I remember being in high school, standing on a street corner near the U.S. Capitol Building, waiting for our March for Life bus to arrive. In my notorious inquisitiveness that has gotten me into all sorts of Catholic investigations, I was explaining to a priest friend about how I had randomly stumbled upon a relic of the True Cross in our school’s sacristy drawers and how I was digging through the archdiocesan archives to see if our founder, Cardinal Cushing, had gifted it to the school. I found it odd and frustrating that the late cardinal had ordered for all of his papers to be burned upon his death.
I remember almost whining, “Well, what if we decide to open his cause for canonization thinking he’s a good guy but some of those papers would have convinced us otherwise?” The priest responded: “Stop taking God out of the equation. God makes saints, not the Church.” I was struck, so much so that I remember that exchange with piercing detail almost five years later.
The Church doesn’t make saints, and yet we do. That is how it logistically works, and we certainly acknowledge that there are multitudes more unnamed saints than those who are named and known by our Church. However, it is through the eyes of history, the human experience, and the cultural and sometimes flawed lenses that we end up with our litany of white, polite, and mostly religious saints whom we know and love. This is certainly not a generalization as we do have feisty, fiery, and some diverse saints, but not nearly as much as what represents the diversity of the Church now. Perhaps it better represents the population of Rome, and maybe Europe as a whole, but not the whole world as we know it now. Let me offer an example.
For those who know me, I drone on and on about my experiences in Haiti––it is a place where I grew immensely as a human being and as a person of faith, so it often comes up in contemplation for me as a place where I encounter Christ.
I encountered Christ time and time again in a man named Jean Simon. He is a former gang member, living in a tiny village in Haiti. He made so many enemies in his life in the gang, and rumor has it in the village that he was a murderer. He made particular enemies out of his wife and children, so much so that when he became paralyzed and bedridden from a motorcycle accident, his family fled.
He was eventually discovered by a missionary, whom he despised at first, and she nursed him back to health as he was covered in bedsores. Slowly, she reintroduced him to the God of his childhood, and when I first encountered him, he agreed to have his confession heard and then receive Communion for the first time. His anger and callousness melted. Over the years I’ve known him, his smile grew to light up the room, and his love for the Lord radiates to all who meet him.
After witnessing this Road to Damascus transformation, I remember thinking––again with my often overly ambitious Catholic quests––how much I would like to push for his cause for canonization to be opened after his death someday. I remember being shot down by those who did not completely understand sainthood: “How could he ever be a saint, he did such awful things? Why would he be canonized, he didn’t change the world?”
In my mind, it was a perfect representation of spreading holiness with the life we are given and to answer the call in little, humble ways. If a man bedridden in Haiti can have such a profound impact on countless missionaries––and not to mention all those we’ve shared his story with, in conversations, Torch articles, homilies, and even by Catholic speakers like Chris Stefanick who shared about Jean Simon (and the murals I painted in his hut!) on his show Real Life Catholic and from the SEEK19 stage in front of thousands. This humble man, the way he looks at the Eucharist, and his joyful conversion touched so many hearts that he will never know.
But most likely, most of the world will not know him. Putting “St.” in front of his name is unlikely for a variety of reasons. Though it is heartbreaking to think of all those beautiful souls to die without knowing how loved and valuable they are, it is also hopeful. In a dark world, it is comforting to know that there are Jean Simons, hidden away in huts in the mountains. There are good people everywhere, all working together for a Church and a God––and they know that being a Saint will never be as important as being a saint.
Previously the Campus News Editor and Catholicism 101 Editor, Olivia dabbles in The Torch’s writing and photography. She is a senior studying theology and applied psychology and human development with a minor in journalism. She is unashamedly passionate about youth ministry, Haiti, all things charismatic, the Oxford comma, and CatholicTV––where she can often be found as an on-camera news reporter or host of the To the Heights podcast.
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