St. Asicus of Elphin

St. Asicus, or Tassach, was born in Ireland in the fifth century. He was a metal worker in brass and copper. He was from the family of a wealthy druid. Asicus was converted to Christianity by St. Patrick, and they became friends. Asicus used his craft to make chalices, patens, and book covers for Patrick. He is credited with the copperwork on the shamrocked-patterned beaten brass altar screen in the cathedral in Sligo.

When Patrick established a church and monastery in Elphin, he appointed Asicus as abbot-bishop around 450. He was later abbot-bishop of all of Ireland.

It is said that he was often troubled by thoughts that he wasn’t worthy of his position. After a dispute in the monastery, Asicus spent the last seven years of his life alone on an island in Donegal living as a hermit. Some of his monks found him and tried to get him to return to the monastery, but he fell ill and died in 490. His brothers buried him in a churchyard nearby. A bishop in the nineteenth century noted, “We sought in vain for any trace of an inscribed stone in the old churchyard. He fled from men during life, and, like Moses, his grave is hidden from them in death.”

St. Asicus’ feast day is April 27.

In the House of Caiaphas

“‘Why, what evil has He done?’ Yet they kept shouting all the more, saying, ‘Crucify Him!’” (Matthew 27:23)

Last week was exhausting. Holy Week usually is. If you immerse yourself in the liturgy of the week, so much happens between Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem and the empty tomb. But this year I felt too immersed as the Tennessee state legislature pantomimed the seasonal staging of a rigged-up charge and rushed trial in order to silence a man preaching peace.

The week before, six people—three of them children—were killed in a school shooting at a Christian school in Nashville. As usual, leaders offered thoughts and prayers and promises to not address gun violence—money for arming school teachers and fortifying buildings, sure, but nothing to prevent access to weapons. Students marched to the state capitol building, chanting for gun reform. 

In the Silence

I never know what to do with Holy Saturday—there’s no particular church service for the day. It’s there between the high holy days of Good Friday and Easter. We’re just…waiting. Mourning the dead Jesus. Anticipating a dispatch from the harrowing of hell. Packing baskets. Counting to three.

But then I remembered Holy Saturday is, well, a Saturday—the Sabbath. He has told us from the beginning what this day means.

Genesis 2:2-3 says, “On the seventh day God completed the work he had been doing…” The work of creation was completed on a Friday. The work of incarnating into his creation and sacrificing for humanity’s salvation was completed on Good Friday. It is finished.

“…he rested on the seventh day from all the work he had undertaken.” The work is complete, and so he rests. There is pause, time to let the work set in.

“God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work he had done in creation.” The day itself is consecrated as a period of rest, a constant reminder of completed work, to pause and rest and reflect.

God instructs the Jews to observe the Sabbath and to cease from work.

Something to Chew on

Not to knock da Vinci, but I’m so tired of his Last Supper. It’s great but overused. So I went on a search for other Last Supper paintings. So much is going on in that evening meal. There are so many moments throughout Holy Week that get overlooked because so much is happening so fast. Fortunately, every year, we take try to focus on a different aspect, piece it together over time, mull on it as spiritually needed. Maybe this year it’s about betrayal and repentance as you watch the difference between Judas and Peter. Maybe next year it’s about humility as you focus on Jesus washing the disciples feet or about God’s promises as you watch a meal around Passover transform into the institution of the Eucharist. We need to revisit these moments over and over again, looking at them from different angles.

The first is Peter Paul Rubens’ Christ Washing the Apostles' Feet (1632). First, I love some Rubens’ lumpy humans. In the painting, Peter is protesting as Jesus tries to wash his feet. It’s awkward. It takes humility on both parts—for the master becoming the servant and for the follower watching his beloved leader stoop before him.