Michelmas

On the evening of 29 September every year, I light a fire in a rough-hewn shelter in the woods, and there my congregation and I celebrate Michaelmas, the Feast of St Michael and all angels. I confess it's one of my favorite pastoral traditions: the crackle of the leaves, the bite in the air, the sparks dancing upward from firelight to starlight. It is an ethereal time, when one can just begin to glimpse the form of things unseen.

I have a special devotion to St Michael. I wear his image on a little silver shield about my neck, which I never take off. There he is, complete with flaming sword and leaf-shaped shield, in splendid Roman armor. And just as my shield bears his image, so his bears the image of the Cross. It is a reminder that no matter what forces may array themselves against us, the light of a single candle puts all the powers of darkness to flight.

Put now out of mind the Precious Moments figures, the faeries with feathery wing. The angels of the Bible appear as giants and dragons, gods and monsters, flaming serpents, four-headed beasts, and—perhaps most memorably—as wheels within wheels covered in eyeballs. These are fantastic images, of course, descriptions of the indescribable; for angels, we are told, have no physical bodies. They are not bound by space and time.

As you and I are formed of clay, so they are formed of spirit, beings of pure mind, pure thought. They are as far above and 'beyond our ken' as we are over worms. And yet, we find, they are not perfect. Angels fall from grace. Why, the greatest of them all, Lucifer, the Light-Bearer, turned against his God to become Satan, the Accuser, the Adversary. What could possibly have caused the greatest being in Creation to rebel?

In a word: pride. An old Christian legend, hinted at in Revelation, tells of God giving to His angels a vision of things to come, of the fulness of time. There they saw the Fall of Man, the Incarnation of God, the Nativity of the Redeemer. There they saw a woman, Mary, chosen as the Theotokos, the God-Bearer. And Lucifer was outraged. How could such an honor be bestowed upon such low, unworthy creatures? Why, if anyone ought to be the vehicle through which the Creator would enter Creation, should it not be him?

So war broke out in heaven, children rebelling against their Father, a war of pure thought, pure mind, unlike any conflict we could imagine here below. And as Lucifer roared “I accuse!” another voice rose to meet his from somewhere down below: the voice of an archangel, far lower in power and glory than the mighty satanic seraph. Yet this smaller spirit trusted not in his own strength, but in the faithfulness of his Father. “Who is like God?” the little angel called out in defiance of the dragon. “Who can ever be like God?” And his battle-cry became his name—“Who is like God? Who is like God?”—Michael, in the Hebrew. Rallying the celestial host, St Michael cast the serpent down from heaven, that he rages now in earth and sea for he knows his time is short. And there, my dear Sir Knights, we have the tale of the original dragon-slayer.

What are we to make of this today? Many have trouble swallowing myths of literal angels and demons; though I should point out that most of mankind throughout most history have always believed in them both. But mythologically or psychologically, the lesson remains the same. Satan is the spirit of pride, which tragically corrupts even the best of us; while Michael, the spirit of faithful humility, triumphs by trusting in God. One needn’t believe in angels and demons to carry this message to heart. But I certainly think that it helps.

In Jesus. Amen.

-Eminent Grand Prelate Sir Knight Ryan Stout