Today May 26

Today is the feast of St. Philip Neri (1515-1595) . . .and with this great saint I feel absolutely sure both that I would like to be his friend and he mine. Why? Well, for my part, I am immensely attracted to the Congregation of the Oratory and its league of merry Christians (open to laymen, it "united service of God's people with a cheerful, engaging outlook on life" - Saintly Solutions) and on his, I'm sure he'd be my friend because he was everybody's friend. "Good little Phil," "Pippo buono," would stand on his loggia in Rome, accepting visitors one and all, "and to each person he gave advice suited to his special needs" - Butler's Lives.

My mom loves this guy. A practical joker who valued humility, he would do things like put out his hand to bless a pompous rich woman and gently end up totally messing her elaborate hair-do. He gave one penitent an enormously important task, he said . . . and it ended up being taking care of St. Philip's cat! He gave a rich merchant's penance as sweeping the Oratory's stairs where all could see him. He tweaked those who elaborately praised his holiness by shaving off half his beard and pretending to be drunk.

Yet he was immensely gentle. Where others might rail and rant at offenders -- and who could fault them in the terrible moral atmosphere of 16th-century Rome? -- St. Philip had another way. He would first engage a person in conversation, and many responded because he had an engaging sense of humor. He would then put in "a word in season." - Butler's Lives - and a question about the state of their immortal souls. Wow. His favorite question was: "Well, brothers, when shall we begin to do good?" He never directly criticized, saying "If we wish to keep peace with our neighbor, we should never remind anyone of his natural defects."

Good advice. And finally, he, like the reformed Grinch in the old book and cartoon, had a heart that grew two sizes one day, even breaking two ribs. His heart actually grew from love of God. He was often in ecstasy, especially during Mass and even had a premonition of his own death. He looked better that day than he had in 10 years, but he said before going to bed: "Last of all, we must die." It's the last thing he ever said. His brothers came around him when he had an attack about midnight, May 25th, 1595 and asked him for a final word. He was beyond speaking, but he raised his hand in a blessing and died.