How saints became patrons

Ever since I saw my Great-aunt Evelina get down on her knees in urgent and desperate supplication to St Anthony of Padua over a missing pair of tennis socks, it has been a constant source of wonder to me how the patron saints got allocated their tasks and titles.

As a child I pictured a great gathering of saints in some massive heavenly amphitheatre.

They all stand respectfully with heads bowed as St Peter walks up to the lectern and tells them in no uncertain terms that the title of saint has some strings attached to it, that their days of aimlessly swanning about heaven are over, and that they are all going to contribute in some way or another to keeping all those bumbling idiots on earth out of harm’s way.

Some saints have wonderful portfolios, but others clearly drew the short straw. I’ve often wondered whether their patronage was allocated on the basis of some sort of demerit points system, similar to the way in which motorists are controlled in Australia.

For example, talking after lights out: one demerit point. Arguing over comparative sanctity: two demerit points. Complaining to St Peter about accommodation and missing out on second helpings of pudding: three demerit points; and so it goes until all the points are added up, resulting in a really tough assignment.

Timothy and Titus, for example, ended up as joint patron saints of stomach disorders. A nauseating and messy job at the best of times, especially in these modern times with mankind so addicted to junk food and fizzy cold drinks that are almost guaranteed to induce long gripes. Timothy and Titus cannot possibly have a minute to themselves at any time of the day or night.

Their’s is a far more difficult job than that enjoyed by St Luke, who is the patron saint of brewers and doesn’t have much to do in that portfolio but to ensure that the fermentation process remains more of a science and less of a miracle.

Heavens knows what Timothy and Titus got up to.

Back to that great gathering in heaven, when the patron saints got their commissions.

I have an image of St Peter looking a lot like an army drill sergeant, calling for order with a terse: “All right, you lot, settle down!”

First up was a request for volunteers for the position of patron saint of the falsely accused. A group right at the back of the amphitheatre couldn’t quite hear St Peter and thought they were being accused of something, yelling back: “No, it wasn’t us! no, no, no definitely not us!”

St Peter, equally a bit hard of hearing, which was hardly surprising given that he was probably 900 years old at the time, also didn’t quite catch what they were saying: “Nonnatus? Nonnatus? What a good idea… Arise St Raymond Nonnatus, patron saint of the falsely accused.” And then, taking a look at St Raymond’s demerit score, which was well into double figures, he added: “And you can have midwives and obstetricians as well.” Attempting to understand the connection between falsely accused and midwives can only lead to a headache. So, let’s move on.

Next up was the bakers portfolio. “Do I have any takers for bakers?” asked St Peter, looking for volunteers. The gathered saints were looking everywhere but at him; some were even quietly whistling Panis Angelicus in an effort to appear nonchalant.

St Peter noticed two women at the back chatting away urgently and rapped on the lectern with his shepherd’s crook to quieten the hubbub. “St Elizabeth, do you have something to say?”

“Indeed sir, I do,” she replied with conviction. “I’d like to know how long all this is going to take, because, quite frankly, I’m starving.”

A quick glance at the demerit score of St Elizabeth of Hungry (often misspelled “Hungary”) showed that she too had none, so St Peter assuaged her constantly demanding appetite with the rather cushy job as patron saint of bakers. She made a note to stay close to Timothy and Titus, just in case.