Saints

Considering that our own quite contrary Mary is about to secure her own entry in next season’s Super Saints and Martyrs collector cards, it’s important for all teeth-gnashing Protestant heathens to get a handle on the whole saint concept. Like Jimi Hendrix and Big Kev before her, Mary MacKillop has gone through a stringent series of evaluations to get her name on the Canon scoresheet.

Gone are the days when the Catholic Church handed out sainthoods like smiley stickers at a hippy festival – the criteria have grown tougher over the centuries. The general rule of thumb (apart from being dead) is that you must be martyred for God and a miracle needs to occur when people pray to you. If you happen to die while moving a heavy fridge up some stairs, two miracles are needed to get you past the line. With a recovering cancer patient, a few devout witnesses and an infallible papal investigation you’ll be negotiating a book deal and ABC documentary series in no time.

The one thing that maintained my interest through a Catholic upbringing was the stories of the saints. Collecting their medallions – much like footy cards at church – taught me about the patron saint of this, that and whatever*. Most importantly, it helped me learn that, unlike polytheistic religions like Hinduism, Christianity instead has three major gods with tens of thousands of minor gods dedicated to each little aspect of life. What really won me over as a boy were the inventive torture methods that the saints of old endured in order to secure their halos.

Unlike sex and independent thought, violence and beer are the two staples of an apostolic diet. You might have heard about the Romans crucifying St Peter upside down after requesting not to die like Jesus (whoops), or recognise St Sebastian tied to a tree echidnafied with arrows, but other stories make Genghis Khan look like a pussy. My personal favourite is St Lawrence – patron saint of comedians. The Romans thought it’d be a laugh to grill the poor sod on a barbecue. In a rare moment of genius, he said halfway through, “This side’s done, turn me over and have a bite.”

 

Stick around.

If being sawn in two from head to crotch doesn’t make much sense, many saints make simply no sense at all. Take one of the favourite thugs of the church, Sir Thomas More, advisor to Henry VIII, author of Utopia and fierce defender of the Catholic Church. More was made saint in 1935 by Pope Pius XI, despite the fact he orchestrated the execution of William Tyndale, a scholar who translated the bible into English, then tortured and executed any heretic who owned a copy. Funnily enough, Tyndale’s translation of the bible has been the basis for all English bibles ever since – including Catholic.

Like Kylie Minogue, the marketing powerhouse of the Catholic Church knows how to adapt with the times and be all things to all people. Just like martyrs and saints were made with the stretch of the rack and blistering of flame, so heretics and Protestants who denied their existence were given the same blessings hundred of years later. While the archaic, patriarchal system and Canon Law of the church is under threat by common sense, what better way to rebrand the church than getting behind a progressive nun who hated child-abuse?

Let Mary MacKillop be remembered for being a good person and an inspiring woman, not transform her into a poster-girl for cardinals with guilty consciences and fodder for Woman’s Day features.

*Despite this, I am still unable to find the patron saint of sarcastic diabetics.