11 November 2025

St Martin of Tours is one of those saints everyone remembers by a single image:
a Roman soldier, a beggar, and a cloak.

It’s a cold night.
Martin, not yet baptised, rides through the city gate.
He sees a poor man shivering by the roadside.
Without hesitation, he cuts his cloak in two and covers him.
That night, in a dream, Martin sees Jesus clothed in that same half-cloak, saying:

“Martin, though only a catechumen, has covered Me with his garment.”

That’s the Gospel made flesh.
That’s holiness in action — mercy with a sword still in its scabbard.

The first reading from Wisdom takes us right to the heart of hope:

“God created man for immortality; He made him in the image of His own nature.”

In other words, death was never meant to have the last word.
We were created for life — eternal life — but sin cracked that image.
And so God Himself entered our brokenness to restore what was lost.

The world sees death as the end; the believer sees it as the doorway.
The souls of the just, says Wisdom, “are in the hands of God, and no torment shall touch them.”
That’s not wishful thinking — that’s revelation.

Martin believed that.
He was a soldier who learned that the only lasting battle is for the human soul.
He left the army to become a monk, then a bishop,
and he fought the spiritual wars of pride, division, and heresy
with the same courage he’d once used in combat.

He knew that a Christian’s armour isn’t metal — it’s mercy.

Then comes the Gospel:

“When you have done all you were commanded, say,
‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”

At first that sounds harsh, almost discouraging —
but Jesus isn’t crushing our dignity; He’s protecting our humility.

He’s reminding us that holiness isn’t a career where we earn promotion,
it’s a relationship where we stay faithful.
A servant who loves doesn’t count the cost.

That’s Martin.
He didn’t keep score, he simply served.
He gave half his cloak to a beggar,
then gave the rest of his life to Christ.

The Church later made him one of the first non-martyr saints ever canonised —
a reminder that you don’t have to die for Christ to live for Him completely.

Martin shows that faith and charity are never rivals.
He didn’t just believe the Creed; he acted it out.
He didn’t write about mercy; he practised it.

That’s what the world still needs —
not arguments about love, but examples of it.

When the poor, the lonely, the outsider meet a Christian,
they should meet what that beggar met on the road to Amiens —
someone who sees Christ in them.

The Fathers of the Church said:

“When you meet the poor, you meet your Saviour in disguise.”
That’s not poetry; it’s Catholic realism.

Because in the end, heaven isn’t earned — it’s received through mercy given and mercy lived.

Jesus calls us servants — and that’s no insult.
To serve Him is freedom.
To obey Him is joy.
To love Him is the only reward that satisfies.

Martin knew that.
He lived simply, travelled tirelessly, preached fearlessly.
He once said, “I am a soldier of Christ; I cannot fight for Caesar.”
That wasn’t politics — it was discipleship.
His loyalty had changed sides:
from empire to eternity,
from sword to Spirit,
from pride to peace.

He served a new King — one who conquered not by killing, but by dying.

So what does his feast say to us?
It says: keep your cloak ready.
Your cloak might be time, kindness, forgiveness, money, prayer.
Whatever it is, someone’s cold without it.

And when you give it, you’ll find Christ wearing it.
He still comes to us in the poor, the awkward, the unseen.
And He still whispers,

“Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for Me.”

St Martin’s life was short, but his legacy is eternal —
a soldier who became a servant,
a servant who became a saint,
a saint who still teaches us how to love.

Be ready to cut your cloak in two.
Be ready to serve without reward.
Be ready to meet Christ in the cold and the poor.

Because the souls of the just are in the hands of God —
and every act of love moves us closer to those hands.