The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 14

 

Isaiah 14 is a chapter of reversals—one that peels back the illusion of human power and pride to reveal a God who is both just and deeply committed to the restoration of His people. While some passages are sharp in their poetic judgment, the through-line is unmistakable: God is not indifferent to injustice. He does not overlook oppression, nor is He threatened by earthly power. He is the Restorer, the Ruler, and the Just Judge—and this chapter invites us to behold Him as He truly is, in power, mercy, and clarity. As we read, we will see not only what God tears down, but what He rebuilds—and what that means for our own lives of faith today.

Isaiah 14:1–2

"The LORD will have compassion on Jacob and will again choose Israel, and settle them on their own soil. Strangers will join them and be added to the house of Jacob. The nations will take them and bring them to their place..."

God as the Faithful Restorer

This chapter opens with a promise—not a warning. Before Isaiah speaks judgment over the arrogant nations, he speaks mercy over God's people. We meet a God who remembers His covenant, even after seasons of rebellion and exile. Israel may have strayed, but God has not let go.

The phrase “again choose Israel” is striking. It reminds us that God's choosing is not a one-time act but a continuous, renewing commitment. His compassion is not a reluctant pity—it is a movement toward restoration. He does not just bring them back; He brings them home.

This passage also hints at something radical: the inclusion of “strangers” into the family of God. The God of Israel has always had a heart for the nations. Even here, before the full revelation of Christ, we glimpse the wideness of God’s mercy.

Isaiah 14:3–8

"When the LORD has given you rest from your pain and turmoil… you will take up this taunt against the king of Babylon..."

God as the Giver of Rest

Before the judgment falls on Babylon, God offers rest to His people. This is the first mention of rest in the chapter, and it is not merely physical—it’s relief from fear, oppression, and inner torment.

God does not want His people to live in survival mode. His desire is not only to rescue them but to restore them. Here we see that divine justice is not just about punishing the wicked; it’s about giving peace to the weary.

In our own lives, we can forget that rest is a promise of God. Many of us carry burdens far longer than we need to, mistaking weariness for holiness. But God is not glorified by exhaustion—He is glorified when His people walk in the freedom He offers.

Isaiah 14:9–11

"Sheol below is all astir preparing for your arrival… Your pomp is brought down to Sheol, and the sound of your harps; maggots are your bed beneath you, and worms your blanket."

God as the Just Judge

Now the scene shifts. The king of Babylon, who once terrified nations, is humbled. This isn’t just political commentary—it’s a theological statement. Human pride, no matter how mighty it seems, will be brought low. God alone reigns eternal.

Isaiah’s language here is vivid and jarring. Why? Because arrogance blinds us to reality, and poetic force is often the only way to break the illusion. The king who saw himself as invincible is laid bare. His fate is not cushioned by wealth or power.

We are reminded that God is not mocked—and His justice is not delayed forever. For the oppressed, this is not a threat—it is a comfort. It means tyrants do not win forever. God sees. God acts.

Isaiah 14:12–15

"How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of the morning!... You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to the heavens… I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to Sheol."

God as the Only Most High

This is one of the most famous prophetic poems in Scripture. Often linked symbolically to both the fall of Babylon and the fall of Lucifer, it reflects the heart of rebellion: the desire to ascend, to exalt oneself, to dethrone God.

But there is only one Most High. There is no second throne. God shares His glory with no one—not because He is insecure, but because to place anyone else there is to exchange truth for a lie.

What does this show us about God? It reveals His holiness, yes—but also His clarity. He is not ambiguous about His place in creation. He is not one option among many. He is the center, the source, the unshakable foundation. To place ourselves above others—or above God—is to fall into the same lie that undid Babylon.

Isaiah 14:16–20

"Those who see you will stare at you and ponder over you: ‘Is this the man who made the earth tremble…?’"

God as the Reverser of Earthly Glory

The theme of reversal runs through this chapter. The mighty fall. The weak are lifted. Those once feared are now pitied. God does not evaluate greatness as we do.

This section exposes the illusion of earthly power. The king of Babylon inspired dread, but in the end, he is just a man. Stripped of title and strength, he is left with only the legacy of destruction.

This is a sobering reminder to evaluate our lives not by acclaim or ambition, but by whether we are aligned with the purposes of God. Power built on pride will fall. But a life yielded to the Lord endures.

Isaiah 14:21–23

"I will rise up against them, says the LORD of hosts… I will sweep it with the broom of destruction."

God as the One Who Ends Oppression

God does not forget the victims of injustice. He rises—not randomly, not in wrathful impulse—but in righteous response. His judgment against Babylon is not spiteful—it is cleansing.

The imagery of a broom may seem harsh, but it speaks to a deeper truth: God’s justice is thorough. He does not leave behind hidden corruption. He does not allow injustice to thrive under a thin veil of respectability. He sweeps clean what has been defiled.

This is good news. For everyone who has lived under tyranny, for every hidden evil that seemed untouchable, God is a righteous sweeper. He clears the path for righteousness to flourish.

Isaiah 14:24–27

"The LORD of hosts has sworn: As I have planned, so shall it be, and as I have purposed, so shall it stand… For the LORD of hosts has purposed, and who will annul it? His hand is stretched out, and who will turn it back?"

God as the Sovereign Planner

In a world where plans change, rulers fall, and chaos often feels like the norm, this declaration cuts through the noise: God’s purposes stand. His plans are not reactionary. They are intentional, unshakable, and beyond interference.

God does not simply observe history—He authors it. And when He chooses to act, no power in heaven or earth can stop Him. This is not just theology—it’s hope. It means that even when we are caught in the middle of systems that seem immovable, God is not limited by them.

This part of the chapter centers on Assyria, another dominant empire, but the principle is universal: human strength has limits. Divine purpose does not. When God says “so shall it stand,” He means it. For the weary, the forgotten, or the oppressed, this is a source of strength—we are not at the mercy of chaos. We are held by the purpose of God.

Isaiah 14:28–32

"Do not rejoice, all you Philistia, that the rod which struck you is broken… From the north comes a cloud of smoke, and there is no straggler in its ranks."

God as the Guardian of Perspective

This closing oracle to Philistia is a warning against false celebration. Just because one threat is removed doesn’t mean safety has arrived. God’s message here is about perspective: don’t gloat, don’t assume, don’t place your hope in temporary political change. Real safety comes not from the rise or fall of nations, but from the hand of the Lord.

We often fall into the same trap as Philistia—mistaking relief for victory, or assuming that one favorable turn means we’re secure forever. But God’s wisdom is wider. His warning here is not just to the Philistines, but to anyone tempted to put confidence in momentary circumstances.

And yet—even in this passage—there is a whisper of comfort: “The LORD has founded Zion, and in her the afflicted of his people find refuge.” (v. 32)

God always makes a place for the afflicted. That is His heart. He may shake the nations, but He always shelters the lowly. He never forgets the ones who seek Him in their pain. His justice brings disruption, but His mercy brings refuge.

Final Reflection: The Face of God in Isaiah 14

Isaiah 14 gives us a complex, beautiful portrait of God. We see a God who restores His people, humbles the proud, gives rest to the weary, and overturns unjust systems. But most of all, we see a God who reigns—not just in heaven, but over history.

He is not passive in the face of evil. He is not distant from suffering. He is the God who acts, who speaks, who remembers, and who restores.

And He invites us to live aligned with His heart: to seek rest in Him rather than status, to walk humbly rather than exalt ourselves, and to remember that power without righteousness is an illusion.

Where have you seen God act like this in your life? Where is He sweeping, restoring, or calling you to rest?

You can follow the rest of the “Face of God in Isaiah” series here on the blog. When complete, this series will be available in print form through our Ko-fi store. For deep study, I recommend the Ignatius Catholic Study Bible, which has helped shape my understanding of God’s heart throughout Scripture.*

Scrupulosity Isn’t Holiness: Learning to Trust the Mercy of God

Scrupulosity can feel like devotion turned inside out.

You want to love God. You want to do right. You want to avoid sin. But somewhere along the way, your heart starts whispering that nothing is ever enough. You second-guess every word, every action, every thought. And confession becomes less of a homecoming and more of a courtroom you keep re-entering, afraid the sentence wasn’t fully served.

Let’s say it clearly: scrupulosity isn’t holiness. And God’s mercy is not as fragile as your fear would suggest.

What Is Scrupulosity?

Scrupulosity is a form of spiritual anxiety that causes people to obsess over sin, confession, and moral perfection. While it often shows up in devout Catholics, it may be connected to certain anxiety disorders. It attaches to your desire to be good—and turns it against you.

You might be struggling with scrupulosity if you:

• Fear you’re in a state of mortal sin constantly

• Repeat confessions or worry they “didn’t count”

• Avoid the Eucharist even when you’re not aware of serious sin

• Ruminate on intrusive thoughts and assume they reflect your soul

• Feel like God is distant unless you’ve been morally perfect

These patterns can wear you down spiritually, emotionally, and physically. And they don’t reflect the heart of the Gospel.

God’s Mercy Isn’t Earned—It’s Given

At the core of scrupulosity is a fear that God’s mercy must be earned through precision, perfection, or punishment. But Scripture tells us something radically different:

"But God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us." —Romans 5:8

Jesus didn’t wait for you to be clean before He drew near. And He doesn’t demand exactness—He desires trust.

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, who struggled with scrupulosity herself, said it best:

"What pleases God is to see me love my littleness and poverty; it is the blind hope I have in His mercy."

Confession Is a Sacrament, Not a Trap

If you find yourself dreading confession or constantly replaying past sins, it may help to remember what the Sacrament is—and what it isn’t:

• It is a channel of grace and healing

• It is not a legalistic audit where grace is withheld for clerical errors

• It is a homecoming to the Father

• It is not a test you can fail by forgetting a detail in perfect sequence

The Catechism is clear: if you’ve made a sincere confession, and didn’t intentionally withhold mortal sin, the absolution stands. Even if you forgot something. Even if you didn’t cry. Even if you felt numb.

Rest in that truth. Trust the sacrament more than you trust your anxiety.

Gentle Strategies for Scrupulous Souls

1. Stick to one confessor, if possible.
   A regular priest can help you spot patterns and avoid overconfessing.

2. Set boundaries around confession.
   Choose a frequency (weekly, biweekly, monthly) and stick to it unless there’s a serious reason.

3. Practice acts of trust.
   When fear rises, pray: “Jesus, I trust in You more than I trust my fear.”

4. Limit post-confession rumination.
   Write down your sins, confess them, then destroy the list and do not reread or analyze.

5. Seek therapy if needed.
   Scrupulosity may overlap with certain anxiety disorders and can benefit from professional care, especially when fear becomes chronic or intrusive. Therapy and grace are not enemies.

Holiness Isn’t Anxiety. It’s Union.

God does not need you to be afraid in order to love you. In fact, Scripture tells us repeatedly: “Do not be afraid.”

Fear is not the fruit of the Spirit. Love is. Peace is. Gentleness is. These are the markers of holiness—not constant self-doubt.

And when you fall? Go to confession with the humility of a child—not the panic of a defendant. God wants your heart, not your perfection.

Final Words for the Weary

If you’re reading this through tears, or guilt, or exhaustion—please know this:

You are not alone. You are not broken. And you are not failing God.

You are a soul in formation, learning to trust a mercy that cannot be earned. And that journey? That trembling, stumbling walk toward trust? That is sanctity.

Let grace in.

Let yourself breathe.

And remember: scrupulosity may whisper, but mercy speaks louder.

Helpful Tool: A beautiful, professional journal can help anchor your prayer life and build a gentler rhythm of reflection. This leather-bound journal comes in multiple colors and gives you space to externalize fears, track grace, and build trust in God’s mercy—without judgment.

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Saint Josephine Bakhita: Forgiveness, Freedom, and the God Who Never Forgets You

When we think of saints, it’s tempting to picture people who had easy access to holiness: born into faith, surrounded by support, and raised in a world where prayer came naturally. But some saints come to us from the margins—those whose lives were shaped by violence, displacement, and loss. St. Josephine Bakhita is one of those saints.

Born in Sudan in the late 1800s, Bakhita was kidnapped as a child and sold into slavery. She endured years of abuse and terror, her name and identity stripped from her by those who considered her property. In fact, "Bakhita" wasn’t her birth name—it was a name given to her by slavers, meaning "lucky." The irony is sharp. And yet, it was under this name that she would eventually be baptized, enter religious life, and become a radiant witness to the unshakable dignity of every human person.

What St. Josephine Bakhita Teaches Us About God

1. God sees and stays—even in the worst chapters.

Bakhita’s early life was filled with suffering that could have broken her spirit permanently. And yet, when she eventually encountered the Catholic faith in Italy, she said something astonishing: that even during her captivity, she had a mysterious sense of a presence with her. She didn’t yet know who He was, but she sensed Someone was there.

That “Someone” was the God who never forgets us—not in pain, not in displacement, not in abuse. Her story reminds us that God’s gaze is not limited to the pews or the polished moments. He is with the wounded child, the trafficked woman, the survivor who has no words left.

2. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means freedom.

St. Josephine forgave those who enslaved and abused her—but that forgiveness wasn’t a denial of what happened. It was a refusal to let those events define her future. Through Christ, she found a deeper identity: not a slave, but a daughter. Not forgotten, but chosen.

Forgiveness in her life wasn’t about weakness. It was a holy defiance—the choice to be free, even when her past tried to chain her to bitterness.

3. Holiness is not tidy. It’s healing.

When Bakhita entered religious life, she was not trying to escape her past—she brought her story with her. She became a Canossian Sister and lived in humble service for the rest of her life. She was known for her serenity and radiant joy, even as she bore the scars of slavery.

This teaches us something vital: holiness is not about hiding your trauma. It’s about letting God redeem it. St. Josephine’s sainthood didn’t erase her past. It transfigured it.

What Bakhita Taught Us About Identity

When you’ve been renamed by trauma, reclaiming your identity isn’t easy. Bakhita’s name was taken from her—but her dignity never was. When she was baptized, she received a new name: Josephine Margaret. It wasn’t just symbolic. It was sacramental. Her identity was no longer based on what others called her, but on who God said she was.

So many of us live under false names we’ve internalized: Too Much. Not Enough. Damaged. Forgotten. But Bakhita’s story reminds us that baptism gives us new names: Beloved. Free. Daughter. Son. Heir.

Your wounds may be part of your story—but they are not your name.

“I have called you by name,” God says in Isaiah 43:1, “you are mine.” That truth was lived fully by a woman once known only as a slave. Now, we call her Saint.

When You Feel Forgotten by God

One of the most profound elements of Bakhita’s testimony is that she felt God’s presence long before she knew His name. Even in her captivity, she said, there was Someone with her.

This is a balm for anyone walking through silence, grief, or spiritual desolation. Maybe you’ve asked, “Where was God when that happened to me?” Bakhita doesn’t answer that with theology. She answers it with presence.

God doesn’t always explain—but He does not abandon.

Even in the worst chapters, Bakhita bore witness to a mysterious companionship. That’s not sentimentality. That’s grace in the dark.

How Her Story Speaks to Us Today

If you’ve ever felt invisible, unheard, or defined by something someone else did to you, St. Josephine Bakhita is a powerful companion. Her life is a declaration that:

• You are more than your wounds.

• You are seen by God even when the world tries to erase you.

• Forgiveness is not erasure—it’s the reclamation of your freedom.

• There is no trauma so deep that God cannot walk into it with you.

She reminds us that healing is possible—not because pain never happened, but because God is still writing the ending.

Want to go deeper? The book Bakhita: From Slave to Saint offers a moving, detailed account of her life and legacy. It's a powerful companion for those walking through questions of identity, suffering, and redemption. Find it here.

You might also find beauty in wearing a reminder of her presence: this St. Josephine Bakhita medallion with a rose is a quiet tribute to a woman who bloomed in the harshest soil.

A Prayer to Walk With St. Josephine

Litany of Identity Reclaimed:

When I feel like a burden—remind me I am beloved.
When I feel unseen—remind me I am known.
When I carry shame—remind me I am redeemed.
When I feel like property—remind me I am Yours.

St. Josephine Bakhita, walk with me when the past tries to steal my name. Help me claim the name God has written on my heart.

St. Josephine Bakhita, you knew what it meant to be stripped of your name and dignity. And yet, you found your true identity in the gaze of the God who loved you. Teach us to walk in that same truth. When we feel forgotten, be our witness. When we struggle to forgive, be our strength. And when we carry pain too heavy to name, remind us that we are never carrying it alone. Amen.

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The Sacred Heart: What It Reveals About God, and What That Means for You

I. Introduction: Why the Sacred Heart Still Matters

It’s easy to think of Catholic imagery as distant or symbolic—but some images refuse to stay on the page. The Sacred Heart of Jesus is one of them. It pulses with life. It bleeds. It burns. And it still speaks.

In an age of numbness and isolation, this old devotion offers something radical: a God who doesn’t love from afar. A God whose heart beats for you—wounded, exposed, and blazing with desire for your good.

June is the month of the Sacred Heart. Let’s enter it not just as a tradition, but as a revelation of who God is, who you are, and what love really looks like.

II. What Is the Sacred Heart?

The Sacred Heart is one of the most enduring images in Catholic devotion. It depicts the physical heart of Jesus Christ, surrounded by flames, crowned with thorns, pierced and radiant. It’s not a poetic symbol—it’s theological reality.

This image draws from Scripture: from the piercing of Jesus’ side in John 19:34, to the suffering servant of Isaiah 53, to the aching love poured out in Psalm 22. It reveals not only the depth of God’s mercy but the shape it takes—willing vulnerability.

The heart is both literal and mystical. It is the seat of Christ’s human emotion and divine charity, visibly offered for the salvation of the world. When we look at the Sacred Heart, we’re not asked to imagine a gentle idea—we’re asked to receive a love that has suffered for us and continues to pour itself out.

III. A Brief History of Devotion

Though devotion to the wounds of Christ goes back to the early Church, the formal devotion to the Sacred Heart took root in the 17th century. Jesus appeared to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque, a French Visitation nun, revealing His heart “burning with love for humanity” and asking for acts of reparation.

The devotion spread through Jesuit missions and was eventually recognized throughout the Catholic world. Pope Pius IX extended the Feast of the Sacred Heart to the universal Church in 1856, and Pope Leo XIII consecrated the entire world to the Sacred Heart in 1899.

June became the month of the Sacred Heart—a time set aside to contemplate and honor the inner life of Christ as revealed in His pierced, passionate, radiant heart.

IV. What the Sacred Heart Reveals About God

The Sacred Heart tells us that God is not distant, cold, or abstract. His love is not theoretical. It’s personal, physical, wounded, and fully alive.

• God’s love is tender. The image of the heart makes clear: God’s mercy is not mechanical. It’s emotional. Christ is moved by compassion—He weeps, longs, aches, and rejoices.

• God chooses vulnerability. The crown of thorns, the open wound, the fire—none of these are gentle. They show us that God’s love is not safe or soft. It is fierce and exposed. He does not protect Himself from us.

• God wants relationship. The Sacred Heart isn’t about fear or shame. It’s about invitation. Jesus says, “Behold this Heart which has loved so much.” His heart is open. The question is: will we respond?

This is not a God who hides. This is a God who hands you His whole self—and asks for yours.

V. What This Means About You

When you look at the Sacred Heart, you’re not just seeing who God is—you’re seeing how He sees you.

• You are not loved in theory. You are loved personally, completely, and sacrificially.

• You are not too much or not enough. Your whole story is already known—and already embraced.

• Your pain matters to Him. He does not recoil from your wounds; He shows you His own.

The Sacred Heart invites you to stop posturing. To stop performing. To stop trying to earn what’s already been given.

Let yourself be seen. Let yourself be loved.

VI. How to Live Sacred Heart Devotion This Month

If you want a physical reminder of this devotion, consider wearing a Sacred Heart scapular as a reminder of your daily entrustment. This one is simple and beautiful—an easy way to keep His Heart close to yours. You might also consider a small home altar or travel-sized image, like this Sacred Heart & Immaculate Heart diptych, which invites reflection on both Christ's love and Mary's.

This devotion isn’t just for prayer cards. It’s for your life. Here are a few ways to enter into Sacred Heart month with intention:

• Reflect daily with an image of the Sacred Heart. Gaze at it and let it gaze back.

• Pray the Litany of the Sacred Heart. Focus on a few lines that stir your heart.

• Make acts of reparation. Offer a small sacrifice or act of love for those who feel unloved.

• Live with tenderness. Every act of mercy you show to another is participation in His heart.

• Journal honestly. Ask yourself: “Where am I afraid to let God love me?” Write from that place.

Sacred Heart devotion isn’t about sentiment. It’s about courage—the courage to be loved deeply and to love in return.

VII. Final Reflection

The Sacred Heart is not just a private comfort. It is the center of the universe. It beats for you. It bleeds for the world. And it invites you to live from a place of intimacy, not performance.

Let this month be more than a reminder. Let it be a return—to the Heart that has never stopped pursuing you.

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For more reflections rooted in the heart of God, follow Converting to Hope and explore our growing library of faith-rich resources. And if this touched you, consider supporting our work on Ko-Fi. 

How to Discern Without Losing Your Mind: A Catholic Guide to Finding Peace in Big Decisions

 

Discernment can feel like spiritual whiplash.
You want to make the right choice. You want to follow God's will. But every option feels layered with fear, uncertainty, or silence from heaven.

Here’s the good news:
God isn’t trying to trick you. He’s not hiding the map.

He wants you to know His will more than you want to guess it.

Let’s reclaim discernment—not as a source of spiritual anxiety, but as an invitation into peace.

Step 1: Begin With Who God Is

Discernment doesn’t start with decisions. It starts with trust in God’s character.

• He is not manipulative

• He is not cryptic

• He is not impatient

• He is not waiting for you to mess up

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God… and it will be given.” — James 1:5

God’s will isn’t a riddle. It’s a relationship.
He doesn’t drop clues and hide. He walks with us, gently guiding, correcting, and inviting. The voice of the Father is not a trickster—it is steady, wise, and faithful.

When you begin with who He is, you stop fearing what He’ll say. Because even if His answer is challenging, it will never be cruel.

Step 2: Clarity Follows Conversion

Sometimes we want answers without surrender.
But God’s will becomes clearest in the heart that says, “Whatever You ask, I’ll do it.”

That kind of interior freedom opens doors.

Ask yourself:

• Am I really open to either path?

• Am I clinging to one answer for fear-based reasons?

• Have I let God into the emotions beneath my questions?

Sometimes, before God speaks to your situation, He wants to speak to your attachment.
Discernment is less about unlocking secret knowledge and more about receiving wisdom with open hands.

Step 3: Don’t Confuse Silence with Absence

If God is quiet, it doesn’t always mean you’re on the wrong path.
It may mean you already have what you need.

He has given you:

• Scripture

• The Holy Spirit

• Your conscience

• The Church

• Your reason

• Your community

If you’re not hearing a trumpet blast, try asking:
What decision, made in peace, would I be able to live out in love?

And if you're feeling overwhelmed, pause. Take a walk. Step into silence. The Lord often speaks best in stillness.

Step 4: Peace Is the Path, Not Just the Prize

God’s will is often marked by a deep, durable peace—even if it comes with fear or sacrifice.
It won’t always be easy. But it will be rooted.

If anxiety is driving your discernment, pause. Wait until peace returns.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts…” — Colossians 3:15

Peace doesn’t always feel like emotional comfort. Sometimes, it’s simply the absence of that interior twist. A stillness. A rightness. A steadiness under the nerves.

Step 5: Take the Next Right Step

Discernment is rarely about seeing the whole road.
It’s usually about taking the next faithful step.

Make the call. Fill out the form. Start the novena. Open the door.
Small obedience invites bigger clarity.

Sometimes we stall because we’re afraid of choosing wrong. But God is bigger than our mistakes. A wrong turn taken in faith is still under His care. What He asks is that we move in trust.

Discernment doesn’t mean waiting until every light is green. It means choosing with love, praying for wisdom, and stepping forward in peace.

Final Reflection

Discernment doesn’t have to feel like walking a tightrope.
It can feel like walking with your Father.

God isn’t holding a secret scorecard.
He’s holding your hand.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light for my path.” — Psalm 119:105

Walk with Him. Listen. Rest.
And trust that even if you take a wrong turn, He knows how to get you home.

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What Does Holiness Feel Like? And Why We’re Usually Wrong About It

 

For many of us, holiness has been portrayed as something... otherworldly. A glowing saint in a fresco. A nun in deep silence. A mystic floating in ecstasy. And while those images reflect truth, they don’t capture the whole story.

Holiness isn’t just for those who seem spiritually elite. It isn’t reserved for monks, mystics, or martyrs. Holiness is for you. And chances are, it feels a lot more normal than you think.

Let’s reframe how we imagine sanctity—not just by theology, but by experience.

Myth: Holiness Always Feels Intense

Some people assume holiness will come with strong emotional or mystical sensations. And yes, sometimes God does meet us with tears, awe, or unexplainable peace.

But often, holiness feels… quiet. Unspectacular. Like doing what is right when no one sees. Like saying no to temptation with no applause. Like staying faithful in prayer even when it’s dry and boring.

“You will know them by their fruits…” — Matthew 7:16
Not their feelings. Not their vibes. Their fruits.

The idea that holiness must feel emotionally intense can become a spiritual trap. If we chase emotional highs instead of virtue, we risk confusing consolation with transformation. God may grant sweetness in prayer at times, but that is not the measure of our sanctity.

Truth: Holiness Feels Like Peaceful Surrender

Holiness is not about constant triumph—it’s about constant return.
It’s the soul that says, “Here I am, Lord,” again and again, in every season.

It often feels like:

• A subtle peace even in the middle of uncertainty

• A desire to love when it would be easier to detach

• A quiet conscience after a hard conversation

• A willingness to ask for forgiveness—or give it—when pride wants to win

• A gentle resolve to pray, even when the heart feels empty

Holiness feels like a life slowly, steadily aligned with the will of God.
Not always dramatic. But always true.

It’s the cumulative effect of small decisions made with love. And sometimes, it feels like exhaustion... with purpose.

What It Doesn’t Feel Like (and Why That’s Okay)

It may not feel like:

• Constant happiness

• Being “on fire” for God every day

• Perpetual confidence

• An absence of doubt, fatigue, or dryness

Some of the holiest people in history (like St. Thérèse of Lisieux or Mother Teresa) endured long periods of spiritual dryness. Their holiness wasn’t in their feelings—it was in their fidelity.

“Faith is not a feeling. It is a choice to trust God even when the road is dark.”

If you’ve ever kept praying when your soul felt flat—that was holiness. If you’ve ever served someone with love while feeling tired and unseen—that was holiness. If you’ve ever refused to give up hope when the world felt empty—that was holiness too.

Holiness is Often Hidden

Just like Jesus’ hidden life in Nazareth, much of our sanctity is grown in the unseen places:

• How we treat those who annoy us

• How we speak about others when they’re not in the room

• How we hold space for grief, pain, or mystery without rushing to fix it

This is the soil of holiness. Not shiny. Not loud. Just faithful.

Our culture often equates goodness with visibility. But God delights in what is hidden, offered in secret, and formed in silence. Your small "yes" echoes louder in Heaven than you know.

The Surprise of Joy

While holiness isn’t always emotionally intense, it often leads to a kind of quiet joy—not because everything is easy, but because everything is surrendered.

That joy might feel like:

• Gratitude for a moment of beauty

• Peace after telling the truth

• Relief from bitterness after forgiveness

• The warmth of giving without expectation

This is the joy the world can’t give—and cannot take away. A joy that doesn’t depend on outcomes, but on nearness to the heart of God.

Final Reflection

Holiness doesn’t always feel like glory.
Sometimes it feels like doing the dishes. Sometimes it feels like starting over. Sometimes it feels like a tired but honest “yes.”

And that is enough.
God isn’t asking for your performance. He’s asking for your presence.

“Be holy, for I am holy.” — 1 Peter 1:16
He’s not asking you to feel holy. He’s asking you to live in love.

You are not disqualified by your dryness, your ordinariness, or your struggle.
You are right where holiness can begin.

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God of the Small Things: Finding Holiness in Ordinary Life

Holiness doesn’t always look like candlelight and soaring cathedral music. It doesn’t always feel like mystical visions, spiritual highs, or tear-filled prayer. Sometimes, holiness looks like folding the same laundry again, offering a smile when you’re tired, or choosing patience for the hundredth time in a single day.

God is not only found in the dramatic. He is found in the deeply ordinary. In fact, some of the holiest ground we’ll ever walk is the same floor we sweep every morning.

The Lie of the “Big” Spiritual Life

In our achievement-obsessed culture, it’s easy to believe that a “good” spiritual life must be visible, measurable, impressive. We chase emotional intensity, long hours of prayer, dramatic conversions, or outward markers of sainthood. But Scripture—and the lives of the saints—paint a different picture.

Jesus never told us to impress Him. He told us to follow Him. And He often pointed to the smallest things as the place where holiness hides:

"Whoever is faithful in small matters will also be faithful in large ones." — Luke 16:10

We forget that Jesus spent thirty years in obscurity before His public ministry—working, praying, eating, sleeping, loving His family. Thirty years of small things. Thirty years that were not wasted, but sanctified by His presence.

We live in a world that rewards spectacle. God blesses faithfulness.

Heaven Sees What the World Overlooks

God does not measure greatness the way the world does. He doesn’t rank your life by visible outcomes or spiritual aesthetics. He sees the hidden choices:

• The single mom making it through bedtime routines with grace

• The caregiver offering quiet dignity to a loved one

• The employee choosing integrity when no one’s watching

• The chronically ill person offering up another hard day without fanfare

• The teenager resisting peer pressure in silence

• The lonely elder offering prayers for a world that barely remembers them

These moments might feel invisible. But they echo in eternity.

"Whatever you do, in word or in deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus." — Colossians 3:17

There are no wasted prayers. No wasted acts of kindness. No wasted struggles offered quietly to God. Heaven celebrates what earth often ignores.

The Domestic Monastery

Catholic tradition often speaks of cloisters and monasteries as places of sanctification. But your home can be a monastery too. Your kitchen can be an altar. Your mundane routines can become sacramental if you let God inhabit them.

The mother wiping a child’s nose, the tired soul making dinner again, the spouse offering forgiveness before sleep—these are liturgies of love.

In every generation, God has called ordinary people to extraordinary holiness through their simple faithfulness. Brother Lawrence found union with God while scrubbing kitchen pots. St. Zelie Martin found sanctity in weaving lace and raising children. St. Joseph, silent and steadfast, found his calling in carpentry and fatherhood.

If God could meet them in their daily lives, He can meet you in yours.

Sanctity doesn’t always require silence and candles. Sometimes it just asks you to be present, gentle, and willing—to make your life a living prayer.

Becoming a Saint in the Life You Already Have

You don’t need to wait for your life to get quieter, simpler, or more “spiritual.” The path to holiness is not somewhere out there. It’s already under your feet.

Ask yourself:

• How can I offer today’s work to God?

• What small sacrifice can I make out of love?

• Where can I bring beauty, order, or kindness?

These are not small questions. They are the building blocks of sainthood.

The saints were not superhuman. They were simply faithful. They said "yes" in the small things, often long before anyone ever noticed their "greatness."

Your yes matters.

Every load of laundry, every act of patience, every whispered prayer—these are the stones God uses to build the cathedral of your soul.

Final Reflection

The God of the universe stepped into time not with a fanfare, but through the hidden life of a carpenter’s son. He dignified the ordinary. He sanctified the unnoticed. And He still meets us there, in the kitchen, the classroom, the waiting room, the laundry line.

Holiness doesn’t always look like the mountaintop. Sometimes, it looks like washing feet.

Sometimes, it looks like you.

"Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me." — Matthew 25:40

You are seen. You are loved. Your faithfulness matters.

Lift up your small offerings. In the hands of God, nothing given in love is ever wasted.

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