St. Donatus -- iii

Just so happens that right now, somewhere ten miles away--so says my weather program--there's considerable lightning. At that distance, the thunder isn't much more than a grumble. But there's a storm close enough to flash up against the thick cloudiness. Oh, my, can we use the rain.

For the record, it's a St. Donatus morning, the world outside my window flashing its occasional grouchiness. If I understand my saints right, should that storm come any closer, should our windows rattle or the downpour even suggest the river flooding, my prayers for deliverance might find their way to the throne of God a bit more quickly if, hands folded, I were I to ask this man, St. Donatus, thunderbolts in his arm, to plead my pleading for me, with me. 

He is not Luxembourgian. He's a Roman, a good one too, a righteous soul, a comely young man, afraid of nothing and sworn to good works, a saint. The Donatus up top the page greets worshippers just inside the front doors of a very European-looking cathedral in Remsen, a small, Iowa town twenty minutes away. The statue was a gift from an actual Luxembourgian, not an emigrant, a man who wanted to find some long-lost relative who'd left the old country a century ago. When locals helped and found the grave, the real Luxembourgian sent them a Donatus.

This legendary young martyr once saved the entire garrison when the Romans were surrounded by fierce Germanic forces during the Marcommanic Wars, which began--hold your breath--in 166. You read that right. Marcus Aurelius's forces got themselves besieged by Vandals, choked to near-death without food and water.

Now, just for a moment, think Elijah and the prophets of Baal. First, the Roman heathens called on their gods for relief. Nothing. Their suffering continued. But one of the heathens mentioned Donatus, who wasn't the only Christian among the Roman troops. Why not try the Christians? Donatus gathered the other believers, prayed intensely, implored the Lord for his aid. 

First, low-and-behold, clouds lofted their way, then thunder and rain that washed life back to Roman weariness, as well as heavy bolts of lightning not unlike the ones he's holding, bolts that tore the enemy into pieces. Those who weren't slain fled madly, the prayers of the Christians, young Donatus especially, creating a miracle that flipped a sure Roman defeat into impossible triumph and turned the young Christian soldier into a national hero.

All of which made him even more attractive to Miss Alexandria--remember her? The Emperor's granddaughter begged him to let her have the hero, to get him for her at any cost. The Emperor entreated Donatus's mother to persuade her son to give himself to Alexandria. But she too was a woman of faith and thusly advised Donatus to stay with the covenant he had made with the Creator of Heaven and Earth and refuse to give in, no matter what Alexandria was offering. 

And so he did. He said no, God helping him.

Incensed, Alexandria demanded Donatus' publicly affirm his adoration for Jupiter. When he didn't and wouldn't, she told her grandfather the young and handsome war hero would not worship the true gods. With the Emperor's permission, she ordered him to her house, where he was put in chains, then executed right before her eyes.

When his mother heard the news, she took his body and laid it in a cemetery named for St. Agnes. But then, as you can guess, the young Christian soldier in the Roman army was not truly dead. His heart had stopped beating, blood no longer flowed through his arteries, his eyes were closed in death--all true. But he still had life.

The story goes that sometime in the 1850s, when the church at St. Donatus, Iowa, was looking for a name, the diocese told them there were already a sufficient number of Catholic churches named for the Blessed Virgin. Instead they might well honor some other saint. They chose a young Roman soldier who proved his mettle in love and war, who never reneged on a promise he made to his Savior. They gave their church the name "St. Donatus." 

And there he is, all the way across the state, in Remsen St. Mary's church, right inside the door, where you can't easily miss him.

Yes, there's more to the story.