Feast Day: May 1st | Apostles, Martyrs | Imagery: implements of their martyrdom: cross (for Philip), club (for James).
The St. James we celebrate this week is the one described as “the younger” (or “the lesser”) in the Gospels (this, to distinguish him from the other apostle St. James, the son of Zebedee). This same man is given abundant additional description as “the just” (for his impeccable righteousness in leading the Church of Jerusalem, and his being the first martyr among the apostles there), the “brother of Jesus” (perhaps as a relative of Our Lord), “son of Alphaeus”, and “son of Mary [wife] of Clopas” (probably this is the “Cleophas” on the road to Emmaus, an additional name for Alphaeus).
St. Philip, happily, easily, is just Philip, the Apostle. He probably carried the Gospel to areas of Greece and Syria and would have been martyred there at some point after the Council of Jerusalem.
This week, I simply draw our attention to the unique fact for which we celebrate these men on the same feast day: their relics, after the early Christian centuries, were entombed together in Rome. Along with Bartholomew (in the Church of St. Bartholomew), Peter, as well as Simon and Jude (in St. Peter’s), and St. Paul (in St. Paul’s Outside the Walls), Philip and James make up the 6th and 7th apostles to find their final earthly resting place in the Eternal City (in the Church of the 12 Apostles). (Some hold that St. Matthias, or at least substantial parts of his bones, are also in Rome, in St. Mary Major).
All this leads me to a simple question: Where will you be buried? Who will you be entombed with? I don’t ask this in a macabre way, or even in preparation for your funeral or anything … but each of us will, at some point, come to our final day on this earth, and I think before then we should consider, and prepare, for that moment. Thing is, we often act as if our lives are all about holding onto life as long as we can and avoiding death, but if you think about it, I suspect you’ll find that the places of your life where you felt most alive, were probably marked by a certain kind of death.
Think of an occasion of great joy. Probably it was also a moment marked by sacrifice, by self-gift, by choosing somebody above yourself. What about a tremendous sense of freedom? Did it come after a period of dedication, effort, training, or cost? What about a uniquely profound relationship? Didn’t it require you to let down your guard, to risk yourself, to accept another, to stay with them through hard times? Life comes in the midst of death. Resurrection comes in the midst of the cross.
I am writing this in the Boston Airport, flying back the day after running the Boston Marathon. I went into the marathon wanting, above all, to stay joyful throughout the race. As the hours ticked down ahead of time, my mind was filling with doubts. My training was too easy, too flat, too inconsistent. I had a sunburn, and a smashed big toe, and heavy legs from marching all over Boston in the days before the marathon. Plus, after the gauntlet of Holy Week, I was feeling a bit feverish and under the weather. Joy was getting eroded by fear. In the hours before the gun went off I collected dozens of prayer-intentions for the race, said Mass, ate and stretched and prepped as best I could, and tried to recover my excitement … but doubt and fear of the suffering to come was winning the upper hand.
I would like to say there was some magical moment when it all switched – perhaps as the rain poured down on us waiting to start?? – but it wasn’t quite like that. As the run began, my legs grew tired all too soon, and my prayerfulness seemed ragged as well. Yet one phrase resiliently stuck in my mind: “Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross…” [Hebrews 12:1-2]. I wanted joy; I was feeling the cross, yet it was as that sacrifice went down, as I fought – body and soul – to keep running, as I endured the death that is any challenge of that sort, joy arose again, but alongside of suffering. The Lord carried me up those hills, and those hills carried me to the Lord. A little taste of death was in fact a little taste of Life.
– Fr. Dominic spent many hours trying to find a translation of the marvelous Menologio of Basil II, now 1000 years old, which has miniature illustrations and accompanying biographies of hundreds of saints including James the Just. Apparently, the internet can do no better than a scan from the Vatican Archives …