He's little more than a boy here, in stained glass; but then St. Donatus never did grow old. Two decades into life, and he'd become a war hero; but he was just a kid when he was martyred for his faith by the Emperor's vengeful granddaughter.
And so the story, with his bones, might have been put to rest were it not for a Jesuit named Balthazar Balloni, who discovered the them in the catacombs of St. Agnes, beneath the stone that stated clearly, "St. Donatus, Martyr." Father Balloni asked and was granted permission to take the few relics he found--a skull, smaller bones, a rusted sword, three aged chain links--to his monastery, where he, and I suppose others, preserved and venerated them.
A brand new church in Muenstereifel was in need of relics, so the powers-that-be determined, 1500 years after Donatus's death, that the young soldier's remains be given their own place, in this new church. The Jesuits directed the transfer and sent yet another priest, Father Heerde to meet Fr. Hannes, who undertaken the entire transfer as a ceremonial processional.
When Father Hannes left Rome, on his celebratory way to Muenstereifel, he determined to overnight in a small town two hours or so away. Clearly all around, threatening skies were about to empty. Fr. Hannes determined to place the relics in a church, the church of St. Martin, where he met the envoy, Fr. Heerde.
So far, so good. But the next morning, the storm descended in great fury during mass celebrated by Fr. Heerde.
Honestly, what of this is true and what of it is legend of this entirely sainted tale can never be satisfactorily determined. That St. Donatus's story builds upon itself throughout the world and the centuries is as much a given as it proof of its acceptance by the faithful.
The storm, little more than a husky threat the night before, descended with what parishioners who'd come to church that morning might have considered nothing sheer malice, and just at the moment of final blessing, the moment when Fr. Heerde raised his hands over the congregation, lightning struck--not just the church, but the immense altar itself. Father Heerde was lit with an unholy flame, his vestments, all his clothing on fire.
Remember--all of this is 1649. Afar off in the New World, factions are forming to begin to fight what will become the French and Indian War. In England, Charles I, after a tumultuous reign, lost his head for treason. In Maryland, "An Act Concerning Religion" was adopted to deal with religious freedom in the new world, a significant and almost forgotten prelude to the First Amendment.
When lightning struck, Fr. Heerde became his own votive candle. In his terrifying suffering, he cried out, "Saint Donatus, pray for me."
If you wonder how those statues in Iowa village called St. Donatus, Iowa, which is home to St. Donatus Church, a place where you'll find him, up front at a place of spiritual significance, as well as a richly decorated statue of a young Roman soldier in a bed-and-breakfast across the street, consider an unforgettable event at the Church of St. Martin, in a small German town named Euskirchen, where immediately--immediately!--after invoking the help of a deceased young Roman whose dusty bones sat right beside him, a Jesuit named Father Heerde found himself miraculously saved from what everyone present recognized as a horrific, fiery death. Not only were his clothes untouched, his burns were healed in the twinkling of a young soldier's eye.
By the time those relics were safely transported to the church at Muenstereifel, they were--as you can imagine--already greatly celebrated; and it's there, at a church at Muenstereifel, Germany, where they abide yet today, a place named, quite appropriately, St. Donatus Church.
And yes, he's there too.
No comments:
Post a Comment