G
GangGreen
Guest
St. Peter for me.
- Status
C
celestialhost
Guest
Saints Perpetua and Felicity. Their feast is on my birthday!
But I pray to St. Philomena a lot though.
But I pray to St. Philomena a lot though.
G
garyo49
Guest
St Stephan. The bible says he was full of grace and fortitude. I like that. I was raised in a different tradition and I remember hearing a lot about him. When I thought of a martyr, I thought of him.
J
johnherro
Guest
My favorite martyred saint happens to be the saint for today (August 14): St. Maximilian Kolbe. He had one thing that I have; an amateur radio license! To me that makes him seem SO contemporary, even though he died shortly before I was born.
M
msammiem
Guest
St. Andrew for me.
M
mexcatholic
Guest
Same here
C
carmen_sophia
Guest
Saint Eulalia is my baptismal saint and Saint Isaac Jogues & his companions are my confirmation saints. Saint Cecilia is my name patron saint. Saint John, an English martyr, was my name patron saint when I entered the Benedictines. Is it any wonder I feel so drawn to the martyrs of the Church when my entire life as a Catholic convert has been under their influence?
N
Naskor
Guest
St. Maria Goretti.
I love her story. She died protecting her virginity and forgave her attacker. Her attacker was so moved by this he converted and become a monk!
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Goretti
I love her story. She died protecting her virginity and forgave her attacker. Her attacker was so moved by this he converted and become a monk!
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Goretti
T
TK421
Guest
I found St Lawrence’s story very touching from the early Church. When told by the Romans to hand over the wealth of his church because they supposedly had a large amount of wealth, he told them that they were indeed a wealthy people. On the next meeting, he presented to them the poor and said that this was their treasure. He was slowly grilled alive afterwards.
A
amsjj
Guest
The last words of St. John Houghton – one of the first English martyrs – have always lingered for me. “Sweet Jesu, what wilt Thou do with my heart?”
This was posted on the “Catholicism Pure & Simple” blog:
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St. John Houghton and the Carthusian Martyrs.
Posted on May 9, 2011 by Gertrude
The following is part of a homily delivered two years ago by Father Sean Finnegan, and I think it deserves reprinting, reminding us of the sacrifices made by our forefathers in defence of our Faith.
The story of the Carthusian martyrs is not as well known as it should be. No doubt this is because, in the great tale of the early English Reformation, the figures of Sts John Fisher and Thomas More tower over all others, for many and obvious good reasons. And yet nobody becomes a martyr without some extraordinary qualities—tenacity, faith, holiness—that make it possible to face all the consequences of simply doing the right thing when it is required. And yet how difficult that simple thing can be, even in small matters.
The monks of the London Charterhouse (who provided most of today’s saints) were renowned for their holiness of life in the early sixteenth century. It had become fashionable to grumble about monks at that time, but nobody grumbled about them. Thomas More, who could be rather scathing about monks who were no holier than they should be, actually lived with the London Carthusians for several years, and contemplated joining them. Carthusian monks, following a somewhat different and stricter form of the Benedictine life, have as their proud boast that they have never needed reform. Theirs is, and always has been, a very silent and recollected life: The London community in the sixteenth century was led by Prior John Houghton, a relatively young man, already with a reputation for sanctity. You will understand, then, why Henry VIII was particularly keen to get him and his community on side. Being widely respected, they would lend authority to the King’s claims to the headship of the Church in England.
John Houghton was somebody who had wrestled with his vocation. At first, he had studied civil law at Cambridge, and his parents had planned a good marriage for him to go with his almost certain good career prospects; however he became increasingly aware of the call to holiness and went to live with a secular priest, studying with him for ordination. For four years he lived as a secular priest until he finally tried his vocation with the Charterhouse, and in short order ended up novice, then professed, sacristan, prior of Beauvale Charterhouse in Nottinghamshire, and finally Prior of London, where, under his guidance, the whole community achieved a reputation for sanctity and wisdom.
When presented with the King’s demands that the London Carthusians recognize his claim to the headship of the Church in England, the community took three days to pray about it, on the last of which they celebrated a Mass of the Holy Spirit. During Mass, at the elevation, the whole community actually had an experience together that they unanimously identified as the Holy Spirit breathing in the chapel, and which gave them courage for what was to come—courage they would sorely need.
John Houghton, together with two other priors from the North, went to speak to Thomas Cromwell, the King’s strong arm man in religious matters. We can be sure that with his lawyer’s training, St John tried everything to make it possible to take the oath of allegiance to the King, without, however, compromising principle. Nothing availed, however, and all three were arrested, the charge being that —and I quote — ‘John Houghton says that he cannot take the King, our Sovereign Lord to be Supreme Head of the Church of England afore the apostles of Christ’s Church’, which rather makes it sound as if the apostles had also usurped what was the King’s rightful position.
[continued in next post]
This was posted on the “Catholicism Pure & Simple” blog:
+++
St. John Houghton and the Carthusian Martyrs.
Posted on May 9, 2011 by Gertrude
The following is part of a homily delivered two years ago by Father Sean Finnegan, and I think it deserves reprinting, reminding us of the sacrifices made by our forefathers in defence of our Faith.
The story of the Carthusian martyrs is not as well known as it should be. No doubt this is because, in the great tale of the early English Reformation, the figures of Sts John Fisher and Thomas More tower over all others, for many and obvious good reasons. And yet nobody becomes a martyr without some extraordinary qualities—tenacity, faith, holiness—that make it possible to face all the consequences of simply doing the right thing when it is required. And yet how difficult that simple thing can be, even in small matters.
The monks of the London Charterhouse (who provided most of today’s saints) were renowned for their holiness of life in the early sixteenth century. It had become fashionable to grumble about monks at that time, but nobody grumbled about them. Thomas More, who could be rather scathing about monks who were no holier than they should be, actually lived with the London Carthusians for several years, and contemplated joining them. Carthusian monks, following a somewhat different and stricter form of the Benedictine life, have as their proud boast that they have never needed reform. Theirs is, and always has been, a very silent and recollected life: The London community in the sixteenth century was led by Prior John Houghton, a relatively young man, already with a reputation for sanctity. You will understand, then, why Henry VIII was particularly keen to get him and his community on side. Being widely respected, they would lend authority to the King’s claims to the headship of the Church in England.
John Houghton was somebody who had wrestled with his vocation. At first, he had studied civil law at Cambridge, and his parents had planned a good marriage for him to go with his almost certain good career prospects; however he became increasingly aware of the call to holiness and went to live with a secular priest, studying with him for ordination. For four years he lived as a secular priest until he finally tried his vocation with the Charterhouse, and in short order ended up novice, then professed, sacristan, prior of Beauvale Charterhouse in Nottinghamshire, and finally Prior of London, where, under his guidance, the whole community achieved a reputation for sanctity and wisdom.
When presented with the King’s demands that the London Carthusians recognize his claim to the headship of the Church in England, the community took three days to pray about it, on the last of which they celebrated a Mass of the Holy Spirit. During Mass, at the elevation, the whole community actually had an experience together that they unanimously identified as the Holy Spirit breathing in the chapel, and which gave them courage for what was to come—courage they would sorely need.
John Houghton, together with two other priors from the North, went to speak to Thomas Cromwell, the King’s strong arm man in religious matters. We can be sure that with his lawyer’s training, St John tried everything to make it possible to take the oath of allegiance to the King, without, however, compromising principle. Nothing availed, however, and all three were arrested, the charge being that —and I quote — ‘John Houghton says that he cannot take the King, our Sovereign Lord to be Supreme Head of the Church of England afore the apostles of Christ’s Church’, which rather makes it sound as if the apostles had also usurped what was the King’s rightful position.
[continued in next post]
A
amsjj
Guest
[continued]
In any event, he was condemned, of course—Cromwell had had to threaten the jury with treason charges themselves in order to achieve it, and the three priors together with a Bridgettine priest and a secular priest were all dragged to execution together. St Thomas More, by now in the Tower of London, watched them from the window of his cell setting off, and commented to his daughter who was visiting that they looked just like bridegrooms going to their wedding, a comparison that St John Fisher was also to use on the morning of his own death.
King Henry was insistent that the priests should be executed in their religious habits, to teach other religious a lesson, one presumes. This meant that after St John was cut down from the gallows, still alive, to be butchered, the thick hairshirt he wore under his heavy habit had to be cut through by the executioner, who had to stab down hard with the knife. And then, finally, as the executioner drew out St John’s still beating heart before his face, he spoke his last words: ‘Good Jesu’ he said, ‘what will you do with my heart?’
The story of St John Houghton is one that I have been very familiar with for the last twelve years or so, because I was once the Catholic chaplain at Charterhouse School near Godalming, which had been founded in the buildings of what had been the London Charterhouse. John Houghton’s last words have long puzzled me: they were very suitable for young people—I used them a great deal to get the boys to think about what they were going to do with their lives ‘Good Jesu, what will do you with my heart?’ but why would St John use them at that very moment. Some devil sometimes whispered in my ear that in his pain and confusion he was blaspheming at the executioner, feeling his hands around his heart, but I know that cannot be the case. St John knew all along what to expect. For years I have puzzled about it—such a strange thing to say—and only last night I think the answer came to me.
I think his words were not accidental but very deliberately chosen, and they were words that he had used in his life before, perhaps often. We have seen how he was uncertain what his state in life would be and, doubtless, a prayer such as ‘Good Jesu, what will you do with my heart?’ must often have been on his lips. It was, then, a prayer from his youth, when puzzled as to just what God wanted of him. And when the end had come, when his heart was about to be torn from his body, then he acknowledged his destiny: martyrdom, and he knew very literally what Jesu was to do with his heart. And that heart he willingly gave in honour of that Sacred Heart that loved mankind so much.
The death of those priests did not have the effect Henry desired; in fact it shocked people deeply, so the other Carthusians were not executed publicly. Instead they were simply chained up in a cell and were left quietly to starve.
catholicismpure.wordpress.com/2011/05/09/st-john-houghton-and-the-carthusian-martyrs/
++++
Also, Aslan10, if you haven’t yet, you might want to read Froude’s “History of the Contest between Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Henry II, King of England, consisting chiefly of translations of contemporary letters, extracted from the printed edition of the collection in the Vatican and from other sources”. Archive.org has it available:
archive.org/details/remainsoflaterev22frouuoft
I was struck by St. Thomas of Canterbury’s example of greatness, both in life and after. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere: His death hit like a shockwave and the number of miracles were immense and from all over Europe. He was munificent and generous in his life so I always thought it very characteristic of him that he continued so after; God was pleased to use him very liberally.
amsjj
+++
Jesus, God and man,
imprisoned by love in Thy most holy Sacrament,
have mercy upon us.
ese Cristo con su Cuerpo, con su Sangre, con su Alma, y con su Divinidad,
prisonero de amor.
In any event, he was condemned, of course—Cromwell had had to threaten the jury with treason charges themselves in order to achieve it, and the three priors together with a Bridgettine priest and a secular priest were all dragged to execution together. St Thomas More, by now in the Tower of London, watched them from the window of his cell setting off, and commented to his daughter who was visiting that they looked just like bridegrooms going to their wedding, a comparison that St John Fisher was also to use on the morning of his own death.
King Henry was insistent that the priests should be executed in their religious habits, to teach other religious a lesson, one presumes. This meant that after St John was cut down from the gallows, still alive, to be butchered, the thick hairshirt he wore under his heavy habit had to be cut through by the executioner, who had to stab down hard with the knife. And then, finally, as the executioner drew out St John’s still beating heart before his face, he spoke his last words: ‘Good Jesu’ he said, ‘what will you do with my heart?’
The story of St John Houghton is one that I have been very familiar with for the last twelve years or so, because I was once the Catholic chaplain at Charterhouse School near Godalming, which had been founded in the buildings of what had been the London Charterhouse. John Houghton’s last words have long puzzled me: they were very suitable for young people—I used them a great deal to get the boys to think about what they were going to do with their lives ‘Good Jesu, what will do you with my heart?’ but why would St John use them at that very moment. Some devil sometimes whispered in my ear that in his pain and confusion he was blaspheming at the executioner, feeling his hands around his heart, but I know that cannot be the case. St John knew all along what to expect. For years I have puzzled about it—such a strange thing to say—and only last night I think the answer came to me.
I think his words were not accidental but very deliberately chosen, and they were words that he had used in his life before, perhaps often. We have seen how he was uncertain what his state in life would be and, doubtless, a prayer such as ‘Good Jesu, what will you do with my heart?’ must often have been on his lips. It was, then, a prayer from his youth, when puzzled as to just what God wanted of him. And when the end had come, when his heart was about to be torn from his body, then he acknowledged his destiny: martyrdom, and he knew very literally what Jesu was to do with his heart. And that heart he willingly gave in honour of that Sacred Heart that loved mankind so much.
The death of those priests did not have the effect Henry desired; in fact it shocked people deeply, so the other Carthusians were not executed publicly. Instead they were simply chained up in a cell and were left quietly to starve.
catholicismpure.wordpress.com/2011/05/09/st-john-houghton-and-the-carthusian-martyrs/
++++
Also, Aslan10, if you haven’t yet, you might want to read Froude’s “History of the Contest between Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Henry II, King of England, consisting chiefly of translations of contemporary letters, extracted from the printed edition of the collection in the Vatican and from other sources”. Archive.org has it available:
archive.org/details/remainsoflaterev22frouuoft
I was struck by St. Thomas of Canterbury’s example of greatness, both in life and after. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere: His death hit like a shockwave and the number of miracles were immense and from all over Europe. He was munificent and generous in his life so I always thought it very characteristic of him that he continued so after; God was pleased to use him very liberally.
amsjj
+++
Jesus, God and man,
imprisoned by love in Thy most holy Sacrament,
have mercy upon us.
- Blessed John Henry Newman, December 22, 1851
ese Cristo con su Cuerpo, con su Sangre, con su Alma, y con su Divinidad,
prisonero de amor.
- San Josemaría Escrivá, 1 junio 1974
- Abp. W. B. Ullathorne, The Groundwork of the Christian Virtues, 1882.
E
Exiled_Child
Guest
Edith Stein probably tops the list. There are many I’ve never even heard of, though.
Also, I second Reclaim’s Beckett recommendation. It was Peter O’Tooles next movie right after Lawrence of Arabia, and it was just a brilliant film.
Also, I second Reclaim’s Beckett recommendation. It was Peter O’Tooles next movie right after Lawrence of Arabia, and it was just a brilliant film.
S
Song_Sparrow
Guest
I always liked the story of St. Stephen in the Bible.
And it’s hard not to admire St. Joan of Arc.
And it’s hard not to admire St. Joan of Arc.
B
bedan_elite
Guest
St. Agnes of Rome… I was in Rome last year and I’ve always had a fascination about catacombs. I was told that there is one @ The Basilica di Sant’Agnese Fuori le Mura so we went there but unfortunately the catacombs were closed. So we toured the Basilica and I chanced upon the tomb of St. Agnes, knelt down and prayed. When we were about to leave, I asked my wife & friends if we can stay a bit longer because I wanted to pray again by St. Agnes’ tomb (I felt being pulled-back). When we were back in our apartment, I felt some uneasiness in me about our visit to the basilica. I googled who St. Agnes was and no wonder I felt a different kind of force about her. She is my patron saint and I feel very blessed to meet her “face to face”. St. Agnes, pray for us.
M
Miserissima
Guest
Chrysanthus and Daria is a great love story!
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saints_Chrysanthus_and_Daria
I also saw a National Geographic special on a martyr’s bones that were tested and verified, but for the life if me I can’t find the link…
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saints_Chrysanthus_and_Daria
I also saw a National Geographic special on a martyr’s bones that were tested and verified, but for the life if me I can’t find the link…
- Status