St Martin of Tours: The Soldier Who Learnt the Meaning of Peace
MASS Státuit ei Dóminus
EPISTLE Sir 44:16-27: 45:3-20
GOSPEL St Luke 11:33-36
HOMILIST Mt Revd Jerome Lloyd OSJV
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
My dear brethren,
There is something rather remarkable about the fact that, on the eleventh of November, Holy Mother Church celebrates a soldier who became a saint, whilst our nation remembers the soldiers who died in war. The coincidence was certainly not intended by those who established Armistice Day in 1918, but Providence has given us an opportunity to consider what peace really means, what it costs, and where alone it may ultimately be found.
St Martin knew something about conflict. He had been a Roman soldier before becoming a monk and eventually Bishop of Tours. And although he exchanged his military uniform for the habit and later the episcopal vestments, he never entirely ceased being a soldier. His enemies became ignorance, paganism, sin and the devil. His weapons were prayer, preaching, penance and charity. One suspects that his military training was not entirely wasted upon his episcopal ministry.
Martin was born in the fourth century, in what is now Hungary, into a military family. His father was an officer, and Martin himself entered military service whilst still young. Christianity had already attracted him, although he had not yet received baptism.
It was during this period that the event for which he is most famous occurred.
Riding towards the gates of Amiens on a bitterly cold day, Martin encountered a beggar, inadequately clothed and suffering from the weather. Having little else to give, he drew his sword, divided his military cloak and handed half to the poor man.
Consider what an extraordinary thing that was. A Roman soldier, wearing the uniform of an empire whose authority rested upon military strength, used the very weapon entrusted to him for warfare to perform an act of mercy. The sword which might have wounded another man became the instrument by which a stranger was warmed.
That night, according to his biographer, Sulpicius Severus, Martin saw Our Lord Jesus Christ wearing the portion of cloak he had given away. Christ declared to the angels that Martin, still only a catechumen, had clothed Him.
We recognise Our Lord’s words: “As long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me.”
Martin had understood something which many Christians spend their entire lives struggling to grasp. Christ had placed this poor man in his path, and his response to that man was therefore a response to Christ Himself.
There was no committee to consult, no lengthy examination of whether the beggar deserved assistance, and certainly no opportunity to photograph the occasion for the benefit of his admirers. Martin saw someone in need and acted. An uncomfortable example, perhaps, for those of us who are sometimes rather better at discussing charity than practising it.
After baptism, Martin eventually left military service and embraced the religious life. He became associated with St Hilary of Poitiers, established a monastic community at Ligugé, and was later elected Bishop of Tours, somewhat against his own inclination.
He travelled through the countryside preaching the Gospel, confronting pagan worship and establishing Christian communities. Yet the monk remained beneath the episcopal vestments. His missionary zeal was nourished by a life of prayer, and he never ceased to regard himself as a servant of Christ.
In today’s Gospel, Our Lord speaks of a lamp placed upon a candlestick, that those entering the house may see its light. But He goes further: “Take heed therefore, that the light which is in thee, be not darkness.” That ought to trouble us a little, because it is possible to know the Faith and still fail to live by it. We may defend the truths of our religion with considerable vigour, whilst finding excuses for our impatience, our pride or our unwillingness to forgive.
The question is not simply whether we possess the light, but whether we allow it to illuminate the parts of our own lives which we would rather leave undisturbed. Martin’s sanctity was visible because his faith governed what he did, including what he did when there was no audience and nothing to gain. Before he could preach Christ to a countryside, he had recognised Him in a beggar.
And this brings us to Armistice Day.
At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918, the guns fell silent on the Western Front. After more than four years of slaughter, the fighting ended. But for millions of families, suffering continued. There were fathers who would never return, sons whose voices would never again be heard, men bearing terrible wounds, and households permanently altered by bereavement.
We remember them today, and rightly so. Yet Catholic remembrance must extend beyond gratitude and the respectful observance of two minutes’ silence. November is the month particularly devoted to the faithful departed. Our remembrance of the war dead therefore finds its fullest expression in prayer for their souls.
We commend them to Almighty God’s mercy, praying for the remission of their sins, their purification where necessary, and their admission to eternal rest. Especially we remember those who died suddenly, without the consolation of the sacraments, far from home, frightened and perhaps terribly alone.
The Church does not presume to know the eternal destiny of every man who fell in battle. She offers something infinitely more valuable than presumption: the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, offered for the living and the dead.
Those soldiers were ordinary men, with ordinary virtues and failings, placed in circumstances of extraordinary severity. Some displayed remarkable courage. Others were terrified, as any sensible man might have been. Many simply endured their duty without ever receiving public recognition. Their sacrifice deserves reverence rather than sentimentality.
St Martin also reminds us that the Christian pursuit of peace does not make all military service sinful. The Church recognises the legitimate defence of the innocent, subject always to the moral law. Yet even where force is justified, victory on the battlefield cannot by itself cure the hatreds and injustices which give rise to war. Those who make peace must attend to the souls of men as well as the borders of nations. St Martin knew that conversion begins much closer to home.
Today’s Collect asks Almighty God, who sees that we cannot stand by our own strength, to protect us through St Martin’s intercession against every adversity. How appropriate for a soldier’s feast! Martin discovered that courage was not enough unless it was directed towards what was good, and that perseverance in holiness requires the grace of God.
And there is something here for each of us. Most of us will never be required to perform extraordinary acts of public heroism. Yet every day we encounter opportunities for courage: forgiving an injury, restraining an unkind word, repairing a damaged relationship, helping someone whose difficulties inconvenience our own arrangements. These things rarely appear heroic at the time. Neither, perhaps, did half a cloak.
As we offer the Holy Sacrifice today, let us pray for those who gave their lives in war, for those who returned bearing its wounds, and for peace among nations. Let us ask St Martin to obtain for us courage in adversity and generosity towards those whom Providence places in our path.
For nearly seventeen centuries, Christians have remembered Martin’s divided cloak. The names of many powerful men of his age have disappeared from memory, yet that simple act of mercy remains. And when we ourselves stand before Christ, perhaps we shall discover that some of the smallest acts of charity in our lives were, in His sight, among the greatest.
May the faithful departed rest in peace, and may St Martin teach us to recognise and serve the Lord who first loved us.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
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