The saints are easy to love, aren’t they? Who doesn’t admire St. Josephine Bakhita‘s capacity for mercy? St. Maximilian Kolbe‘s unimaginable sacrifice? St. Elizabeth Ann Seton‘s courage under crisis? These holy women and men are our compasses and our companions. We’d be lost without them.

This month, to commemorate the feast of All Saints, we are offering a lineup of articles that acknowledge and celebrate a handful of these holy people. Some we present here are familiar, such as Oscar Romero and Francis of Assisi; others are less known, such as Julia Greeley and Carlo Acutis. Time, culture, and language separate them, but they each model a pure surrender to God that can inspire our own faith. We hope you enjoy this issue.

And to all the saints (even Christopher): Pray for us!

A former military chaplain explains how St. Francis can be an example for those struggling with the traumas of war.

St. Francis is usually portrayed in a docile fashion: a haloed figure gazing mildly at a bird perched on his hand with deer and rabbits gathered at his feet. But the dime-a-dozen garden statues miss the true character of the saint from Assisi. Francis, the patron of peace, was a man who had been through war and captivity and still carried mental wounds from the trauma.

These military experiences have drawn a unique crowd of devotees. Many veterans have been drawn to St. Francis’ example and comforted in their own trials by what they see as a kindred spirit.

“He had the memories. He had the dreams. He had the flashbacks,” says Franciscan Father Conrad Targonski, himself a veteran. “And you think about these veterans and all the work I do with my brothers and sisters who are coming back from war; all of us feel the same way.”

After serving for 22 years as a chaplain for the Marines, he now ministers to students at Wisconsin’s Viterbo University. He says that veterans of all ages still come to him for spiritual guidance, and he regularly takes these military men and women on pilgrimages of healing.

Francis, the Veteran

Long before St. Francis would hear the voice of Christ and renounce wealth for a life of poverty, he lived the privileged life of a young aristocrat. When war broke out between Assisi and the neighboring city of Perugia, he eagerly signed up. The young man, then in his early 20s, yearned for the romantic glory of war, not unlike many young enlistees today.

“When Francis went to war, he realized it wasn’t what he thought,” says Father Targonski. “It was a real startling experience; [like] when a young person walked on to, let’s say, the Marine Corps, and he wanted to be a Marine and all these billboards that kind of espouse the Marine ideal. Then he meets the drill instructor.”

Rushing into battle without any training, Francis was captured by the enemy. He likely saw the tragedy unfold as his fellows from Assisi, who were vastly outnumbered, were slaughtered in a crushing defeat. Other prisoners were immediately put to death, but the men of Perugia realized that this young aristocrat might carry a valuable ransom and threw him into prison.

Francis was held in miserable conditions for a year while his enemies negotiated the price of his head. Eventually, his father paid for Francis’ freedom, though some accounts detail that he had already contracted a grave illness from inhumane treatment. Looking deeply into writings from his day, some analysts say that, long after his conversion, Francis would still experience post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from this battle and imprisonment.

“In some of the writings, it’s very strange. He’s with the brothers already, and he wakes up in the middle of the night feeling rats crawling all over him, and he’s yelling,” says Father Targonski.

Though it’s not a nightmare that would be expected from the patron saint of animals, it’s one that military veterans can deeply relate to. It is also one of many stories of St. Francis that has helped Father Targonski through his own trauma.

“Sometimes it’s difficult, [and] some days are worse than others. But I saw a lot,” says Father Targonski.

Ministering in War

During his time as a military chaplain, Father Targonski served two tours in Iraq. The Chicago native was deployed with the Seventh Marine regiment during the Battle of Fallujah, which, in 2004, retook the city from Islamic insurgents and resistance fighters. The battle would be one of the bloodiest of the war, with 110 coalition forces and thousands of civilians killed.

Some 3,000 insurgents were also killed or captured. The Marines fought into the heart of the city itself—an environment where a concealed sniper, an ambush, or a booby trap could be around any corner.

As supervisory chaplain and the only Catholic priest, Father Targonski had to hurry through the streets from unit to unit and minister to the 14 other chaplains.

“You were seeing bombs. We called them tracers. You were constantly taking cover of mortars flying into your position. It’s the only place you’d be bored and five seconds later you go to utter terror,” he recalls. “I see on the news bodies lying in the streets, but here I was seeing them right before my eyes.”

In Fallujah, Father Targonski carried with him a replica of the San Damiano cross, the image that would mark the turning point of St. Francis’ life. It was this icon—a striking portrayal of Christ on the cross, eyes open and seeming to be already victorious over death—that Francis was praying before when he heard the voice of Christ ask him to “rebuild my church.”

“That was my sword, and I just gazed at it,” says Father Targonski, adding that he now has a great devotion to the image.

The Veterans of the San Damiano Cross

After hearing the words of Christ while kneeling before the San Damiano cross, Francis would take some of the most radical steps of his life. First, he would sell his father’s goods in an attempt to fund literal repairs of the chapel where the crucifix hung. Then, once discovered and rebuked by both his father and the local bishop, he would renounce his birthright, embrace poverty, and return everything to his father—even the clothes on his back.

But what was it about this now-famous icon, then dirty and surrounded by a crumbling edifice, that caused such a radical change in the aristocrat-turned-saint?

“There are three military people in the icon,” Father Targonski points out. “[The San Damiano cross is] actually talking to veterans coming back from war.”

Unremarked by most, yet unmistakable to a veteran’s eye, those three figures may have arrested the attention of the young man. In the icon, five large images of people are gathered around the crucified Christ, witnesses described by the Bible, including Mary his mother and the beloved apostle John. At the far right is the Roman centurion who had been stationed to guard the prisoner. His hand is raised as if he is just uttering the all-important profession of faith, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

At the feet of these larger images are two smaller figures—the soldier who pierced the side of Christ and the soldier who offered Jesus a sponge soaked in vinegar. Those military men, all turned toward the crucified Christ, may have shown the war-traumatized veteran where he should turn to find healing.

For Father Targonski, the image of Christ has helped heal some of the worst memories of the war. Once he saw a flatbed truck filled with the elderly, along with women and children, roll into an active battle zone.

Running to the truck despite the firing around him, Father Targonski saw a young girl cover her eyes in fear. The eyes of Christ on the cross, he reflected, are open.

“They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul,” he explains. “I think Francis saw in the eyes the soul of Christ, which is divine mercy.

“It’s part of healing the memory. It’s that process where you look at things that were terrible, but you look and see good things that may have happened because of it,” he points out, “[like] saying what have I learned from this, and how can I make the world better?”

Following the Veterans’ Experience

Today, Father Targonski hosts a special pilgrimage for veterans that introduces them to St. Francis and follows his journey from the military to sainthood. The trip takes these men and women across the Italy that Francis knew, including Assisi and the city where Francis experienced war. They also journey to the fertile Rieti Valley, where Francis was overwhelmed by the glory of God’s creation.

There, near one of four shrines that he would eventually erect in that valley, Francis experienced what many veterans long for: the knowledge that he was forgiven.

“The stories are uncannily appropriate because he had this problem with not being forgiven. And that’s what veterans have. Sometimes they’re forced to kill, and sometimes they have to deal with things,” Father Targonski explains. “And Francis struggled. He struggled and he struggled with it. But something happened in Poggio Bustone, where he realized he was forgiven.”

Today, a modern statue representing God hovering over St. Francis commemorates this moment of mercy. Father Targonski says that the veterans on the trip are always “dazed” by it.

There is also another statue that unexpectedly captures their attention. This likeness, situated outside the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi and often overlooked by civilian pilgrims, portrays the strongest connection to Francis’ former military life. Francis, unexpectedly garbed in full medieval armor, sits astride his armored horse. His head hangs down as if from deep sorrow.

The portrayal captures another key moment in the life of the saint that occurred after Francis had fought in Perugia, yet still before his conversion at San Damiano. He had left Assisi to join the Crusades, not unlike a soldier leaving for a second tour of duty.

Likely he was still grappling with the emotions of his first battle and felt the need to redeem the memory by a second trial. This time, he had prepared himself by purchasing the best armor that the age could provide. Perhaps he again was struggling with his desperate desire for the glory of knighthood.

Long before reaching the battle, however, the would-be Crusader heard the voice of Christ. The Lord stopped his progress and instructed Francis to serve “the master,” not the man. When Francis asked what he must do, God answered: “Go back home. It will be revealed to you what you must do.”

The dejected figure immortalized by the statue captures how Francis must have felt on his long journey back to Assisi. Still unclear what God wanted from him and unable to explain what has happened, the young man fears the imminent reaction of his family and friends at this early, inglorious homecoming.

It’s another experience that speaks deeply to the military vet. First, there is the confusing jolt back into civilian life. Then, it’s the fear of what others will think as the veteran attempts to process his or her unexplainable experience.

“With a veteran, you’ve got that call to adventure,” explains Father Targonski, “then you face reality, and then, of course, you have this fact that you almost died, and your compatriots have died.

“Even friars mentioned that I was different, and I think they were afraid of me, not because I was scary, but they didn’t know how to talk to me,” he recalls. “It’s just something that I think many of us experience when we come back to our families. Wives are afraid. Children are afraid.”

Looking Outward

So the veteran, like the literal portrayal of Francis, figuratively lets his or her head droop low in sorrow. In response to a world that does not understand their experience, these warriors-turned-civilians tend to withdraw. But instead of finding healing within, many experience greater depression and anxiety, and even lose hold of their former relationships.

Yet, here again, these men and women can find hope and inspiration in the example of St. Francis.

“He did something very extraordinary,” Father Targonski points out. “Many of us veterans, we withdraw. We go inside. But you know what? Francis didn’t. He went outside.”

After his figurative “defeat” en route to the Crusades, Francis looks outward to literally embrace others. Riding around the outskirts of Assisi, he comes upon a leper—an outcast shunned by the rest of the town, dirty and horribly disfigured by the ailment.

After all of his searching for a purpose beyond his own traumatic experiences, the young saint realizes that their shared suffering has made this leper his kin. He embraces the man and kisses him in a rapture of brotherly love. In that moment, he seems to understand that God can use his darkest experiences to bless those around him.

“Francis was commissioned; he used his experience to heal. And I think that’s why he continued with the lepers. He went outward,” Father Targonski says. “We have homeless shelters here in La Crosse, Wisconsin, and that’s where I hang out. There’s a certain solidarity that I feel. That’s where we belong.”

In the years that followed, Francis would continue his outward focus to preach the Gospel in distant lands, undaunted by danger and imprisonment. He had finally found that his yearning for glory was not an earthly one, but one directing him to reach heaven itself.

Working for Peace

Francis’ radical way of life quickly attracted other veterans who were, like himself, in search of both glory and healing. Accounts detail that on his second missionary journey, Francis met a soldier in the street, Angelo Tancredi, and called him to become a soldier of Christ. According to The History of St. Francis of Assisi by Léon Le Monnier, the saint said: “My brother, thou has long worn belt, sword, and spurs; henceforth, thy belt must be a cord, thy sword the cross of Jesus Christ, and for spurs thou must have dust and mud. Follow me.”

Angelo immediately followed him, giving up everything to become a friar. Father Targonski notes that even the very first person to join the brotherhood was himself a soldier.

“[Francis’] best battle buddy, Bernard of Quintavalle, joins him. That’s what began it all,” says Father Targonski, quickly adding the obvious questions: “How many other combat veterans joined Francis? How many of these guys were at war? And why were they changing to such a radical, different type of life?”

Perhaps Francis’ very patronage of peace began on the battlefield. After all, who would be more motivated to work for peace than one who had experienced the horrors of war and suffered from the trauma for the rest of his life?

“Would we have the same Francis if he had not gone to war and had this experience of PTSD?” Father Targonski wonders. “I don’t know. But I think God uses experiences.”

God seems to be still using the experiences of St. Francis to touch others, especially those who, like him, have been on the battlefield.

“I’m a little prejudiced here: I think that veterans are going to change the world, and they see a world of harmony and fratelli tutti,” says Father Targonski, using the Italian phrase for “all brothers” that was coined by St. Francis and used by Pope Francis as the title of his most recent encyclical.

Even after leaving the field, the memories of war remain for the rest of a veteran’s life. But as the saint of peace has shown, the grace of God can transform even the worst experiences for his glory.

“I’m no saint,” we may tell ourselves. But stories of the saints show us that we, too, are capable of extraordinary faith, courage, and love.

Because I was a cradle Catholic, the stories of the saints were a staple in my household. The saints were a constant presence in my life and in my catechesis; yet I found myself often turning away from them in my personal prayer and reflection. I struggled with the idea that I was not good enough to ever achieve sainthood. The lives of the saints seemed like the lives of the superheroes. The older I got, the more it shifted from Catholic “superhero” stories to stories that didn’t relate to my own personal life and struggles . . . or so I thought.

The stories of the saints have been impacting me in ways I couldn’t see until years later. Their legacies, faith, and strength have influenced my life as a Catholic, even in the moments where my aversion toward them seemed to keep me immune to their stories. The promise of sainthood looks a lot like the walk to Emmaus. We do not walk to the table where we break bread with Jesus alone; we walk there with the saints, in a relationship of accompaniment that marks our lives in this world and the next.

There are many saints who have transformed me and torn away the coldness in my heart. Saints have taught me that there isn’t just one way to love God and love others. One of the beautiful facets of the Catholic faith is how it holds up examples of holiness and God’s presence among us from a wide range of cultural backgrounds.

St. Oscar Romero: Champion of the Oppressed

The story of St. Oscar Romero is marked with poverty, justice, and liberation. Romero, among the eldest siblings in his family of nine, grew up poor in a town near the border between El Salvador and Honduras. He knew from a young age that he wanted to become a priest and was ordained in 1942 while in Rome, where he had finished his studies at the Gregorian University. Romero had hoped to continue his studies, but because of a lack of priests in El Salvador, he returned to his home country to serve as a pastor for his people.

In the early years of his priesthood, Romero wanted to simply live out his vocation as a parish priest, conservative in his social and theological views of his role in the community. In 1977—the same year Romero became archbishop of San Salvador—his friend and brother priest Rutilio Grande, SJ, was murdered because of his alliance with the poor in El Salvador and his advocacy in helping them secure justice against social and political oppression.

This event shifted the trajectory of Romero’s life and mission to love and serve those at the margins. Romero’s life story taught me that we cannot ignore the suffering in this world simply because we know that suffering will always exist in this life. That cannot be an excuse for us to be indifferent or silent toward the ways social, political, and even Church structures oppress and silence the voice of the marginalized. We must find ways to encounter the poor and the oppressed, to empower their agency as children of God.

Quarantined at home for several months during the coronavirus pandemic like so many across the world, I found myself with time. During this period, I picked up A Prophetic Bishop Speaks to his People, a compilation of the homilies given by St. Oscar Romero in El Salvador. With every page I found space to house my anger and hopelessness in regard to social injustice and racial inequity. St. Oscar was a reminder to me in this moment of what it looks like to be a champion for the liberation of others, to live out a Gospel message that directs us to love our neighbor.

Servant of God Julia Greeley: Seeing Christ in the Poor

Servant of God Julia Greeley was born into slavery and is among six Black Americans being considered for sainthood. Her story is marked by the way in which she proactively loved the poor, standing in solidarity with the marginalized community in the city of Denver.

Her story began in Hannibal, Missouri, where she experienced the bondage and cruelty of slavery; she was emancipated in 1865 and found herself employed as the housekeeper for a wealthy family in Denver. She became Catholic in 1880. Only in the past few years has Julia Greeley’s story started to be widely circulated, capturing the hearts of members within the body of Christ who are enraptured by her love for others despite the evils she endured in her lifetime.

Julia never turned away any of the poor who came to her seeking assistance, even though she herself was lacking in material possessions. She knew that to see Christ in the other meant to love with what society would often deem “reckless actions”—to bring alms, to hold, support, and empower others. Julia’s story ends with a funeral full of life, full of Denver’s poor coming to pay respects to the woman who not only saw Christ in them but with that very act empowered their God-given human dignity.

It is this gift of life that we must embrace as a Church, a life full of diversity within the body of Christ, and the human dignity within each of us that calls us into communion with each other. Julia’s ability to love her neighbor still speaks to us today and draws us into the Gospel message.

As a Church marked by the evils of slavery, racism, and white supremacy, it keeps us accountable to reconciling with our past and proactively working to create a future where all members of the body of Christ are upheld as having been made in God’s image and likeness.

It’s very easy to say that we see Christ in others, if those others are our friends and family. It’s easy to see Christ in the people we love, in the people who respect our space, in the people we know well. But that’s not the point of what it means to see Christ in the other, and if this is all we do, then we have missed the mark.

As a Church, we need to continue to share the story of Servant of God Julia Greeley in our parishes, in our diocesan offices, and in our formation classes. Her story is not only one of resiliency but also one of a woman who lived through the absolute evils of white supremacy, racism, and slavery, and still loved her neighbor. Yet we must remember as a Church that even though Julia loved her neighbor, that does not mean making excuses or justifications for the way white supremacy and racism live still within our Church institutions.

Blessed Rani Maria: Martyr for Social Justice

Blessed Rani Maria Vattalil was born on January 29, 1954, in a small village in India. Baptized into the faith as an infant, she would later discover her baptismal calling to religious life as a member of the Franciscan Clarist Congregation. Like Servant of God Julia Greeley and St. Oscar Romero, Sister Rani Maria devoted her life to loving service and empowerment of those at the margins of society. She could be found teaching children outside under the trees, working with the community to provide adequate educational resources for these children. Her zeal to stand in solidarity with the marginalized was a force of liberation within her community, where she advocated not only for local children, but also for the homeless, the elderly, women, and farmers.

The love that she encountered in her vocation, the love of Christ that transformed her, and the love that she had for others proved to be a relentless call to action in seeing Christ’s love become manifested in her work for social justice. Sister Rani Maria knew that Christ was for the poor, and so we, too, must be for the poor.

On the morning of February 25, 1995, Sister Rani Maria entered the convent chapel to pray before boarding a bus that would take her to do her holy work with the people. Having missed the first bus, she boarded the second, and hours later the police would call her convent to state that Sister Rani Maria had been murdered. An assassin had boarded the bus and brutally stabbed her in front of the crowd, dragging her body off the bus where she would take her last breaths, saying, “Jesus, Jesus.”

We often get scared of the line “to be for the poor” and what it would cost us. We live in a world marked by materialism, individualism, greed, and the need to be successful by the terms and standards of economic growth. The culture in America today does not make space or encourage solidarity with the poor.

Today’s culture tells us that the cost is too high. You can donate a few dollars to a charity, go to that local silent auction, or share that petition online—but to actually be with and for the poor? It’s scandalous.

At times it’s even scandalous to say these words within the American Church. We have seen the way the “prosperity gospel” narratives sweep across our churches and pews: the belief that if we have money and others don’t, there must be some divine reason why. It cannot simply be because we have set up a society that works toward success at the cost of the poor.

The story of Blessed Rani Maria is striking because of what it reminds and, in many ways, demands of us as a Church, as members of a universal body of Christ. Blessed Rani Maria understood this, and the God of liberation transformed her to be a vessel of life and love for the poor. She worked to restore their agency within community and society, to share with them the promise of God’s love for all people, to empower them to be known as children of God. Sister Rani Maria knew that God had called her to love recklessly, and she did, even though it cost her life.

Finding Our Divine Purpose

The stories of St. Oscar Romero, Servant of God Julia Greeley, and Blessed Rani Maria have shown me why we proclaim the lives of the saints, those who dedicated their lives to sharing the hope of the Gospel. We must carry their stories within us because each of us has been created with a divine purpose to live our lives marked by the Gospel. The lives of the saints are not meant to make us feel small, they are not meant to feel unattainable, and they are not the stories of superhuman beings.

St. Oscar Romero, Servant of God Julia Greeley, and Blessed Rani Maria all lived lives marked by the promise of liberation that Jesus brings forth through his life, death, and resurrection. They became vessels of God’s hope to God’s people. They allowed themselves to be transformed by the truth of Scripture, practicing the traditions and teachings of our faith in a way that welcomed all people to the table. As a universal Church, we can learn from these three holy people how to love our neighbor, make space for others, and live daily lives marked by the love of the Gospel.

The lives of the saints beckon us onto the road to Emmaus. They draw us into the conversation of faith, life, and the ways in which we can love each other and, in doing so, love God. They draw us out of isolation, indifference, and darkness to walk along a road that leads us to a table where everyone is welcomed to come and break bread with the Messiah.

St. Oscar Romero, Servant of God Julia Greeley, Blessed Sister Rani Maria: Pray for us. Walk with us. Break bread with us.

Artwork of Oscar Romero, Julia Greeley, and Rani Maria by Leanne Bowen

Faced with a very difficult decision, Joseph teaches us that righteousness means loving both God and neighbor.

St. Matthew is the only evangelist who has much to say about St. Joseph—and he doesn’t tell us much!

We know that he was a carpenter or craftsman and that he was a descendant of King David. And we know that he was “righteous.” We know this because, at the time Mary conceived the Messiah, Joseph was betrothed to her, but not yet living with her. (When a couple was betrothed, they were considered married, but it was only some months later that the wife moved in with the husband, and they began normal married life.)

It was during this in-between time that Joseph learned that Mary was pregnant. St. Matthew tells us what Joseph did when he heard the news. His response has much to teach us about what it means to be righteous.

The Importance of Righteousness

Catholics don’t seem to use the word righteous much. You rarely hear us talking about striving to be righteous or admiring someone for his or her righteousness. Yet Jesus talks about righteousness quite often. In the Sermon on the Mount (Mt 5:3–12), in fact, he all but dwells on it: “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” and “Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.” Later, Jesus says, “Unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter into the kingdom of heaven” (Mt 5:20), and “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness” (Mt 6:33).

So why don’t we talk about righteousness very much? I suspect it’s because, at least in our American context, the idea of being righteous can be seen as a negative. Maybe it’s because we unconsciously put the word self before it. Who wants to be known as self-righteous? Or maybe we associate righteousness with a certain harshness and fiery zeal, as we see in caricatures of fire and brimstone preachers whose “righteous indignation” renders them inhumane and merciless.

Whatever the reason, the fact that we seldom talk positively about righteousness, despite the teaching of much of the Bible and of Jesus in particular, suggests that we might have a twisted sense of what this notion is all about. The saints we celebrate this month all hungered and thirsted for righteousness, so it’s a good time to take a closer look at what St. Joseph can teach us about this virtue.

_{Greg Friedman, OFM, talks about the righteousness of St. Joseph.}

A Righteous Decision

Matthew tells us what happened when Joseph learned of Mary’s pregnancy: “Joseph her husband, since he was a righteous man, yet unwilling to expose her to shame, decided to divorce her quietly” (Mt 1:19). This one little sentence, which we can so easily pass over, has a lot to say about what it means to be righteous.

Now for some technical work: The quote above is one translation of the Greek, and depending on which Bible you have, you might see a different translation. Many Bibles have something like,”Joseph her husband, being righteous, yet not wishing to disgrace her . . . .”

See the difference? Being righteous yet not wanting to expose Mary to shame suggests that he showed concern for Mary. It tells us that the desire to protect Mary arose from his desire to be righteous.

For Joseph, righteousness was not just about doing the right thing (as he understood it at the time), but also about doing it the right way. In other words, obeying God’s command and being kind to Mary were not mutually exclusive. Far from it, in fact, since showing compassion toward Mary also fulfilled God’s commands.

When Joseph found out that Mary was pregnant, it naturally didn’t occur to him that Mary remained a virgin and that she had conceived by the Holy Spirit; he only learned this later from the angel. Like anyone else, Joseph would have assumed that Mary conceived in the usual way, and since he knew he wasn’t the father, this meant that she was unfaithful. This may have been very difficult for Joseph to believe, given what he knew of Mary’s character, but there it was: the indisputable fact of her pregnancy. Faced with this, he had to respond.

Loving God and a Neighbor

According to Jewish law, infidelity during the betrothal period was considered adultery, and Joseph was required by divine law to divorce Mary, or “send her away.” In making the decision to do this, Joseph was being righteous and obedient to the will of God. He was, in other words, fulfilling the commandment to “love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind” (Dt 6:5; Mt 22:37). Jesus would later teach his disciples that obeying God’s commandments is an expression of righteousness.

While Joseph was required to terminate the betrothal and send Mary away, he still had a choice to make. He could have made the whole affair very public, perhaps out of revenge or a strong sense of “justice.”

Artwork by Jessie Wagnon

In doing so, he would not only have exposed her to public shame, but also possibly to death by stoning (Dt 22:21–24 and Jn 8:4–5). Joseph decided not to do this. Instead, he wanted to minimize the damage to her as much as possible by dealing with the situation discreetly.

Despite what some translations may say, this act of mercy was not despite Joseph’s righteousness. It was an expression of it, every bit as much as was his fidelity to the command to send Mary away. Joseph knew, as all good Jews knew, that God commands that we love our neighbor as ourselves (Lv 19:18; Mt 22:39). Joseph, because he was righteous, knew that being true to God meant sending Mary away, but he also knew that God demands charity. A few years later, St. Paul would urge the Ephesians to “grow in every way into him who is the head, Christ,” precisely by “living the truth in love” (Eph 4:15). This is righteousness.

Being Righteous Is Demanding

It must have been very hard for Joseph to make the decision to divorce Mary, but given what he knew at the time, there was no other course of action. Joseph knew that a righteous person does not compromise when it comes to the will of God, no matter how difficult fidelity may be. This is why Jesus warns his disciples that they will be persecuted for the sake of righteousness (Mt 5:10). This is why many Jews and Christians have chosen to be martyred rather than be unfaithful to God. And this is why many modern-day Christians have bravely remained faithful in the face of relentless social pressure to speak or act in ways that conflict with the Gospels.

Righteousness is often costly, and sometimes that cost involves others. Jesus also insists, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me” (Mt 10:37). As much as Jesus teaches his disciples that righteousness requires a demanding faithfulness to God, even when it goes against our natural inclinations, he also teaches that mercy is demanded of God as well. He insists that “judgment and mercy and fidelity” are all “the weightier things of the law” (Mt 23:23).

Joseph knew this, too, and so he chose to send Mary away quietly in the hopes that it would minimize her pain and possibly save her life. Joseph realized, as Jesus would one day teach, that it is blessed to be merciful because it is God’s will that we show as much mercy as we can even when we must do something very difficult. This is God’s way, and so it must be ours too: “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Lk 6:36).

In this one brief statement about Joseph, who decided to send Mary away without disgracing her, we find the essence of what it means to be righteous. It turns out that righteousness, far from being a cold, calculating devotion to justice, is a warm, faithful virtue that always seeks merciful justice and just mercy.

As we celebrate the saints who have shown us God’s holiness in so many ways, may we be especially grateful to St. Joseph, the righteous man, whose example encourages us to seek always to “live the truth in love” (Eph 4:15).

Celebrating his final Veterans Day in 1963, President John F. Kennedy said, “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” The 65,000 non-US citizens who serve in our military at any given time would readily agree. Immigrants’ contributions to our armed forces, in fact, can be traced back to the Revolutionary War. But director John J. Valadez is indifferent to history here. In his blistering documentary, American Exile, he aims his storytelling lens at two brothers in particular, Vietnam veterans Manuel and Valente Valenzuela: Mexican by birth, American to their very core.

A brief civics lesson: According to federal law, foreign-born soldiers who serve “may be naturalized without having resided, continuously immediately preceding the date of filing such person’s application, in the United States for at least five years.” In 2017, however, President Donald Trump slowed this process down by instituting mandatory wait times. For veterans such as the Valenzuela brothers, whose service ended decades ago and who live in the United States on borrowed time, the threat of deportation is excruciating.

Thousands of veterans have been expelled from the country since their service ended—some for minor legal infractions. What gives American Exile its emotional gravity is that the Valenzuela brothers are among them: Valente for assault and theft, Manuel for battery and resisting arrest. These happened decades ago, and the central question remains: Should these misdemeanors disqualify them from citizenship? It’s a heated debate between the right and the left to this day.

What Valadez presents here is the brothers’ broader struggle of seeking citizenship, but also their internal battles with PTSD. Valente, especially, is haunted by his years of service—the emotional pain, we the viewers realize, has roots. Attention should be paid to Valadez’s gifted cinematographer, Elia Lyssy, who weaves around the brothers like a silent prizefighter, capturing the pain their eyes cannot possibly hide.

What the film says, implicitly, is that we have to do better by our veterans and our immigrant population, two communities that can overlap. If these women and men are good enough to fight for this country, they’re good enough to call it home.

Not all saints and blesseds died centuries ago. Meet Blessed Carlo Acutis, a teen who combined devotion to the Eucharist with a passion for computer technology.

One crisp morning, the sun rises over the precipice of the mountaintops, painting the horizon with pastel purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows. As the dawn blankets the valley, pilgrims set out down an alley of stairs only to twist and take another flight entering into the time capsule of this medieval city on a hill. A cacophony of the larks dancing above singing their morning praises, brakes of small trucks delivering fresh ingredients, and the clomping of rubber soles on the pink Monte Subasio stone overwhelm the senses, reminding us that this holy town still functions in contemporary times.

Our group descends to our primary stop, one of the minor basilicas of Assisi. We walk inside the arched, ancient doorway to be met by centuries-old pews, earthquake-shattered frescoes, and simple masonry. As we visualize the scene of St. Clare that took place in this basilica, I catch a glimpse of a new shrine in the side aisle. There stands a sign that reads: “Carlo Acutis.”

I break away from the group to take a quick peek and grab a brochure. I feel the Spirit begin to weave Carlo’s story into mine.

Typical Teen

Carlo Acutis was born May 3, 1991, in London. Shortly after his birth, his family moved back to northern Italy. Carlo grew up in what most people would consider a normal family. His parents worked, he went to school, and they lived life in the modern world. Carlo had several pets, played soccer, went snow skiing, loved movies, and played video games.

His life drastically changed in June of 1998. He greatly anticipated his first Communion because the Eucharist was the center of his life, and he wanted to fully participate. This occasion left an indelible imprint on Carlo’s soul. He was always drawn to Christ. His mother, Antonia, remembers that when he was little, he could not pass a church without stopping in to greet Jesus in the tabernacle, and that continued into his adolescence. His parents were Catholic but had ceased going to Mass. Carlo changed that because he knew the significance of the Eucharist.

The Eucharist was to Carlo as fuel is to a Ferrari. Without fuel, without tires, without a steering wheel, a Ferrari cannot function. Without adoration, without Mass, without prayer, Carlo could not function. He never missed Mass because he was completely captivated by the sacrificial lamb on the altar. Carlo’s soul burned to tap into this timeless grace. His eucharistic drive was contagious.

As Carlo grew into his preteen and teenage years, his schedule was chock-full of classes, homework, social events, sports practices and games, music, video games, serving in his community, Sunday dinners with family, and chores. He went to the movies, shopped with his friends, and relished the treat of gelato; however, he stood out from the crowd. Carlo limited his video game time to one hour a week so the games would not distract his mind to worry solely about temporal things. Francesco Occhetta writes in Carlo Acutis, the Servant of God: Beyond the Border that Carlo said, “They’ll stand in line for hours to go to a concert but won’t stay even a moment before the tabernacle.” After his first Communion, the Eucharist opened a portal inside of Carlo that only the Eucharist could pass through, and he dedicated his life to it.

His Mission Begins

In the early 2000s, the Internet was becoming more popular, but programming, coding, building websites, and blogging were left to the professionals because they were so complicated. Carlo dove in to master this new tool, and he applied his newfound knowledge and skills to updating and building new websites for his parish and his school. He saw the Internet as a vessel to draw attention to the faith and ultimately to the Eucharist.

As Occhetta reports, Pier Luigi Imbrighi, the secretariat of the Pontifical Academy of the Martyrs, said that Carlo “was an extraordinary expert, aiding us with great readiness to help and dedication in the creation of our website on vatican.va.” Carlo helped them promote programs for volunteers through online advertising. People in the technology world and in the Catholic sphere began to recognize Carlo as a technology protégé. He simply desired to use computers for the good.

Being a catechist, wanting to dive deeper in knowledge, and using the Internet more and more as a resource, Carlo began investigating eucharistic miracles. These physical phenomena struck his heart, and he could not contain his joy. He decided to create an exhibition to virtually display different eucharistic miracles for a wide audience.

He convinced his parents to take their family vacations over two and a half years to the sites where eucharistic miracles had taken place. He took along a camera, a camcorder, and paper to note every detail of the prayerful spaces. Carlo started from ground zero to build his exhibit website by physically traveling to the towns to take his own pictures, record his own experience, and report the stories on the plaques. Most of all, Carlo and his family spent their travels together in copious amounts of individual and communal prayer before hosts that had turned to blood, hosts that were stolen and miraculously reappeared in the church, hosts that had converted thousands of souls before him. He knelt in the divots of the hundreds-of-years-old kneelers and poured out his life before the monstrance.

Carlo’s story changed the moment he stepped into the chapel of Orvieto, where the corporal cloth stained with the blood of Christ is exposed for veneration. His heart converted again when he knelt before the host turned flesh of the heart and wine turned type-AB blood in Lanciano. Carlo would have encountered physically taxing days with long walks between sites, time changes, different routines, and the like; however, the eucharistic miracles provided him an energy so strong because they were becoming part of his very fiber.

Carlo realized that we are walking with Christ, but we are also walking each other home. Carlo’s gait on his path of discipleship was propelled by the Eucharist. Spending time with Jesus in the sacrament allowed him an opportunity to pause, to breathe, to listen. He possessed a keen awareness that time with Jesus is the only way to receive life. Silence and solitude before the host became a sign of life for him. His love for the Eucharist, his pilgrimage journey, and his skill for technology merged into a single lane; here his mission was born.

He initiated a blog about his family’s adventures. Word got around about Carlo’s website, and he was asked to display physical copies of the information and pictures at a church in Rome. From 17 different countries, he meticulously organized 142 detailed panels. His love for the Eucharist motivated him to capture the miracles in words and images. In return, others were enthralled and transformed.

A Life Cut Short

Carlo fell ill in October of 2006 amid his exhibition progress, technology projects, high school education, and life as a teen. His parents took him to the doctor with flu-like symptoms, and the test results came back as advanced leukemia. Despite the gravity of his diagnosis, Carlo took the news with grace by keeping Christ the top priority, and he offered everything up for the pope, the Church, and his direct entry into heaven.

St. Thérse of Lisieux wrote: “It’s true, I suffer a great deal‚ but do I suffer well? That is the question.” Carlo, despite the pains of cancer, suffered gently. He always thanked those around him and kept a positive spirit. He made sure that family members were taken care of. Occhetta reports that Carlo once said, “All people are born as originals, but many people die as photocopies.” Carlo retained his originality.

Father Sandro Villa, the hospital chaplain, visited Carlo the day before he slipped into a coma. Courtney Mares, a journalist for Catholic News Service, interviewed Carlo’s doctors and chaplain for her article “Blessed Carlo Acutis’ Doctor Recalls His Last Days in the Hospital.”

She wrote that Father Villa described his one encounter with Carlo: “I was amazed by the composure and devotion with which, albeit with difficulty, he received the two sacraments. He seemed to have been waiting for them and felt the need for them.” Even on his final full day on earth, Carlo’s heart belonged to Christ in the Eucharist. Father Villa said, “I discovered that he was in love with the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, and I therefore began to better understand.”

Carlo also touched his medical team by his faith. Mares said they remember that “his gentle eyes taught us a lot. Life, whether short or long, must be lived intensely for oneself, but also and above all for others.” In the hospital, Carlo evangelized with his life and sometimes even with only a gaze.

According to Occhetta, Carlo told his mom, “I am happy to die because I have lived my life without wasting a minute on those things which do not please God.” Death was not feared but was rather a welcomed invitation. Carlo died on the morning of October 12, 2006.

On the Path to Sainthood

As Carlo’s witness circled the globe, people started to pray for his intercession. In 2009, the first oratory in his honor was established by Bishop Domenico Sorrentino, the bishop of Assisi, right next to Santa Maria Maggiore, where his body now rests.

Carlo was named a Servant of God in November 2016 by the bishop of Milan, Cardinal Angelo Scola. He was declared Venerable in July 2018 by Pope Francis, and he was beatified on October 10, 2020, just two days before the 14th anniversary of his death.

Today, the family of Carlo Acutis continues his mission of spreading the joy of the Eucharist. In Occhetta’s book, Carlo is quoted as saying, “If we get in front of the sun, we get suntans, but when we get in front of Jesus in the Eucharist, we become saints.” Blessed Carlo Acutis, indeed, is one step closer to becoming a saint.

Learn more about Blessed Carlo Acutis!