Fear of saints

It’s All Saints Day on the church calendar. The day we remember the “saints” — those believers that have come and gone. At least that’s how some would define it. I guess I’m inclined to think of the “saints” as anyone who has touched our lives in some way with the light of God. Whether they were believers or not.Whether I recognized their touch for what it was, or not. In that way, I probably have multitudes of saints to be grateful for today.

Hard to think of one right at the moment, however. Which is my problem, of course. Recognizing saints when they’re standing right in front of you. I’m usually so caught up in myself and in my own self consciousness and sense of inadequacy it’s hard to see past that. Hard to be present. Hard to look up and see people and moments that are infused with radiance.

And truth be told, most of the time, I don’t want what people have to offer me. I so often see gifts being given to me as coming with strings attached. Someone hugs me because they want something from me. Someone compliments me because they’re needy and want me to be their friend. Someone wants to spend time with me and I feel suffocated, like I’m going to be held captive and bored.

It’s all so crazy and yet this is the only reality I know.  I am so NOT a saint on the inside, though I may give the appearance of one now and then. I guess I do have my good moments, but rarely do I have purely good moments. They are all so twisted up, the good and bad, the grace and despair, the love and hate, the openness and fear, all braided together. Impossible to separate the various strands.

And now I need to go down to church potluck. To a room full of saints, potential saints, saints in the making. And I would rather go run and hide.