A Star is Born

Imagine having a debate about any topic in the universe, from politics or sports teams to which type of pizza is better New York or New Haven, and then someone says those frustrating words, Hey, I'm just playing Devil's advocate. With that, your light hearted jabs about the best pizza toppings and cheese to tomato sauce ratios. I'll die in your throat. You'll be all night, and by the time you're done, you won't even be sure if you like

pizza anymore. These days, the phrase devil's advocate refers to someone who will take a position they may not necessarily agree with, just for the sake of argument. But the favorite phrase of the worst person in your debate club actually used to be a real job. You see. Back in the sixteenth century, the advocatus diaboli was the person who literally took the side of the devil against the

saints for over a thousand years. Becoming a saint in the Roman Catholic Church was kind of up to individual bishops. It wasn't until the eleven hundreds that the process of becoming a saint, called canonization, was formalized by the pope. To become a saint, someone would have to fit very specific parameters. First, the candidate would have to be dead for at least five years. Next, the church would launch an investigation to ensure that they lived a holy life

full of virtue. After that, the church confirmed that people were drawn to prayer because of the candidate's actions. And finally, the church needed to prove that the can that it performed two verified miracles, complete with witnesses and evidence. If all those points could be checked off the list, then the candidate could officially become a saint. Well. In fifteen eighty seven, Pope Sixtus the Fifth decided the canonization process needed to be stricter to prove a potential saint's holiness

beyond a shadow of a doubt. They needed to treat the whole thing like a legal trial. They had to argue for and against canonization, and present evidence to a jury on a saint's holiness. If the church was going to argue in favor of a saint, then the opposition needed counsul as well. The devil would need an advocate, also called promatorre fidae, which means promoter of the faith. It was the devil advocate's job to question the evidence

supporting a saint's case. The devil's advocate would cross examine witnesses and call for expert testimony. They posited logical questions to the court. For example, if it was claimed that a candidate had cured a believer's disease ease, the devil's advocate would look for other explanations, like if the believer had taken medicine or if their condition had merely passed on its own. If the saints' claim stood up to the questioning, it would be allowed to be added as evidence.

The saints in question also needed representation, which came in the form of a god's advocate. The god's advocate would defend their clients and try to plead the case proving their miracles. Now you might be questioning why the church had a devil's advocate at all. Why wouldn't it just be simpler for the pope to decide whether someone was a saint and call it a day. If only it were that easy. You see, in fifteen eighty seven, the

Catholic Church was in a crisis. Protestantism was on the rise, and whole countries like England and France had broken with the pope. In just two short decades, the Puritans would leave England to set up their own religious utopia in Massachusetts. The Vatican would no longer depend on its congregants to follow its decisions unquestioningly. Therefore, they wanted to present themselves

as authority who took opposing viewpoints into account. By giving the space for the Devil's Advocate to argue against sainthood, the Church's decision to make someone a saint was that much stronger. If the Catholic Church had questioned the saint's miracles but still found them credible, it was much harder for the Protestant faction to poke holes in the Church's integrity. The Devil's Advocate was part of the canonization process for nearly four hundred years until Pope John Paul the Second

streamlined the process in nineteen eighty three. However, the Church still invites critics to weigh in on candidates for sainthood. In two thousand and three, for example, they had atheist Christopher Hitchins testify against the canonization of Mother Teresa. The process certainly has its uses today, nearly four hundred and fifty years after it was first introduced, But that's just my opinion. You can take it or leave it. After all,

I'm just playing devil's advocate here. In our modern day, we're familiar with hot shot tech moguls, CEOs with backgrounds in stem known for having egos and personalities equal in size to their fortunes. But in sixteenth century Europe, when science itself was new, public intellectuals looked very different. They still had the wealth, and they still had the egos, but there was no Internet, no computers, no cars or rocket ships for them to invent. That was all hundreds

of years away. No, the thinkers of the Renaissance started with the most fundamental of innovations, observing and mapping the stars. It was the astronomers who ruled the headlines in the fifteen hundreds, and among them there was one who was more curious than all the others Ticobrahe was born into Danish nobility, so from the start he had a fortune. In fact, at one point he owned one percent of all the wealth in Denmark, and he was a genius

in college. While other boys fought over girls, he fought over math problems. Tko and his cousin once got into such a heated mathematical debate that they settled it with a duel, and Tiko lost the tip of his nose to his cousin's sword. After that, our budding astronomer took to wearing a golden nose, which he would reapply with a special adhesive he kept in a pouch on his belt. And it was around this time that Tico started to

take an interest in astronomy. After witnessing a solar eclipse, the arrogant young man thought that perhaps he was the one to get to the bottom of such a cosmic phenomena. His passion for math had made him a natural fit for astronomy, as he was able to accurately calculate the size, distance,

and speed of various heavenly bodies. He quickly came to the public's attention as he was the first man to witness and correctly identify a supernova he observed and measured as the star spent a whole year blinking out of existence, and thus he was able to put forth that stars are not permanently fixed in space, but so lustial bodies with unique movements and life spans. As he came into the public eye, Tico's flamboyance kept up with his genius.

If his golden nose wasn't enough to remember him by, his two lifelong companions definitely did the trick. The first was a dwarf named Yeepey. How Yepay and Tico met is a mystery lost to time, but they became inseparable. Tico, despite being a man of science, believed that Yeepey was psychic and always wanted him on hand to predict the future. His second strange companion was a moose that he kept

as a pet. And you heard that right. He simply thought it was a more attractive and noble creature than any other animal he had encountered, and as with Yepey, he took the moose everywhere he went. It slept inside his house and followed his carriage as he traveled. But there was one infamous occasion where Tiko's love for his pet got them both into trouble. You see, he brought the moose with them to a dinner party, where he

wowed the guests with its size and friendliness. Even more interesting, though, he showed the guests how the moose had a love for Danish beer, and the moose kept drinking throughout the night, either to amuse the guests or because it really did love beer. And while a moose may have a higher tolerance than a human, it can still succumb to intoxication. Such was the case at that fateful dinner party, where after a long night of imbibing, the moose tried to

climb a flight of stairs. Unfortunately, that is one obstacle for which a moose is not well suited, let alone a drunk one. It slipped, tumbling down the stairs in what must have been a one of a kind calamity. Tiko rushed to its side, horrified to find that his moose companion was injured. The exact nature of its injuries is lost to time, but soon the moose succumbed, Tico's companion was dead. It's a strange chapter in a strange life. Tiko would go on to many adventures, including owning his

own island and having an affair with a queen. Some even believe that he was ultimately murdered, potentially by mercury poisoning. While fact in fiction get harder to separate with the passage of time, Tico Brahe's flamboyant personality still calls attention to itself, flickering like a curious supernova from the deep distant past. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of

the Cabinet of Curiosities. Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by visiting Curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Mankey in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show, and you can learn all about it over at the Worldolore dot com. And until next time, stay curious.