Merciful like the Father: St. Columba

It seems to me that the majority of hagiographies (Saint stories) fall into one of two categories: 1) he was so perfect his whole life that he practically walked on water, or 2) he bathed in a sea of his enemies’ blood until he met Jesus and became perfect. This can be discouraging for those of us who are just consistently jerks. We’re not holy enough or terrible enough to become saints, it seems, so we go on with our mediocrity.

But there are some–increasingly more, it seems, though perhaps I’m just meeting more Saints in general these days–who clearly struggled with sin and brokenness even after their conversion. Ven. Matt Talbot was an alcoholic, Bl. Elizabeth of the Trinity was angry, and St. Mark Ji Tianxiang was an opium addict. Really.

Moderns, mostly, but leave it to the Irish to understand sinning Saints before the rest of us. St. Columba (or Columcille, but not, it seems, Columban or Columbanus, as that’s somebody else) is a dear friend of mine, a powerful witness to our ability to fall even when surrounded by grace–and then to be raised up again.

Descended from an Irish high king, Columba (who lived in the 6th century) was educated by monks before deciding to join them himself. He studied under St. Finnian of Moville and then under the great St. Finnian of Clonard, one of the fathers of Irish monasticism and the “tutor of Erin’s saints.” After his ordination, Columba wandered the country preaching and founding monasteries.

So there he was, all educated and inspiring and fancy with his preaching. Everyone was amazed by him, but he was still very human. His former teacher, St. Finnian of Moville (not Clonard–try to keep up) had recently acquired a copy of St. Jerome’s translation of the Psalms and Columba was drooling over it. A very skilled copyist, he asked Finnian if he could make a copy. Finnian, an abbot and a Saint, said no. Evidently he was also something of a greedy jerk, refusing to allow others access to God’s word. But he did allow Columba to read it, so he did–by day. By night, he snuck into the room where the Psalter was kept and made a secret copy. Another monk saw him doing it and reported it to Finnian, who allowed it to happen. After all, Columba was a very skilled copyist.

When Columba had finished his copy, he got ready to return to his monastery. As he was leaving, Finnian approached. “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he declared, and demanded the copy Columba had so carefully made. He argued that a copy made without permission belongs to the owner of the original.

This became a nasty quarrel and eventually the two “men of God” appealed to the king. He sided with the miser over the thief and told Columba to leave the Psalter with Finnian. Ever obedient (ish), Columba did. And then went back to his clan and incited a revolution. The ensuing battle left 3,000 men dead and the holy abbot with blood on his hands.

Overcome with remorse at what he had done, Columba submitted himself to the judgment of the bishops of Ireland. Though they considered excommunication, they ended by exiling him instead. (Many Irish people would be hard pressed to tell you which is worse.) Columba sailed with 12 companions for Scotland, where he established a community at Iona and proceeded to evangelize nearly the whole of Scotland.

You would expect Columba to have spent the rest of his life doing penance for his terrible, murderous sin, but he didn’t. No more than anybody else, anyway. He fasted and prayed and lived a terribly austere life, but he didn’t spend the next 30 years begging God for mercy. He had already received it. He had been forgiven and received his penance and there was no more need to lament his youthful misdeeds. They had been washed away by the blood of Christ and he was made new. Even though he had known better, even though he’d been given every advantage, even though he’d had no excuse for what he did–getting men killed because he wanted his own copy of the Psalms!–he refused to allow that sin to define him. He knew he was fallen and he knew God was merciful and he let the mercy transform the sin.

Would that we could do the same! So many of us live in the shadow of our pasts, forgetting that God sees only who we are, not who we were. We wallow in our shame and refuse to let God transform us. But St. Paul–himself a murderer–will have none of it. “Forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”¹ Columba is a powerful witness to me of the fact that Saints sin–sometimes dramatically, even after their conversions. I will sin, sometimes dramatically, even after my conversion. That doesn’t mean I’m SOL and I might as well resign myself to sliding into purgatory by the skin of my teeth. My sin will have consequences but by God’s grace I can start again and let him mold me into the image of his Son. 

God’s mercy is bigger than your sin. I hope your past isn’t as ugly as St. Columba’s but I know your future can be as beautiful. Lord, have mercy. Let’s go be saints.

 

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1. Philippians 3:13-14 [↩]