people who prayed to him on account of their diseases. The old man called out, in great surprise, ‘A saint’s indeed! I say it is no saint’s grave, but the grave of my old ass Berke!’

The old man was naturally beaten for this blasphemy and then dragged in front of the regional governor at which point it was decided to dig up the ‘saint’ to test his bones.

‘The old man remembered the right place, and several of the attendants went to work, and soon turned up the bones, when the old negade cried out: ‘There is poor Berke’s skull and jaws! There are my poor old servant’s legs, that never failed me up and down the mountain Taranta!’ and the old man wept as if they had been part of the remains of his mother. The priests though at first confused after consulting, said, it was not unusual for saints and angels to appear in the form of horses, and that they could prove the fact.

Beachcombing was surprised to find the priests using the Book of Revelations to demonstrate that saints and angels appeared as horses (!?!) – the four horsemen? The negade, meanwhile, got off – he was lucky – with ‘a present of a little pepper, cloves, a bottle, or what not from the sea-coast’ to the governor and the priests.

Genuine story or an Islamic tall tale to poke fun at over-serious Christian Ethiopians? Beachcombing would put his money on the second, but he wishes, nevertheless, that he could have shared this with Hippolyte Delehaye.

The dog-headed saint January 12, 2011

Posted by Beachcombing in Ancient, Medieval, Uncategorized.
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St Christopher is in many ways a typical early eastern saint.

He was for many years a prisoner of war: check.

He was a Roman soldier when he turned to Christ: check.

His staff miraculously took to life and began to bloom: check.

An angel – Raphael no less – gave him the gift of speaking Greek: check.

He was tortured for his faith and yet refused to be swayed: check.

He was martyred under the Emperor Decius: check.

He had a dog’s head…

Now don’t let that last point slip passed you as many of Beachcombing’s predecessors have done. Today the legend of St Christopher helping Christ cross the river has obscured the important canine detail: though the river fording is almost certainly a late addition. In the early Middle Ages the most famous thing about St Christopher was his dog’s head. Indeed, good St Chris is often portrayed thus in medieval manuscript and sculpture.

Beachcombing has looked before at the remarkable tradition of dogheads in antiquity, the idea that tribes of dogheaded men and women lived in distant lands. But why was Christopher particularly associated with these strange creatures?

One possible explanation is that Christopher was the Egyptian god Anubis in disguise. This explanationm suffers from a fatal flaw, however: the two have absolutely nothing in common bar their dog head and some associations – vague in the case of Christopher – with Egypt.

The answer is, instead, almost certainly to be found in an early misunderstanding of some of the grains of fact in the Christopher legend. Our most reliable early Life is full of suspect miraculous details, but it gives us one surprisingly circumstantial fact. It appears that Christopher served the Empire in the Cohors III Valeria Marmaritarum. If the name of this unit is to be taken at face value then these soldiers were Marmaritae a tribal people dwelling to the south-west of Egypt, outside the Imperial borders.

Of course, being outside the control of the Empire is hardly enough to justify being called a doghead. But what is interesting is that the first surviving description of this corner of the world, in Herodotus no less, tells us that it was here that the dogheads lived. Early on in the tradition of St Christopher an author perhaps innocently made the connection that was then afterwards taken seriously by hagiological duffers.

This interesting correspondence suggests that there may be some broader truths in Christopher’s early Life after all. He was perhaps captured by the Romans in one of their frontier wars: there is certainly the claim that he was at first a prisoner. He learnt Greek late in life whether or not an angel intervened: this would correspond perfectly with what we know of the non-Greek speaking Marmaritae. He was then presumably sucked into the special unit of Marmaritae created by the Empire to defend the borders: a typical late Imperial ploy. Other parts of the legend, meanwhile, do not stand up: for example Christopher was killed by Decius in his fourth year, while Decius only reigned for two years… But it looks as if by peeling off the dog mask we have, nevertheless, the outline of a remarkable biography: Barbarian warrior, Roman prisoner, Roman soldier, Christian martyr, doghead…

Beachcombing is always on the look out for doghead stories – but the who isn’t?: drbeachcombing AT yahoo DOT com

***

31 Jan 2011: Ostrich writes in with a provocative thought: ‘Purely idle speculation, and I wasn’t even going to mention it until you wrote ‘Or are we perhaps dealing with an outcast, common in legends across Euro-Asia, the young man who goes out into the wilderness and ‘wolfs’ around stealing and destroying.’  St. Christopher’s name before his conversion is traditionally given as Reprobus [Outcast].  Perhaps the pictures of Christopher with a dog’s head are really an artistic reference to ‘wearing the wolf’s head’? The name is usually written off as a hagiographical convention but this makes you think… Thanks Ostrich!

27 Feb 2011: Beachcombing is late to put this excellent post of JM up: ‘I… was especially excited by your recent post about St. Christopher. One of the most unusual parallels to that particular iconography was the depiction of Aeneas and his family as dogs in Roman wall painting. I can’t find an image of the original, but the link below is to a reproduction from the Museo della Civilità Romana in Rome (one of the most bizarre museums I’ve ever visited—a museum founded by Mussolini filled only with plaster casts and models of the great works of Roman art and archaeology, an Imperial greatest hits album). The thing that makes the comparison noteworthy is that both Aeneas and Christopher are known for heroically carrying children (Aeneas carrying Ascanius from burning Troy, and Christopher carrying a child who turned out to be Jesus across a river). ‘Christopher’ does come from the Greek for ‘Christ bearer’, after all. There’s no evidence saying that this is anything more than a coincidence, but I find it fascinating.’ Thanks JM!Image (And thanks too to Bill Jennings whose photo this is)

Saint Patrick’s sinning past December 17, 2010

Posted by Beachcombing in Ancient, Uncategorized.
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Most saints begin life as, well, saints. They help their parents with chores; they annoy more normal brothers and sisters; and they make discreet enquiries into career prospects for monks and nuns. However, there are some – Beachcombing likes to think of them as ‘the rogues’ – who have more colourful pasts. Typically these men or women sow wild seeds in their youth before a dramatic conversion in middle age. They add colour and spirit to the monotony of sanctity. And it is Ireland’s special privilege to count their own patron, St Patrick, among these dilettantes.

Usually it is left to later biographers to cover up the indiscreet youth of ‘the rogues’. But this was never possible with Patrick because he wrote, back in the fifth century, an autobiography, the Confessio, where he himself decried his past sins. The Confessio is short and is more of an apology than a conventional narrative of his life – there is, for example, no straightforward chronology. However, from his words we do gather some important facts about his misspent early years that are perhaps surprising for those, like Beachcombing, who associate Patrick with dying snakes and clover patches.

One of the big shocks is Patrick’s nationality. Ask anyone where Patrick was from and nine out of ten will answer ‘Ireland, of course’. In fact, Patrick grew up in a wealthy family in Roman or post Roman Britain. Patrick’s family was Christian – his grandfather had been a priest. But Patrick insists that their faith was superficial and as a teenager, in the saint’s words: ‘[I] did not know the true God’.

Typically rogue saints have a kind of mid-life crisis after which they begin to live holy lives. However, Patrick is unusual in this respect, because he set out on his road to Damascus at a very young age.

Beachcombing says ‘set out’. In fact, Patrick was given a push…

In his mid teens (‘almost sixteen’), Patrick was visiting ‘a little villa’ that his family owned – frustratingly no one knows where in Britain Patrick lived – when it was suddenly attacked by Scotti. The Scotti were Irish pirates who, in the late fourth and early fifth century, regularly attacked Britain in search of slaves and Patrick ‘with so many thousands of others’ was dragged away into captivity in Ireland. Once there he was sold to an Irish warlord – unreliable tradition tells us in Donegal – and Patrick was sent out to look after his master’s sheep in the wilds. It was a dramatic change for a teenager from a rich Romano-British family. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, hardship worked changes, the now penitent Patrick turning towards God.

‘…after I reached Ireland I pastured the flocks every day and I used to pray many times a day; more and more did my love of God and my fear of Him increase, and my faith grew and my spirit was stirred, and as a result I would say up to a hundred prayers in one day, and almost as many at night; I would even stay in the forests and on the mountains and would wake to pray before dawn in all weathers, snow, frost and rain; and I felt no harm and there was no listlessness in me – as I now realise, it was because the Spirit was fervent within me.’

Of his boyhood we know little else. But Patrick does tell us that, in his late teens or early twenties, he managed to escape from his master and found his way, after various adventures, back to his family in Britain. However, Patrick’s experience in the Irish hills had changed him. And, like many Britons who came after and lived for a time there, he could not forget Ireland. Following a vision – Patrick would probably have been diagnosed with schizophrenia in the twenty-first century – he announced to his horrified family that he wanted to return to convert the very people who had enslaved him. It was a decision that defined Patrick and that changed history.

Patrick also alludes in his writing to a great sin that the saint committed in his youth before going to Ireland, that he revealed to a confessor and that later, embarrassingly, became public knowledge. What this sin was no one today knows, though Beachcombing has spent most of the afternoon with flu in bed trying to guess.

‘They [Patrick’s elders or congregation] brought up against me after thirty years an occurrence I had confessed before becoming a deacon. On account of the anxiety in my sorrowful mind, I laid before my close friend what I had perpetrated on a day – nay, rather in one hour – in my boyhood because I was not yet proof against sin. God knows – I do not – whether I was fifteen years old at the time, and I did not then believe in the living God, nor had I believed, since my infancy; but I remained in death and unbelief until I was severely rebuked, and in truth I was humbled every day by hunger and nakedness.

So the sin has to be (i) committable by a fifteen year old, (ii) doable ‘in an hour’ and (iii) serious enough that Patrick’s fellow Christians were scandalised thirty odd years later. Patrick, in fact, almost lost his job as bishop over this buried mistake.

Any suggestions: drbeachcombing AT yahoo DOT com.

Beachcombing would put his money on some form of sexual activity, deviant by late antique standards (that covers pretty much the whole gamut).

He finds it interesting that Patrick does not mention said sin. Beachcombing bets a macho undercurrent in Patrick would have recalled a murder or wounding and, in any case, the chances are that Patrick would not have referred to these in terms of ‘an hour’.

Irish tradition interestingly has obliterated all memory of the peccatum.

31 Jan 2010: Richard R. writes into suggest a homosexual act as Patrick’s forgotten sin. This is surely the obvious choice. The Roman Empire was wide open to a whole range of sexual activities that began to be frozen out in the late Empire with the coming of Christianity and other ‘mystery’ religions, enemies all of the body. Perhaps Patrick found himself in a peripheral province where the memo from central office had not got through? Or perhaps his physical urges simply overpowered him? Lying in bed last night Beachcombing was also remembering that there is more to sin than sex and violence. One of the crimes listed by early Western penitentials, for example, was to guide barbarian raiders. Did Patrick show a party of Scotti to a nearby settlement?! Thanks Richard!

The Buddha converts to Catholicism August 31, 2010

Posted by Beachcombing in Ancient, Medieval, Uncategorized.
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ImageDream last night in which Beachcombing was forced to sit and write an exam by his (terrifying) secondary school science teacher. The subject? Krishna naturally.

Taking this as an omen of sorts Beachcombing has determined that today he will delve into Eastern religion and tell the scandalous story of the Christian saint Josaphat and his tutor St. Balaam.

As the martyrologies inform us for the 27 November:

The holy Saints Barlaam and Josaphat, of India, on the borders of Persia, whose wonderful acts St. John of Damascus has described.

Now Josaphat’s story is quickly told. An Indian king, Abenner, was informed by his astrologers that this son, Josaphat would become a Christian. Abenner, therefore, brought up his son in a prison to protect him from such an eventuality. But despite all the Indian king’s best intentions Josaphat met a holy-man, Barlaam, who led him to the cross.  Josaphat governed as king in his father’s place and then passed into the desert living as a hermit together with Barlaam.

Where is the scandal in this the good reader might ask? Well, the problem is that Josaphat’s biography sounds suspiciously like the legend of the Buddha. And – God help Beachcombing if his darling ultra-Catholic Mrs B should find out – the name Josaphat has dangerous antecedents. It can be traced back through Georgian or/and Arabic via Persian to the Sanskrit Bodhisattva ‘wisdom being’, a moniker for the Buddha.

Beachcombing can hear the sharp intake of breaths over at the Vatican as he writes.

The legend seems to have arrived in Europe from the east in the early Middle Ages. The Buddha’s search for enlightenment evidently changed to the search for God the Father in that vast hinterland of medieval Christendom that stretched from Lebanon to southern India and the Thomas Christians there.

Whoever made the change had all the right instincts because the story, with its exotic frisson, became immensely popular in the west. It pops up in that medieval classic the Golden Legend. One of the endless Hakon kings of Norway commissioned a copy into Old Icelandic. Shakespeare included an element from it – the three caskets – in the Merchant of Venice. It was translated into Tagalog in the Philippines. To this day a church in Palermo is dedicated to the Buddha, San Giosafat – though don’t bring your dharma wheels. The Ukrainian Catholic martyr, Josaphat Joseph Kotsylovsky, murdered in 1947 by the Soviets, unknowingly celebrated the meditating one. And this list could certainly be multiplied many times over…

Any other embarrassing saints would be of the greatest interest to Beachcombing: drbeachcombing AT  yahoo DOT  com

Fasting against God in medieval Ireland August 23, 2010

Posted by Beachcombing in Medieval, Uncategorized.
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ImageBeachcombing begins today with a reference to the medieval Irish belief – winningly surviving in parts of the Irish countryside to this day – that St Patrick not God would judge the Irish on the day of judgement. This makes for pretty awful theology, not least because St Patrick was expected to overlook some of the pecadillos of the Irish. But, as the Irish scholar Daniel Binchy noted a generation ago (1983), the legend gives a fascinating glimpse into early Gaelic beliefs.

The story recorded in the Tripartite Life of St Patrick claims that the saint went to Croagh Patrick in County Mayo. There he climbed to the top, sat down and told a passing angel that he would not leave the mountain ‘till I am dead or until all my requests are granted’.

So Patrick stayed on the Croagh with much badness of mind, without drink and without food from Shrove Saturday to Easter Saturday.

The reference to Patrick having ‘badness of mind’ (the Irish idiom seems worth keeping) and the saint’s fasting are key to understanding the bargaining process now underway.

Fasting  is typically a religious act; an individual deprives themselves of food to concentrate the mind better on God. However, in ancient Ireland, fasting was not only religious. It also had another purpose. The ancient Irish law books, of which several survive, explain that a person could fast against a man who had injured him in some way and who was of a higher social rank.

The wronged individual went to the wrong-doers house and sat outside from dawn to dusk refusing to eat. By so doing he brought bad luck or ‘pollution’ to his opponent. The one fasted against then had two options. He could either admit his wrong and redress it – the fasting would stop and social harmony would be restored. Or he could counter fast to ward off the curse.

It is an extraordinary custom. Not least because it can be paralleled in ancient, medieval and, indeed, modern India and probably dates back to early Indo-European beliefs, beliefs that have survived at the two ends of the Indo-European continuum.

St Patrick was refusing to eat or drink ‘with badness of mind’ on Croaghpatrick. He was fasting against someone who was higher than him in the order of things – God, sitting outside God’s house (heaven). And he was fasting because he felt that he had been wronged – he had not had his wishes granted.

At this point Beachcombing has a question. Where would he have to sit to fast against Google?

Now at the end of these forty days and forty nights the mountain swarmed with black birds so that you could not tell sky apart from earth. Patrick sang ‘malicious’ psalms at them. But the birds did not leave him. After he got angrier and he struck his bell so that all the Irish heard its chime… Then Patrick wept until his face and his tunic were soaked through… At last the angel came and cleaned his tunic and brought white birds around the Croagh and they sang sweet tunes to him.

In this passage Patrick is being tested. The black birds are an evil force that he drives away only with difficulty: the white birds, the mercy of God, a reward after he has resisted torment. God, we learn, has, faced with His servant’s fasting, given way and the angel offers Patrick concessions. The malicious psalms Beachcombing will return to another day.

‘You’ said the angel ‘may bring as many souls out of Hell as will fill the distance your eyes reach over the sea.’ ‘That is not enough for me’ said Patrick ‘for my eyes do not reach far over the sea.

So the angel ups the offer. He promises that Patrick may rescue as many souls as will fit into the space that Patrick can see not just over the sea but over the land as well. However, Patrick is still not happy.

‘Isn’t there anything else that He will give me beside that?’ ‘There is’ said the angel’ He will give you seven people to take out of Hell every Saturday until Doomsday. ‘No’ said Patrick ‘if He does me this favour then make it twelve.’ ‘Very well, you will have them’ said the angel, ‘but now leave this mountain’. ‘I will not go’ said Patrick… ‘isn’t there anything else that will be given to me?’

The bargaining continues. Patrick gains several more concessions. God, through the angel, guarantees that the English will never invade Ireland – (Patrick should have tried asking Bobby Sands about this), that those who sing Patrick’s hymn will be saved from torture, and, the promise that has already been mentioned; namely that when the end of the world comes Patrick, not God, will judge the Irish. 

The last is especially difficult and God hesitates, but after ‘all creatures visible and invisible, including the twelve apostles, begged Him’ it too is granted.

At this point Patrick sensibly leaves the mountain top.

Any other fasting against stories from non-Irish sources? drbeachcombing AT yahoo DOT com

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