There is something obscene about our modern relationship with holiness. Not obscene in the vulgar sense, but obscene in the sense of indecent, out of place, out of frame. We look at it the way we watch a wildlife documentary—with curiosity, sometimes admiration, but always from a distance. As if it concerned another human species. As if those lives had strictly nothing to do with ours.

And yet.

Take Saint Emily de Rodat. Take Saint John Bosco. Take someone else if those tire you. They were neither superhuman, nor particularly favored, nor miraculously protected by a comfortable providence. They lived in harsh, violent, unstable worlds, with no safety net. And they did exactly what we stubbornly refuse to do: they took the faith seriously.

Not symbolically. Not inwardly. Not "in their own way." Seriously.

They did not wait for conditions to be right, because conditions never are. They did not wait to be ready, because no one ever is. They did not wait to have sorted out their fears, their limits, their contradictions, because that kind of inner housekeeping never ends. They acted because they understood something we do everything to forget: if Christ is true, then inaction is no longer a neutral option. It becomes a polite betrayal.

The world they lived in was a world in ruins. Not an imperfect world, not a complex world, but a broken world. The poor were not a concept but an inconvenient presence. Children were not a conference topic but an abandoned mass. Souls were not an abstract word but a lost reality. And they did not spend their time explaining why it was complicated. They did something.

We, on the other hand, live in a world where everything is designed so that we never have to truly act. We have replaced commitment with opinion, charity with discourse, conversion with posturing. We have learned to talk about the good without ever getting our hands dirty. And we call that prudence, lucidity, maturity.

It is a lie.

Holiness is not an exceptional vocation reserved for rare profiles. It is the normal consequence of a faith that has not been castrated. If it seems inaccessible, excessive, out of proportion to you, it is not holiness that is radical—it is your faith that has been domesticated.

It must be said clearly, because no one says it anymore: believing without acting is not a weakened version of Christianity. It is not an incomplete Christianity. It is something else. A comfortable simulacrum. A parlor religion. A faith without body, therefore without cross.

We love to talk about discernment. Discernment is very convenient when it serves to never decide. We love to talk about complexity. Complexity is very reassuring when it serves to justify inaction. We love to talk about personal limits. Limits are very human when they become a permanent excuse.

The saints had limits too. Real ones. Physical, psychological, intellectual limits. They simply refused to make them an alibi.

Making the world a little better than we found it. Not saving it, not repairing it entirely, not playing substitute messiah. Just not leaving it in the same state for personal comfort. It costs something, obviously. It costs time, energy, peace of mind, sometimes recognition. But what it costs, precisely, is what we hold most dear: our little peace.

And there is the real scandal.

We believe in a crucified God, and we organize our lives to avoid any form of cross. We speak of total gift, and we negotiate every gesture. We speak of radical love, and we carefully count what it will cost us.

At some point, we have to stop lying to ourselves. If faith never overflows into reality, it is not deep—it is sterile. If it never disturbs your schedule, your comfort, your priorities, then it governs nothing. And what governs nothing saves nothing.

Christ never asked for intentions; he asked for acts. He never promised favorable conditions; he promised the cross. He never called people who were ready; he made capable those who were called.

So yes, the question is violent. It is intentionally so. Because it dismantles all the hiding places.

What are you waiting for?

Postscript

Yes, this text is aimed at me. I am perfectly capable of producing beautiful analyses to avoid moving. I know very well how to intellectualize my cowardice, disguise my comfort as wisdom, call prudence what is often just fear. But I also know this: not acting is already a decision. And it is a decision for which an account will have to be given.