When Sanctity is Slow: Finding Peace in Waiting

When my family entered the Catholic Church, one lesson surprised me more than most: everything takes time.

Our parish OCIA (Order of Christian Initiation for Adults) stretched over eighteen months before we were able to be received. The patience required was real, and at times exhausting. But as I’ve continued to walk in the life of the Church, I’ve discovered that this slow pace is not an accident. Formation programs often begin with a year of discernment. Parish initiatives unfold at a measured rhythm. Even reforms within the universal Church move at what feels like a glacial pace.

Why? Why is sanctity slow?

The answer, I’ve come to believe, is not simply “bureaucracy.” Rather, there is hidden wisdom in the Church’s unhurried way: wisdom rooted in Scripture, expressed in the Catechism, and embodied by the saints. Waiting is not wasted. It is formative. And it mirrors the patterns of our own souls.

The Pattern of Waiting in Scripture

The story of salvation is written in waiting.

• Abraham and Sarah waited decades for the fulfillment of God’s promise in Isaac (Genesis 21:1–2).

• Israel waited four hundred years in Egypt before deliverance came through Moses (Exodus 12:40–41).

• The prophets cried out generation after generation for the coming Messiah.

• And even after Christ’s Resurrection, the Apostles were told to wait in Jerusalem for the coming of the Holy Spirit (Acts 1:4).

Waiting, in Scripture, is rarely passive. It is the soil where trust, obedience, and perseverance take root. As St. Paul reminds us: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope” (Romans 5:3–4).

The Catechism captures this beautifully: “Hope is the confident expectation of divine blessing… it responds to the aspiration to happiness which God has placed in the heart of every man” (CCC 1818). Waiting trains the heart in hope.

The Church’s Slow Pace

The Catholic Church has lived for two thousand years. For an institution that thinks in centuries, slowness is a form of fidelity.

The Catechism notes that growth in holiness is gradual: “The way of perfection passes by way of the Cross. There is no holiness without renunciation and spiritual battle” (CCC 2015). This doesn’t happen in a weekend retreat or a six-week course. It unfolds over years, often hidden and quiet.

Consider how the Church handles discernment:

• The Rite of Christian Initiation asks for months, sometimes years, of catechesis and apprenticeship in faith.

• Marriage preparation includes intentional conversations, assessments, and spiritual formation.

• Vocations to priesthood or consecrated life require years of seminary, novitiate, and ongoing discernment.

This rhythm can frustrate those of us raised in a culture of instant answers and quick solutions. Yet the Church insists: deep roots take time to grow.

The Hidden Wisdom of Delay

So what is the hidden wisdom in all this waiting?

1. Formation, not just information

Faith is not simply about learning doctrines. It is about becoming a disciple. To “put on Christ” (Romans 13:14) requires more than study. It takes lived experience, prayer, and gradual transformation. The slowness allows truths to seep from the head to the heart.

2. Discernment over impulse

In a fast-moving world, many choices are made hastily. The Church teaches us to pause, reflect, and seek the Spirit’s guidance. As St. Ignatius of Loyola insisted, discernment requires noticing interior movements, testing spirits, and confirming choices in peace. That cannot be rushed.

3. Communal rhythm

The Church’s calendar itself is slow. Advent is four weeks. Lent is forty days. The liturgy unfolds with deliberate gestures and silences. In all this, the Church reminds us that we are not individuals sprinting alone, but a people learning to move together.

4. Imitation of God’s patience

St. Peter tells us: “The Lord is not slow about His promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you” (2 Peter 3:9). God’s patience is mercy. The Church mirrors that patience, allowing time for repentance, healing, and growth.

Witness of the Saints

The saints confirm this wisdom.

• St. Monica prayed for her son Augustine for over 17 years before he returned to God. Her perseverance bore fruit that changed the world.

• St. Francis de Sales counseled: “Have patience with all things, but chiefly with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.”

• St. Teresa of Ávila endured years of interior dryness before receiving the visions that would shape her reform.

Their lives testify: holiness is not instant. Sanctity is slow, but sure.

The Peace That Comes in Waiting

For those of us who want sanctity now, this lesson is hard. We want our families healed, our habits changed, our parishes renewed—quickly. But Christ calls us to trust.

The Catechism again reminds us: “Patience is not passive endurance but the power to sustain faith, hope, and charity despite trials” (paraphrasing CCC 1832 on the fruits of the Spirit). To live patiently is to live in freedom, knowing God’s timing is perfect even when ours is not.

In my own journey, I’ve begun to see waiting as a sacrament of trust. Each delay, each season of apparent slowness, is an invitation to lean on Christ more fully.

Conclusion: Embracing Slow Sanctity

So yes, things in the Catholic Church take time. OCIA feels long. Discernment is extended. Reforms are deliberate. But hidden in that slowness is the wisdom of God:

• A God who trains His people in patience.

• A God who forms disciples through time, not just instruction.

• A God whose saints teach us that holiness is never hurried.

Sanctity is slow, but it is also steady, sure, and lasting.

If you find yourself waiting, take courage. This is not wasted time. This is sacred time, where Christ shapes you in His image. And when the day of fulfillment comes, you will find that the waiting itself was part of the gift.

Forgiveness at the Foot of the Altar

 

Forgiveness at the Foot of the Altar

The blood of children spilled before the altar. There are no words that can soften such a horror, no easy answers for the shock that gripped me when I first heard about the Michigan Catholic School Mass shooting. The church, meant to be a sanctuary of peace, of innocence, of Eucharistic presence, became a place of terror. Nothing feels more heinous than violence desecrating the very space where Christ offers His body for the life of the world. My first thoughts spiraled into grief and anger. How could this be? How could God allow this? And beneath that anguish came the sharper edge: How could I ever forgive the one who did it?

It was precisely in that spiral that God interrupted me. The thought came unbidden: I love him too. It startled me. Not the victims. Of course God loves them, of course His heart breaks with theirs. But the shooter? The one whose hands shed innocent blood? To hear God’s voice remind me that He loved this young man shook me. And so began a battle in my own heart: could I allow myself to see him not only as a murderer, but also as a lost son, still beloved by the Father? Could I separate the sick, sinful actions from the soul Christ died for?

Scripture does not make this easy, but it makes it unavoidable. The Lord tells Moses, “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” (Exodus 33:19). Jesus echoes this radical freedom in the Sermon on the Mount: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). And the Catechism teaches us plainly: “It is not in our power not to feel or to forget an offense; but the heart that offers itself to the Holy Spirit turns injury into compassion and purifies the memory in transforming the hurt into intercession” (CCC 2843). Forgiveness, then, is not excusing evil. It is obedience: Obedience to a God who dares to pour mercy even where we would rather withhold it.

So I found myself before the Blessed Sacrament, wrestling, rosary in hand. Anger still rose in my chest, but I chose to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet for him. For his soul, for his family, for the unfathomable wounds behind such a crime. Not because I felt like it, but because God asked me to. Each bead became an act of surrender: For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world. Forgiveness, I am learning, is not sentiment but obedience. It is trusting that God’s justice and God’s mercy are not in competition but in union. And in that act of prayer, trembling though it was, I realized: even here, even for him, Christ’s mercy is big enough.