Europe in These Times: Mundiata, Munich, Me
Europe In These Times is a series of posts by the American Catholic freelance writer Kevin Duffy, detailing his encounters—sometimes sought out, other times not—with the rich religious heritage of the European continent.
Munich, Germany, 24 July 2021
Statue through the glass at the Peterskirche
A trip to Munich had been long overdue—we live less than three hours west of there by train, in a smaller and less known German city, and so the Bavarian capital had been on our list of desired destinations ever since we arrived to the country a year ago. But for all the well-known sites and destinations of that famed city, I was set, above all, on visiting some human bones.
Saint Mundiata’s full skeleton reclines on its side, skull propped up on a pillow-stand, kneecaps drawn toward the rib cage, jewel-eyes staring, jewel-studded arm bones leading down to the hands that grip, respectively, a chalice and a quill, bejeweled dressing gown hanging loosely over the clavicles down to the ankles. The display’s decadence evidences the devotion that must have led to its creation, just as its unflinching exposure of elemental human structure evidences an unwillingness to turn away from suffering and death, a testament to the commonalities—the high and the low, the elaborately-decorated and the stripped-of-all-flesh—that connect the faithful across centuries.
And so, upon encountering the photos of Mundiata when researching for the Munich trip, I resolved to visit her. As it happens, she is joined in the same church by the relics of two others: the skull of a saint called Erasmus sits on top of the case containing Mundiata, while the skull and bones of Honoratus are located on the other side of the nave. I retrieved my Dictionary of Saints (I’m no barbarian), and set out to learn something about each of the three. Proceeding alphabetically, I first encountered an Erasmus of Formia, a bishop and martyr whose relics now reside in Gaeta, Italy. This was clearly not my Erasmus, but there were no further entries for the name. Honoratus: one entry, and clearly, not my Honoratus. Mundiata: no entry.
I became deeply curious about the unknown saints, given my pending visit. Thankfully, a Smithsonian article (nuanced theological insight provided by accomplished experts in the comment section) provided some answers. Starting in the sixteenth century, bones like the ones I was studying were discovered in the catacombs in and around Rome and transplanted to churches throughout Europe. The catacombs were, after all, the graveyards of the persecuted early Christians of the Roman Empire, men and women who lived in a society and under a government that despised, threatened, and often killed them. These were the bones, in short, of martyrs. And martyrs were saints. Sometimes a plaque from the catacombs gave a clue as to the name of the person interred in a grave, but the nameless were “baptized” with a moniker appropriate for a certain devotion, or that of another favored saint. The decoration of the relics was done at the discretion of the receiving community, but always to honor the saint by adorning the remains in a manner befitting the martyr’s stature, befitting the ultimate triumph of dying in Christ. Festivals were established to honor these saints, and pilgrimages were made to visit them. Mundiata, Erasmus, and Honoratus, in fact, were martyrs of early Christianity, and I would make a pilgrimage to be in their presence.
St. Peter’s, or the Peterskirche, is centrally-located in Munich and, while unimpressive from the outside, well worth seeing, if only for its impressive altarpiece, all dark marble and gold finishes. But I am here, of course, to see something else, and so I seek out Mundiata, off to the side behind a locked metal gate that prevents me from looking at her straight-on. But she is there, everything I have expected; so is Erasmus, and so is Honoratus. I don’t feel any shock or surprise or awe, but I think of the Catholics that brought them here, that placed the jewels, that made the pilgrimages, and so I am moved by those ideas more than the sights. I’m thankful that these bones are here, that I came to see them. I turn to leave, thinking that, after all, this is their home, and not mine.
On my way out I see a statue of the Holy Mother, dozens of rosaries hung from the wall to its side, set back in a corner behind a glass door. There is a kneeler facing it, on my side of the door, and so I approach; I’m seeing a Lourdes grotto, of a kind, and thinking of my mother who, dying, years ago, visited that site in France. I kneel and pray for and about her, and for and about the things I always pray for and about, and I get up to go. But a thought stops me, and I turn and kneel back down again; I say a prayer of thanks for Mundiata and the others, for the forebears that sustained; and then I say a prayer of petition, that we may be blessed with the grace and courage and perseverance of the underground church and its martyrs.
Mundiata below, Erasmus above.
We exit to the sights and sounds of the stupid glockenspiel finishing its noon show across the Marienplatz. We have a lunch to get to, and of all the delicacies on offer in Munich, the featured dish will be paella. My wife is Valencian, and a childhood friend of hers has transplanted here. The rice, unsurprisingly, is excellent, and we talk extensively about the common hometown of our host and my wife—we will move there within a matter of months.
The next day we board Lufthansa flight 424, Munich-Boston direct. We are returning to the United States for the first time in a year, to the town in which I grew up. As we take our seats on the flight, I’m thinking of Mundiata, Honoratus, Erasmus: their home having once been somewhere in Rome, then somewhere beneath it, and now in glass cases in Germany. I too have many homes: the German city in which I live, the American town toward which I am flying, the corner of Valencia to which I’ll soon move. And then I correct the thought that I had when I started to leave the Peterskirche the previous day, the one about it being a home for those bones but not for me—for I was home there, too, as much as those saints, as much as my mother at Lourdes, as much as all of them now in the place to which they’ve been called.
