Hidden Sanctity

I’ll admit it right up front: I have an ego. I can relate to St. Paul’s defense of himself. I have my own holiness list. I’m a practicing, daily Mass, home-schooling, raising-a-large family, active-in-the-parish, tithing, weekly Holy Hour, NFP-practicing sort of Catholic. I don’t smoke, drink, sleep around, live on credit, cheat on my taxes, or spread gossip. I do a lot of volunteering, I breast feed my babies, I cook from scratch, make my kids eat vegetables, and recycle. I’m sure my way is the right way. I like to tell other people the right way, too. I notice their failings. “Why don’t they …?” and “Oh, Lord- thank you that I’m not like those sinners over there!”

The Holy Spirit has been tapping me on the shoulder recently, giving me a spiritual nudge to shut up and open my eyes. Once I managed to quit looking for myself in others, I discovered an amazing thing.

I’m surrounded by hidden sanctity.

It’s not like my kind of sanctity at all. It’s so easy to judge others by the outer, easy-to-see differences. Unfortunately, much holiness is lived in the quietness of hearts and private lives. It’s in the background, making life better for others without giving away who is responsible. The problem is, it’s so quiet and well … hidden. But it’s there. If I had spent less time wondering why people aren’t like me, I might have discovered it sooner.

It’s the sanctity of a father who may not be down at every liturgy at the church, but is working two jobs so his wife can afford to stay home with their kids. It’s the little old arthritic lady who never gave a huge bequest to the church, but offers up her day’s pain and sends $5 to each charity that sends her an appeal. It’s the mother who may not be at the Bible study, but instead spends her time praying with her family. It’s the man who never volunteers to lector but always makes time to help an acquaintance fix their porch, casually sharing his faith as they talk. It is the priest who gives boring sermons, but offers his sleepless nights for the needs of struggling parishioners. It’s the parents who may not sign up for a Holy Hour but who are home loving a drug-addicted teenager back to wholeness. It is the woman who slips in and out without talking to anyone, risking a beating from her husband every time she comes to church. Sanctity lies hidden in the elderly nun who may not run a world-renown religious ed. program, but quietly tends the sanctuary every day for her Beloved. It’s two men who never go to Men’s Club meetings but pray Morning Prayer together in the wee hours before work, while their families still sleep. It is the little old ladies who make the rounds to the shut-ins in the neighborhood even though they don’t belong to St. Vincent De Paul Society. It is the gruff neighbor who doesn’t volunteer at the church festival but always manages to plow the sidewalk down the entire block when no one is looking.

Hidden sanctity is the kind of sanctity that no one sees except God. It has made countless, nameless saints. It doesn’t need affirmation or recognition in order to keep going. It is faithful for faithfulness’ sake, without any reward.

It humbles me.