Saints are Sinners

This weekend before Mass, I was sitting right underneath a statue of Mary on one side of the altar. Her face was set in a serene, Mona Lisa-esque smile, her arms held out as if to embrace us. Her robes were unwrinkled and her face was free of any lines or blemishes. Put simply, she was flawless.

Most other statues or religious images are created with a similar, airbrushed perfection. And so often I find myself thinking one thing when I see them: I wish I knew who you really were. It's like looking at old photographs of long-dead relatives. We often grow up loving and respecting them from what's been passed down, but we'll never truly know them.

These images show us a perfect face. And we are told that these men and women are our role models in our life with God.

Sometimes, it's easy to feel discouraged. After all, they all seem so holy. Talk about setting the bar high!

But the truth is that these saints lived very human lives. We don't call them saints because they were sinless and untouchable. In fact, for the vast majority that couldn't be farther from the truth. Augustine, Francis and Ignatius were all materialistic playboys before they encountered God. Catherine of Siena argued fiercely with the Pope. Bernadette of Lourdes was considered contrary, stubborn and aloof by her superiors. Padre Pio's temper was world famous.

The same can be said of many of the Bible's greatest "characters" — David had an affair. Peter denied Jesus. Paul was a murderer. Mary Magdalene is thought to have been a prostitute.

All of them continued to struggle with temptation and sin even after they committed to following God's will. We call them saints because of their perseverance in faith, not their perfection.

The Church has saints to show us that anything can be overcome with God's grace and a willing heart. They are as unique and troubled as we are. If they can become holy — if they can be the best version of themselves — then we can, too. It's as simple as acknowledging when we fall, and asking for God's help to get up again.

The Lord wills not the death of a sinner but rather that he should turn and live. ... There is a time of endurance, a time of long suffering, a time of healing, a time of correction. Have you stumbled? Arise. Have you sinned? Cease. 

—St. Basil of Caesarea

Ordinary Mercy

Last week, the Catholic Church marked a special feast day that we call Divine Mercy Sunday. I was out of town last weekend so I'm a little late, but I couldn't let the occasion pass unrecognized.

For Christians, life is a daily exercise in learning to listen to the "still, small voice" of God. Like it or not, neon signs from heaven and other miraculous wonders aren't an everyday occurrence for most of us (though miracles can and do happen all the time).

In the 1930s, a young Polish nun named Faustina began to write down what she says were visions of Jesus. All of these visions featured Jesus speaking about how much He loves us and is willing to forgive us when we fail. Those messages became known as the Divine Mercy, and devotion to it sprang up all over the world. You can read more about it here.

Tonight, I wanted to share an old story that taught me a lot about the way God loves and forgives us.

I got my driver's license at 21, the last of my group of friends. Being older didn't prevent me from making a rookie mistake, however.

I'd only had my license for six weeks, and the thrill of my seven-minute commute to the newsroom was still fresh. The drive was a piece of cake by then, having repeated it over and over again with my learner's permit.

In fact, it was so familiar and second nature that, for just a second, my brain went on autopilot. I was about to miss the turn off my street. Realizing the error, I startled and cut the wheel hard, but it was too late. I was heading straight for the house on the corner.

Now, it would have been simple to just, you know, hit the brakes. But new drivers don't always make the best decisions, especially when they panic.

In a brief moment of sheer genius, I hit the gas.

The car lurched forward. My mind froze. I jostled over the curb, onto the grass, into their bushes ... and eventually came to a rough, sudden halt in the front yard.

No one was home at the time. The once-neat line of shrubbery looked like a partially toothless Jack-o-lantern. It was a hot mess. I was a hot mess. Thankfully, no one was hurt.

But that night, I had to face my father. I spent the whole day at work mortified, guilty and terrified of what he would say to me.

When I got home from work, he didn't say anything, trudging silently out to the garage to assess the damage to the car. When he returned, the painful silence dragged on.

Finally, more out of paranoia than anything else, I snapped. "Dad, just say something," I pleaded.

He watched me for a long moment, and my heart ached from disappointing him. But then something incredible happened. Dad crossed the kitchen and wrapped me up in a bear hug, the kind he used to give me when I was small. With a kiss on the top of the head, he told me, "I'm just glad you're alright."

The relief, humility and pure joy that washed over me in that moment was unforgettable. Yes, it was a simple mistake, but it was also a really big deal for me.

Looking back, I've come to see that experience as a teachable moment from God. He used my dad's loving forgiveness to teach me about the tenderness of His own Divine Mercy. I think back to that night sometimes if I find myself doubting God's love.

This story is just one simple way that God uses the events of our daily lives to reach out in touch us. It's why learning to see our lives through the lens of faith makes such a difference.