St. Mun. With a name like that, you’d expect there would be nothing about him. And you’d be right. St. Mun lived in Ireland in the 5th century and his uncle was St. Patrick. His feast day is February 5. That’s it. The whole shebang on Mun summed up in two sentences.
I have to wonder, though, was his real name something so outrageous that he shortened it to Mun. Or worse, his mom took one look at him as a baby and told her husband, “This kid is homely. Let’s call him Mun.” Mun sounds like a groan from my children when I tell them to clean up their room. “Oh, mmmuuunnn,” Wesley whines. Or did Mun stand for something like Many Ugly Noodles. You see where my head goes when I have nothing to do. It’s not an orderly place to be.
Back to Mun. What exactly did Mun do to be canonized? Was it because of his uncle? Did Mun turn the other cheek when taunted about his name? Why has Mun’s history been lost?
And then my mind goes again. For the vast majority of us, when we keel over, our lives, our personality, our essence will be lost within two generations from now. Already, it’s hard for my children to remember my mother who passed a few years ago. When I die, who will tell my kids that my mother made the most awesome homemade tortillas? If I’m gone when my great-grandchildren are born, who will tell them about the time I broke my ankle while walking (true story—if you want to know, email me) or how I burned the kitchen floor while boiling hot dogs? Psalm 143:5 sums it up perfectly. “I remember the days of old; I ponder all your deeds; the works of your hands I recall.”
In 1862, a young Confederate officer named Enoch McCollum died from a bout of measles. He’s buried in the old Breedlove cemetery not far from where I live. Enoch did not die on the glorious field of battle but from an illness. Why am I telling you about Enoch? He’s part of history. His life summed up in two sentences like Mun.
What I’m preaching about is not about making your mark on history but rather make your mark on people—which are probably the reason why Mun has been canonized. While books and written information are tangible, your essence will warm the heart of someone forever.
I have to wonder, though, was his real name something so outrageous that he shortened it to Mun. Or worse, his mom took one look at him as a baby and told her husband, “This kid is homely. Let’s call him Mun.” Mun sounds like a groan from my children when I tell them to clean up their room. “Oh, mmmuuunnn,” Wesley whines. Or did Mun stand for something like Many Ugly Noodles. You see where my head goes when I have nothing to do. It’s not an orderly place to be.
Back to Mun. What exactly did Mun do to be canonized? Was it because of his uncle? Did Mun turn the other cheek when taunted about his name? Why has Mun’s history been lost?
And then my mind goes again. For the vast majority of us, when we keel over, our lives, our personality, our essence will be lost within two generations from now. Already, it’s hard for my children to remember my mother who passed a few years ago. When I die, who will tell my kids that my mother made the most awesome homemade tortillas? If I’m gone when my great-grandchildren are born, who will tell them about the time I broke my ankle while walking (true story—if you want to know, email me) or how I burned the kitchen floor while boiling hot dogs? Psalm 143:5 sums it up perfectly. “I remember the days of old; I ponder all your deeds; the works of your hands I recall.”
In 1862, a young Confederate officer named Enoch McCollum died from a bout of measles. He’s buried in the old Breedlove cemetery not far from where I live. Enoch did not die on the glorious field of battle but from an illness. Why am I telling you about Enoch? He’s part of history. His life summed up in two sentences like Mun.
What I’m preaching about is not about making your mark on history but rather make your mark on people—which are probably the reason why Mun has been canonized. While books and written information are tangible, your essence will warm the heart of someone forever.