Do ye the little things
The great Bishop of Mynyw, son of Non, the famed Dewi Sant, is now one thousand years old at least and — depending which Welsh annals you are reading — perhaps 1,063. He lived to the age of one hundred thirty-nine, by my simple calculation, or less, according to most scholars. (I am innocent of Welsh and mediaeval Latin.) He is venerated in both the Western and Eastern Church, though modern scholars, television hosts, and radio broadcasters, throw doubt on any of the hagiographic facts that have come down with him. For the accounts were written after the events to which they refer, when, coincidentally, all other memoirs were written. The best the scholars can say is that reports of Dewi’s birth in the village of Henfynyw, are “not improbable.”
This is my Saint David, whose date is the First of March. I cannot claim to be Welsh, however. The stone church in that locality in Cardiganshire still stands, and has been standing continuously, since before Dewi Sant was conceived, and most of the people who still live there still speak Welsh. The shrine to this Patron Saint of Wales also stands, where he founded the monastery that became the Cathedral of Saint David in Pembrokeshire. It was in that surrounding vale that the Synod of Brefi was held, at which he preached against Pelagianism, and the white dove alighted on his shoulder.
Saint David founded chapels and monasteries throughout Wales, Cornwall, and Brittany, and continues to be remembered in each, while it lasts. That nothing lasts forever must also be conceded to the scholars, among whom doves no longer alight.
March first was the precise date of David’s elevation to heaven, in a “monastery that was filled with angels as Christ received his soul.” And these were his last words, spoken here below:
“Lords, brothers and sisters, be joyful, and keep your faith and your creed, and do ye the little things that you have seen me do and heard about. And as for me, I will walk the path that our fathers have trod before us.”