The Ways of Martyrs

Despite our lapsed Catholicism, our  conversation over lunch  was pure Catholic  Baby Boomer:  His Dad was ailing and his mother was  destroying her health taking care of him, but was refusing all offers of help.  “She’s in full martyr-mode,” said Ron.

“Been there,” I said.

If there’s one thing Catholics understand, it’s martyrdom.  Martyrs were an integral part of  life for Catholic school kids, and  Ron asked if I remembered a book from our elementary school days called: “A Child’s’ Book of Martyrs” which I dimly recalled as a primer on  saintly virtue, required reading in third or fourth grade. Ron assured me I was wrong.  He found a copy in a used book store and bought  it. “You gotta see it,” he marveled. “It’s like Catholic porn.” He told me he’d send it to me when he got back  home.

When the book came I  felt a jolt of nostalgia as I quickly flipped through the pages. But then I  stopped dead in my tracks at one of the pictures and, mouth open, I  sat down to read.

The picture that caught my attention was that of a  buxom, and topless, woman  with long, flowing locks and a orgasmic  look on her face, possibly because she just happened to have  clamps  on her nipples.  Turns out it was  Saint Agatha, about to be rolled over a bed of hot coals and prepared to enjoy every moment of it.

Next came a picture of Saint Sebastian in a loincloth, being pierced by arrows. The book said Sebastian was martyred for preaching his faith, but judging from his sculpted pecs  and six-pak abs  the dude spent way too much time in the gym to have time to preach. Sebastian had a goofy grin on his face and his eyes were aimed to heaven, as though wondering if rain would wreck the execution.

I had forgotten about the 40 martyrs of Armenia, a group of holy soldiers  condemned to freeze to death on an icy lake. The soldiers, nearly naked  and built like tri-athletes, exuded a boyish camaraderie, like you might see at a White Party on South Beach. If I did not know they were being martyred  I would have sworn it was an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

Next came a busty Saint Cecelia — apparently big breasts were a pre-condition for martyrdom.  She was condemned to be locked in a sauna until death,  but  looked  like she was auditioning for a Victoria’s Secret ad.  Her eyes were upturned too, but she had a sourpuss expression  as though a younger model was hired instead.

The martyrs never ended. Here was a stoic St Andrew expiring on his namesake cross while a stoned looking St Stephen was being stoned. A smiling St John was boiled in oil while St Lawrence, who was something of a card, was being burned on a gridiron; he jauntily told his executioners to turn him so he cooked evenly.

I  saw a lurid print of a placid Saint Perpetua and  an equally  Zen Saint  Felicity, being torn to pieces by an enraged cow.  This confused  me.  The saints  looked pretty happy, although who can fathom the ways of martyrs?  But an “enraged cow?”  Even if you could make a  cow  that angry,  which seems unlikely,  since cows have neither  fangs  nor claws, how   can they  a cow “tear apart”  anyone?”  I never thought of that in third grade, but perhaps it explains my lifelong fear of cattle.

Apoplectic, I e-mailed Ron. “This is what they made us read?”  I asked. “They gave this to little kids? What were they thinking?”

“I know,” he countered. “But on the bright side, I understand my mom a whole lot better now.”