The storm has passed.
Here in Hull, the last days of September have again reminded us of what it means to live on a narrow peninsula reaching into the sea. For several days we watched the forecast, secured what needed securing, kept an eye on the tides, and waited for the nor’easter to pass. People have been watching the September sky from this shore for centuries.
On September 23, 1815, the Great September Gale swept through New England. The Record of the Life Savers of Hull describes what happened here with striking simplicity: the wind “tore a path through the little village of Hull” and destroyed the old meetinghouse.
Six days later came September 29: Michaelmas, the Feast of St. Michael, and All Angels.
There is no historical connection between that storm and Michaelmas. But their closeness on the calendar helps us understand something about this old feast.
Michaelmas did not begin as an autumn festival. The September observance grew from the dedication of an early church honoring St. Michael on the Via Salaria outside Rome. The date was not chosen because the autumnal equinox had passed or because darkness was beginning to overtake daylight.
That meaning came later.
As the feast traveled north, it encountered a season already filled with meaning. Harvest was ending. Nights were lengthening. Winter was no longer an abstraction.
And there, at the threshold, stood Michael.
Scripture tells us extraordinarily little about him. Daniel portrays Michael as a heavenly prince and protector. Jude depicts him contending with the devil. Revelation gives us the image that would capture the Christian imagination: Michael and his angels fighting the dragon.
The old Anglican prayer for Michaelmas asks that the angels who serve God in heaven might “succour and defend us on earth.” The language is old, but the longing is familiar. When darkness comes, we want to know that we are not alone.
In England, Michaelmas became more than a church feast. It was one of the great quarter days when rents were paid, leases began and ended, accounts were settled, and servants hired. It stood near the end of harvest, when geese fattened on grain left in the fields became traditional Michaelmas fare.
Folklore grew around the feast as well. In Britain and Ireland, people were warned not to gather blackberries after Michaelmas because the devil, thrown from heaven by Michael, had landed in a bramble bush and cursed them. The details became more colorful depending upon who told the story.
It is folklore, not history or theology. But beneath it is something generations living close to the land understand: sweetness has a season. There comes a time when the fruit must be left behind.
Even the flowers seem to know. Michaelmas daisies bloom as other flowers disappear. Some cultivated in Britain originated in North America. Here in New England, our asters still brighten roadsides and fields as September gives way to October.
Along the coast, Michaelmas marked another threshold. In some communities of Britain and Ireland it signaled the end of a fishing season; elsewhere, the beginning of an autumn fishery. On Cape Clear in Ireland, folklore warned that the púca entered the sea at Michaelmas. Beneath the supernatural language was practical wisdom: autumn changes the Atlantic, and those who make their living from the sea learn to pay attention.
New England left Michaelmas behind. The Puritans who settled Massachusetts rejected the old calendar of saints and feast days, and there is no evidence that Hull’s fishermen regarded September 29 as a special day.
The saint disappeared from the calendar.
The season did not.
Hull’s fishermen still watched the weather and knew the danger of an autumn sea. In time, this little peninsula developed an extraordinary lifesaving tradition. Huts of refuge stood ready for shipwrecked sailors. Crews watched the beaches. Joshua James, fisherman and later keeper of the Point Allerton station, became known for going into dangerous seas when someone needed rescue.
Hull helps us understand Michaelmas after all.
Praying for protection does not mean believing that nothing terrible will happen. The meetinghouse fell in 1815. Ships were wrecked. Lives were lost. Faith offers no promise that every storm will turn aside.
Sometimes protection looks like preparation.
Secure the boat. Watch the tide. Know when not to go to sea. Keep watch while others sleep. Build the lifesaving station before someone needs rescue. And when another person is in danger, dare to go.
The days are growing shorter now. Winter is on the way. There will always be storms we can’t prevent and darkness we can’t wish away.
And so, the old calendar gives us Michael, not as a promise that darkness will never fall, but as a reminder to keep watch when it does.
That is courage enough: to pay attention, to prepare for what is coming, and, when the darkness gathers, to look out for one another.
