How the patron saints got their jobs

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 had this picture in my mind of 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, and that their days of aimlessly swanning about heaven are over; that they are all going to contribute in some way or another to keeping all those silly people on earth out of harm’s way.

Some saints have wonderful portfolios; 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 such countries as 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. And in a worst case scenario, sainthood is revoked.

Usually, though, they just get really tough assignments. Such as Timothy and Titus, who ended up as joint patron saints of stomach disorders. A nauseatingly 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 gripes at such a rate that Timothy and Titus cannot possibly have a minute to themselves at any time of the day or night.

And let’s not even begin to imagine what St Fiacre did to earn the portfolio covering taxi drivers AND haemorrhoid sufferers!

Timothy and Titus have a far more difficult job than that enjoyed by St Luke, patron saint of brewers. He really doesn’t have much to do except make sure that the fomentation process remains more of a science and less of a miracle. A really cushy job which suggests that his total demerit points score over the centuries has remained solidly at zero.

Heavens knows what Timothy and Titus got up to. But, let’s go back to that great gathering in heaven all those eons ago when the patron saints got their commissions.

I have this picture of St Peter looking a lot like an army drill sergeant calling for order with a terse and authoritarian: “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, thought they were being accused of something, and yelled back: “No, it wasn’t us. No, no, no, definitely not us…!”

St Peter, equally a bit hard of hearing (hardly surprising given that he was probably 900 years old at the time) also didn’t quite catch what they were saying and said: “Nonnatus? Nonnatus? What a good idea! Arise, St Raymond Nonnatus, patron saint of the falsely accused.”

Then, having 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.” Trying 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 Peter, looking for volunteers among the gathered saints, all of whom 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. He 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,” Elizabeth replied with conviction. “I’d like to know how long this is all going to take because, quite frankly, I’m starving.”

A quick glance at the demerit score run up by St Elizabeth of Hungry (often misspelt “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.)

All of this just goes to show that without exception, at some stage or other, every single saint in heaven was human. Which suggests that if saints can be human, we humans can be saints, if we try hard enough.