In gratitude to St. Michael the Archangel, my brother’s patron saint…

My brother Mike died in early July. He was 71, the oldest in our big Catholic family, about whom I’ve written before, especially in light of the inspiring witness of my Mom and Dad, and also my little sister Mary, who had Down Syndrome. Mike walked away from full participation in the Catholic Church for several decades, yet never lost touch with his patron saint, Michael the Archangel.

This is the story of mine and Mike’s journey together: how we loved each other while often disagreeing, and how I’m grateful for the intercession of St. Michael—and also St. Joseph, Terror of Demons (Mike’s middle-name patron)—for their love of my brother and our family.

While Mike was the eldest of the boys in our family, I was the youngest, more than eleven years his junior. He graduated from high school (1969) when I had barely begun my education, and then he was drafted to fight in the Vietnam War. Thankfully, the draft board unexpectedly diagnosed Mike with swimmer’s ear at his would-be induction at Fort Wayne in Detroit; otherwise, we might not have walked these many years together.

People often remarked how different Mike and I were, and yet, among other things, we both favored our maternal grandfather in physical appearance, both would make principled defenses in a spirited manner, and both had a heart for helping those in need.

In September 1979, Mike married his beloved Judy, who preceded him in death in February 2017, the victim of a tragic car crash. They raised three wonderful boys, all of whom are now well into adulthood. In addition, while Mike thankfully married in the Catholic Church, he had not been fully practicing his faith for awhile.

I say “fully practicing,” because while Mike would deny he was Catholic, he never lost his connection with his patron saint. By his own volition, Mike long kept an image of St. Michael in his home, held up by a magnet on his office filing cabinet. In time, he would add images of St. Joseph with the Child Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary, prayer cards gained when our Aunt Irene and Uncle Frank died in 2003 and 2015, respectively. Those images now reside on my own home-office cabinet, a reminder to pray for Mike’s and others’ souls (see 2 Macc. 12:43–45; 1 Cor. 3:10–15).

As a youth, Mike both sang in the choir and served at the altar; he later told me he didn’t like the big changes made to the Mass after Vatican II. Mike also periodically told me how his first Confession was not a good one, because the priest admonished him for not having anything to confess.

“What do you mean you haven’t done any wrong!” the priest scolded the lad. While sympathizing with Mike, I also tried to be lighthearted. “C’mon, Mike,” I would say, recalling my own sacramental formation. “When you go into Confession, you know you’re supposed to have at least something to confess.”

Still, the sins of others and Mike’s own never severed his bond with his patron saint.

“When God wanted to get the job done,” Mike would proudly say of his patron, “he got Michael.” Of course, that job was defeating Satan and his rebellious cohorts, expelling them from heaven when they sought to overcome the Almighty (Rev. 12:7–12).

St. Michael’s victory is embedded in the Hebrew meaning of his name. Indeed, “Who is like God?” is the battle cry of the Archangel and his heavenly allies. Mike’s favorite image depicted it well: St. Michael, sword drawn, standing on the head of the defeated devil.

Here we’re reminded that the saints are God’s collaborators, not competitors, and so I leaned on St. Michael, Our Lady, and St. Joseph in asking for their intercession for Mike and our family. “God has bound salvation to the sacrament of Baptism [and the other sacraments],” the Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches, “but he himself is not bound by his sacraments” (CCC 1257, emphasis original).

That includes the baptized who no longer regularly receive the Eucharist and Confession. In that light, we see that the angels and saints are God’s ambassadors, watching over us with the Lord, even when—and, indeed, especially when—we’ve strayed (Matt. 18:10–14; see Heb. 12:1–2; Rev. 5:8).

If “the prayer of a righteous man [on earth] has great power in its effects” (Jas. 5:16), how much more the intercession of an angel or saint in heaven? And so I would ask Mike for his prayers promise him mine, and call, text, and/or email my brother on his feast days, including St. Michael and his archangelic confreres on September 29, and St. Joseph on March 19 and May 1. “Man, Mike!” I would exclaim. “You have two of the best patrons in battling the devil: St. Michael the Archangel and St. Joseph, Terror of Demons.”

My brother also welcomed a sculpture depicting St. Michael’s vanquishing of the devil, a birthday gift from me, Dad, and one of my brothers sometime after Mom had died in 2011. Always affirm the good, as St. Aquinas would say, while less frequently correcting the bad in charity—and realizing our own need for God’s mercy as well.

Mike’s good included employing the Heimlich maneuver to save the lives of his son Graham and nephew Blaise on separate occasions when they were kids, a skill he learned well in becoming a certified registered nurse anesthetist. Both are now grown and married with their own families.

Mike didn’t raise his boys in the Catholic faith, yet he never lost belief in God and his beloved St. Michael. To be sure, he could be irreverent, sometimes referring to his sons as “Broken Rubber #1,” “Broken Rubber #2,” and Broken Rubber #3,” a Boomer term for a condom.

For my part, I would respond with a smile and say, “Well, I guess that just proves that God does work in mysterious ways!” You also have to cultivate the virtue of humility, an indispensable element for enduring Christian love.

“He still treats you like you’re his little brother,” Mike’s oldest son Graham once upbraided me when he was in college. “Yes,” I responded. “I try not to take myself too seriously, but rather the larger mission seriously, so that we can continue to have conversations on important matters.”

Mike’s favorite band was The Rolling Stones, and, being a bit of a contrarian, “Sympathy for the Devil” one of his favorites songs. Make no mistake, though: St. Michael, not Lucifer, was esteemed in my brother’s home. In this regard, even the brash Mick Jagger could be moved to prayer, such as at the Stones’ 1969 concert at Altamont Raceway in northern California, when the combination of an unruly crowd and the policing Hells Angels moved him to modify the lyrics of “Under My Thumb” with a plaintive plea: “I pray that it’s all right. I pray that it’s all right” (5:19ff.). Indeed, Jesus is our Savior, whiles Satan ultimately—and always—seeks our destruction (John 10:10).

In 2002, Mike had a heart attack, the result of an undiagnosed congenital heart condition that had badly atrophied two of his four chambers. A pacemaker enabled him to live another twenty years.

In late June 2022, Mike entered hospice care at home. I called and texted him, conveying my love and saying he could call me any time—day or night—if he needed something. I also had priests and lay friends offer Masses and other prayers.

The night before Mike died unexpectedly soon, he expressed that he wanted to spend time with his sons. I was at peace, because I knew it was time for me to decrease and St. Michael to increase (see John 3:28–30), and I prayed accordingly.

Early July 4, I awoke. I blinked to make sure I was reading my clock correctly: exactly 3 a.m., the commencement of the infernal hour, for the devil can only pay tribute to God in a perverse way. While I’m not St. Padre Pio or St. John Vianney, I was half-expecting fireworks in my bedroom—i.e., of the spiritual variety.

I knew I was being summoned to pray on Mike’s behalf, so I invoked St. Michael, the Blessed Mother, and St. Joseph—all in the most powerful name of Jesus (Phil. 2:9–11).

That afternoon, I learned that my brother had died. Based on the temperature of his body in the late morning, the hospice nurse estimated Mike had died between 2 and 4 a.m.

Please pray for my brother and his family, and never lose hope for your loved ones.

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