The Fine Line Between
The saints, I think, would be surprised
that they are saints, most of them mere men
just sorting it out as it happens,
leaning on a God they could not see,
with things ending poorly for them
as often as they ended well,
never believing they would end up as icons
on a church wall or in museums,
held up as something holy.
But then perhaps that is what makes them saints,
no inherent holiness, but a willingness
to believe in love
in a world that at best, pays it lip service,
a willingness to disbelieve that the madness we live in
is the aberration, not the norm, to disbelieve the evidence
in favor of faith
and thereby making the world they touched
closer to God than any of us deserve to be,
living, as we all are, on that fine line
between heaven and hell.
About this poem
Once last week I was accused of being a saint. I quickly cleared that up with the truth. I’m just a guy, I tell people, muddling through. Like most of us I live on that fine line, grateful for grace.
The picture was taken at the Museum of Russian Icons in Clinton, Mass. I love that place.