Hail! Hail! Hail! Saint Michael!

The words which head this post admittedly are far more effective in Italian, preferably with the accents of a rough, peasant dialect. (Before it seems that I am being disparaging, please note that I speak Italian with a peasant accent, and, despite my many years of schooling, and that my English is perfect except when I flaw it deliberately, my accent in speaking English is worse still. Jesus of Nazareth was a Meditteranean peasant, whose accent held the slur of Galilee, so the first sentence of this paragraph is written with warmth.) I believe that, especially as we grow older, we can see just how many facets there are to our selves. I always was very intellectual, somewhat drawn to contemplation - and one for very formal, magnificent liturgy. But, more each year, I see value in folk religion and practise.

I always wished I had my mother's simple, trusting faith, and her ability to turn to our heavenly friends (sometimes quite brusquely - and you should have heard her shout at God at my dad's funeral) as a large, sympathetic, extended family. Of course, Italian peasants love being 'well connected.' They generally favour petitions to those from the same town as themselves. But Saint Michael, dweller in only heavenly courts (and quite a one for winning battles...), was a general favourite.

When my parents were young, their parish church (and many others) had quite a bit of feasting in honour of Michael. One highlight was that a large rope was erected, in the manner of a clothesline, between two of the buildings. One of the boys from the parish would be dressed in full angelic regalia - white robes, wings, and a long wig in that blonde shade which southern Italians so cherish for its rarity. He would be sent 'flying' across this clothesline-cum-path for angelic messenger, as the crowds below shouted, "Hail! Hail! Hail, Saint Michael!"

Memories of this, predictably for two who were so emotionally different and complemented each other so well, were quite different for (my parents) Chip and Sam. Chip, whose devotional ways lent towards the Infant of Prague, Saint Anthony's oil, and water from the sea on the feast of the Assumption (I've never discovered why pouring it over one's feet was good luck), used to get misty eyed, speaking of how beautiful the Saint Michael celebration was. Sam, pragmatic to the core (superb in his vocation, but one who undoubtedly held rosaries in his hand only when the undertaker placed them there), used to scoff. In his version, which I somehow am more inclined to believe, it looked rather stupid, and, most of the time, the 'angel' got stuck in mid air en route.

It is only in recent years that I can see how very healthy it is for me to reclaim my Mediterranean, peasant side to a greater extent. I have been privileged to study the works of many great theologians - people of whom my parents had never heard, and who would of been of little interest if they had. (Anthony who came to Chip's aid would not have been recognised as one of the greatest theologians of the Franciscan Order, though she would have loved the tale of his preaching to the fish.) Many of the theologians I love best are patristic or (surprise!) mediaeval, though I devour the later works as well. Yet, somewhere in history, things did get twisted. There was too much emphasis on 'the fall,' the crucifixion as focus, our weakness, dangers of falling into hell or, at the very least, having to take temporal punishments.

My family, and their friends, would have thought of none of those things. They had a strong moral code, indeed (even if it differed in some respects from that of nations farther north), and a very strong sense of responsibility. Yet I never once recall any of them seeing God as anything other than Father. Yes, one's dad may be disappointed in one, or be irritated or angry, or even give one a smack here and there - but it is unthinkable he would send his child to hell. Nor would he require his firstborn to be sacrificed in 'atonement.'

There was no guilt (even if a bit of it might have been appropriate for some of the crowd), no fear of God in any way, no fear, as well, of the powers of darkness. In fact, I doubt that anyone watching the angel fly above ever thought of 'be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil.' (Come to think of it, in Italian folk tales, when the devil appears he is either an outsmarted, comic figure, or someone useful when God needs to punish - well, educate - someone such as the girl who opened her door and made a lovely dinner for the handsome young man when she'd turned away the old man in need. They respectively, of course, were the devil and God in disguise.)

Were I 'in character,' I suppose that, tonight, I could have written of theophany, or of revelation, or of how the powers of good shall triumph, or even of divine glory. Yet I think I'll go to sleep with a smile now, picturing a blonde awkwardly flying across a clothesline as the crowd (who, in many cases, will not actually be in the church, save to light candles, until six men carry them out) shouts the praises of holy Michael.

I'll close with a prayer Saint Francis loved - and which I think I'll say a bit more often: "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" When the peasant, renaissance lady, and scholar in me all are very close friends, I think it will be a very happy outcome.