Routine Sanctity

When I was six or seven, I read and re-read our family’s old beat up copy of “Butler’s Lives of the Saints.” I was endlessly fascinated by the astounding miracles worked by these friends of God, their inspiring witness in martyrdom, and their extraordinary acts of virtue.

The miracle worker, the martyr—the extraordinary—those are the saints. Those are the ones who are destined to go straight to heaven. As for the rest of us? Well, have you restored sight to the blind lately? Made the lame walk? I find it highly unlikely that you have been martyred, though if you have, leave a comment, I don’t want to miss that story. I’ve never met anyone that has done anything like that. Not one. Most likely, you haven’t either.

Sometimes, it seems all too easy to finish reading the lives of the saints, and think, “Another ordinary day. I guess that’s why no one will ever read about my life.”

But if we do find ourselves thinking this way, we will have missed the entire purpose of the saints’ lives. I once thought that to be a great saint, one had to perform great miracles. Short of this, one was surely destined to become a purgatorial guest at best. There is, of course, a great danger in this mindset. Jesus tells us that we are to “be perfect, as your Heavenly Father is perfect.” —Mt 5:48. If we find ourselves not performing astounding works, then obviously—so the logic goes— we are not meant to be counted among the great saints. In other words, we certainly can’t be expected to be among the perfect Jesus talked about. “That kind of thing is for Padre Pio, St. Francis, and the other stigmatists perhaps, but obviously not for someone like me.” This leads us to strive, not for the perfect, but for the “good enough.” This mentality lets us off the hook in obeying Jesus’ command—or so we think. For, the bar has been set by Christ, and if we lower it, we will find that every time we fall, it will fall ever lower with us.

No, this bar is as immovable as God Himself. Note well the bar, though. It is not a calling to be a miracle worker. Indeed, there are many saints who have no recorded miracles, yet they are still great saints. St. Therese, called by Pope Saint Pius X "the greatest saint of modern times" has no recorded miracles during her lifetime.

It turns out, there is only one thing every saint has in common: each did the will of God. When I was younger, I focused on the miracles that the saints performed, and missed that the purpose of these miracles was not to show forth the sanctity of the saint—although it does—but rather the entire point was that this was how God’s will was meant to be accomplished. Jesus tells us that if we have faith the size of a mustard seed, mountains can be moved. And this is true, but sometimes God’s will is for the mountain to stay firmly in place.

”But,” it may be objected, “surely God’s will is that I perform great and heroic acts, even if they are not miraculous.”

Perhaps that is His will for us. Might I suggest, however, that God’s will for us is found far more often in what may be deemed “routine” and “ordinary.”

Perhaps as Lent comes to a close, as we meditate on the passion narratives, we may come to a deeper appreciation of following God’s will in the routine. St. Luke tells us “He came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives; and the disciples followed him.” —Lk 22:39. St. John adds “Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place, because Jesus often met there with his disciples.” —Jn 18:2. It was the routine of Jesus to go to Gethsemane to pray. We may gather from the gospel writers that He had done this dozens if not hundreds of times. Jesus knew of course what awaited Him there—His own death. And yet, He went because He always followed the will of His Father. This is a lesson for us: one day, like Christ, we will walk the road to Calvary, but if we have learned to unite our will to the Father’s, through the hundreds of routine duties of our lives, we can say with Him, “not my will, but thine, be done.”

There is a second “ordinary” lesson to be learned from Gethsemane. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John with Him to pray, but to the other disciples He says “Sit here, while I pray.” The other disciples sat down. Was this a very great deed? Yes, it was. The will of God was for them to simply rest. It is undoubtedly true to say that resting at that moment was greater than the most heroic act that any of them could have performed. Why? Because in that moment, that was God’s will. God’s will is always—always—perfect. Therefore, in that moment, yes, through sitting, they were performing the greatest and most perfect act possible for each of them.

That is all that any of us can do, and what all of us must do. The difficulty, many times, is truly believing that such small acts really matter to God. We tell ourselves that we follow God’s will in the “important” things, but we excuse ourselves when following His will in the “routine” and the “ordinary.” The challenge for each of us is remembering that by God willing something, there is no such thing as “ordinary.”

Nothing is unimportant. The belief otherwise is simply a temptation from the devil. Indeed, it is the temptation given to Jesus. Satan tempts Our Lord to perform miracles—turning stones to bread, and being borne by angels off the temple. Our Lord’s silence, though, for 40 days is important—because this was His Father’s will.

In the novel, “A Canticle for Leibowitz,” a so-called scholar in conversation with a monsignor spies a man shuffling along the road and says:

"Look at him! No, but it's too dark now. You can't see the syphilis outbreak on his neck, the way the bridge of his nose is being eaten away. Paresis. But he was undoubtedly a moron to begin with. Illiterate, superstitious, murderous....Look at him, and tell me if you see the progeny of a once-mighty civilization? What do you see?"

"The image of Christ," grated the monsignor, surprised at his own sudden anger. "What did you expect me to see?"

To believe that doing the smallest thing with love is somehow unimportant is to believe that God’s will is unimportant. Of this we can rest assured: if it were unimportant, God would not will it. If we are tempted to discount the “unimportant” things and ask ourselves, “What do you see in this small trifle?” We should, like the monsignor, shout back, “The will of Christ!”

Nothing is unimportant, “For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother, and sister, and mother.” —Matt. 12:50. This truth ought to astound us each time we hear it. Consider a mother lovingly gazing at her child as she rocks him to sleep. If we were to ask her what she was doing, she may truthfully reply, “I am being a mother to Christ.” We are told that the souls in Purgatory can be relieved by our good works. It is entirely possible that one day we will learn that many souls ultimately reached beatitude through the small, seemingly insignificant acts of motherly love. Many more may reach Heaven by the simple act of those who are willing to sit and kindly listen.

“Sit here…”

That may be how God wants you to become a great saint. After all, in the parable of the ten bridesmaids, the five that went into the wedding feast were the ones who sat and waited for the bridegroom. For Christ will never abandon those who wait patiently for Him.

He is the faithful bridegroom. And we? The miracle worker? The martyr? Better still: the beloved. For someday, He will tell us the time for sitting is over.

“Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”