Odd Little Saint Drogo

I much prefer the odd saints. The odder the better. Odd saints tell me that God sees each of us in a particular way.

God doesn't always choose the "company men". The men WE might choose. The smooth talkers, the preachers, the intelligent ones, the snappy dressers, the attractive ones, those who are quite adept at organization or reaching millions with their podcasts or oratorical skills. You would ASSUME perhaps that this 'company man thing' would be the most efficient way to get the Good News out there. But that would be a colossal misunderstanding of what constitutes "The Good News".

I was telling one of my sons about this one night on the phone. He is not one for saints. He is one more for Theological arguments of the mind. He finds his spiritual food there rather than in saint stories. He is suspicious of undue 'piety' and 'followings', which I fully understand. People who latch onto certain saints and make them into something they never were in real life. But for all that, he listens with unfeigned interest when I find one I really like. And this time, he found one FOR me.

One evening, he was laughing about how I love all the odd balls. Later that night I get a text: "Here's a live one for you. St. Drogo. Look him up. Patron saint of 'those whom others find repulsive' - and ....um.... coffee shops." With a text like that, how could I NOT stop whatever I was doing and look him up? With that patronage, I suspect dear Drogo would never be the chosen saint of any Confirmandi - ever. Although, on second thought, I can think of a few 14 year olds cheeky enough to want a patron saint of the repulsive.....but I digress.

Repulsive or no, Drogo was most beloved of the people who knew him. The Medievals had a different set of rules concerning saints. They liked them odd as well. It was a sign of authenticity. And that is why I love the Medievals.

Drogo had a sad beginning. He was born into a noble Franco/Flemish family. His father died while his mother was still pregnant with him. His birth was fraught with complications and his poor mother underwent a Ceasarean to save him (I don't even want to imagine what THAT was like in Medieval times!). I've had five C-Sections and have thanked modern medicine with each one!

Sadly, the minute he was born, Drogo was an orphan. Even wealth cannot assuage the sorrow of that. He was sent to live with relatives. When he was ten or so, some ill advised aunt or uncle somewhere told him of his mother's death - not sparing any of the details. Drogo was traumatized so badly by this, that he could never forget. He carried the burden of thinking he had killed his own mother that he might live. It devastated him. This misplaced guilt was to be the heavy cross he would carry through life. It made him restless and scrupulous in his sacrifices - always trying to expiate and make up for what he had done to his mother. Well, by this time, I was crying. That 10 year olds can walk around with that much suffering within their little selves as many often do, is heart wrenching.

When he was 18, Drogo gave away all his wealth and hired himself out as a shepherd. He was excellent at this job, by all accounts. People would send their children to learn from him how to take care of their flocks. Shepherds are natural contemplatives. They spend much time alone under skies. Drogo loved this life - he began to pray in this quiet place of peace. He grew very holy out there among the sheep. But then people began to notice some weird anomalies - one old lady saw him at Mass, but another swore he saw him on the hill above the road. Drogo was a bilocator! So, naturally, droves of people came to 'visit' him on his hillside and to gawk at him and of course noisily comment and hover for a miracle. They asked for advice. They had him bless their babies. Drogo was terrified of this newfound fame, his peace shattered.

He took to the road as a pilgrim. He made many trips to Rome seeking to somehow find the Pope. He had gotten it into his head that his sin toward his mother was so great only the Pope could forgive it. This poor, restless soul with the anxious guilt that would not leave him. An excruciating cross to carry.

After years of being on the road, Drogo returned due to a stomach problem. It was a large abdominal hernia that protruded in large lumps all over his stomach - so large that people could see it under his tunic. THEN his whole lower body was inexplicably covered with putrescent sores that I am sure did not smell all too wonderful. But his face? His face remained cheerful, patient, kind. There were probably some who only saw that face, and there were others who could not take their eyes off of his sores and his body.

Drogo decided to live in a little hut next to the village Church as an anchorite. There he lived out the rest of his days. No one had to look at his body this way, he reasoned, but he could still help them by listening and praying. He didn't want to make anyone have to be repulsed by his body. (Gah, more crying). They would only hear his cheerful voice. They would not be afraid to come. And People DID come to him for advice and council. They grew to love him dearly. The Medievals took great stock in their odd little holy men like poor Drogo. These men were like portals to Christ. Efficiency and good looks counted for nothing in their world.

Drogo died very old, still faithfully living in his hut. He was buried there in the town. I couldn't help but feel a great weight lifted from my heart when I knew that he had finally gone to God. His guilt evaporated, his body beautiful as the day he was born, his mother with open arms to receive him at last and to tell him all was well. It was not his fault. And this time? This time he believed her. His cross was at last laid down.

Anything can be a cross. Disfigurement, misplaced guilt. Anything. Christ asks many sorts of crosses. He chooses us so particularly to carry them. All us odd souls roaming this world mysteriously making up in our bodies what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ. Participating in his redemptive act. No one is a mere, dispensible mortal - no matter how weak. Each one, odd or not, has a job to do whether we are broken by guilt, sin, physical pain, scruples. All of these can be redemptive. Drogo shows us that. I find that comforting. I think that is the Good News. That we are needed by the Lord. That He cares for us. That each of us helps the others to get to Heaven. To be seen, heard, and loved by the Lord. That is good news indeed.

The people of Drogo's town still love their shepherd saint, and speak of him often. They even have a little saying that when someone wants someone to do many tasks at the same time and quickly, "I am not St. Drogo. I can't be in two places at once".

The wonderful artist Daniel Mitsui has actually made a painting of dear St. Drogo. This has sky rocketed my over the moon admiration for Daniel Mitsui - over and beyond what it already was and is. That he took time to honor an odd though beautiful little saint with his gorgeous art. See his other artwork for yourself here:

www.danielmitsui.com

And thanks to my son David, I now have one more odd little saint to add to my litany of odd little saints. Yes, I have that litany.

St Drogo, pray for us!

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