When I think of the people who led me to Christ by faithful example, I naturally think of those I’ve actually met: classmates, mostly. A few older, mentor-like figures.. But that “communion of saints” also includes those who finished the race before me, in previous eras.
For me, one of those pivotal figures was Joan of Arc. I was a young pre-pubescent when I encountered her story in a children’s book at the library (which I’ve since tracked down for my daughter’s bookshelf), and something about her captivated me. Perhaps it’s because she was about the same age as me at the time of discovery, when her patron saints told her she would lead an army and save her country from invaders.
She was also quite young when she died, and I’d be remiss not to admit that that grisly end was also a factor in my fascination.
Thus began an obsession of sorts with martyrdom. From Joan, to Agnes of Rome, Lucy, Perpetua and Felicity, and many others across the centuries, I became enchanted by the idea of dying for one’s faith.
Then, in 1999, the Columbine shootings happened, with rumors of two teenage students who were killed after being asked if they believed in God (both answered affirmatively). These girls weren’t stained glass figurines in history books, but people in my own era who also went to school and did homework and could have been my babysitters (I was 11 at the time; they were both 17).
The desire to be part of something bigger than myself
As a Jewish girl, I wasn’t directly part of the cultural movement within evangelicalism that used these girls’ deaths as a catalyst for making every teenager in the early 2000s convinced that one day a gunman would ask about their faith. Later, some journalists asserted that the martyrdoms never actually happened, but the impact was huge and couldn’t be contained.
In addition to my saint books, I read Jesus Freaks, a collection of stories about modern day Christian persecution.
Looking back, I know my desire to be part of something bigger than myself was real. But I was also jealous of my Christian peers for the wealth of heroes they had to guide them in their spiritual journey, whereas my options were biblical matriarchs (too old) or Anne Frank (relatable in many ways, but the Holocaust was too terrifying to bring home with me in my backpack).
I felt strange going to the children’s librarian to ask for books about more Jewish heroes (Google did not exist yet). I was enough of an oddball already.
Ancient Jewish roots of Catholic doctrine
In Judaism, there is a prayer that addresses “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob,” all the way down the line of Old Testament matriarchs and patriarchs: the earliest of spiritual heroes, the first unofficial saints. The idea of a faithful “cloud of witnesses” existed among Jews long before it was written about in the New Testament. The Catholic veneration of faithful heroes is just one more tradition with ancient Hebrew roots.
Even as a Protestant, I’ve worn a Joan of Arc pendant around my neck. It’s a souvenir from a trip to France when I studied abroad as a college junior. I dragged my mom with me to Rouen, the city where Joan was jailed and executed, to trace her final days. My excitement level was that of a kid at Disney World; I felt that I was walking on hallowed ground.
Looking back, it’s rather obvious that my interest grew into obsession; at times an unhealthy one. A preoccupation with death in that way isn’t exactly the same as a healthy understanding of mememto mori. I also had depression from a very young age, so on some level, that preoccupation made sense.
But however intense that obsession was at times, it was never worship, and it still isn’t. For me, a pendant of my patron saint is no different than wearing a locket with Grandma’s picture in it, or having pictures of deceased relatives in my home.
Nor did all my saintly heroes die brutally for their faith. Catherine of Siena was a formidable woman of the Middle Ages who dared to criticize the pope for licentious behavior; Gertrude of Nivelles is the patron saint of cats (and thus, of my household); Saint Amelia (Amalberga in the original German) is the patron saint of people with shoulder pain, and my daughter Amelia had shoulder dystocia at birth, which I thought was a funny coincidence.
We remember and honor the dead to be comforted by the memories, as well as to imitate the example they set when they handed sacred tradition down to us.