Church Hagiography

Church Insights: An article in the Catholic Times asks whether there are saints who have never actually existed? 

Intercession sought from saints is ultimately directed toward God... The ‘Gospel virtues’ embodied in the traditions are what matter. Veneration of saints and requests for their intercession are ultimately directed to God through Jesus. 

When reading about the lives of the saints, one often encounters stories of questionable authenticity. Sometimes, one might even wonder if a particular saint was a real historical figure at all.

For instance, Saint Sophia, said to have been martyred in Rome, represents the Wisdom of God; her three daughters—also martyred alongside her—are named Fides (Faith), Spes (Hope), and Caritas (Charity), representing the three theological virtues. Some scholars speculate that these figures originated as legends born from a desire to venerate these three virtues directed toward God, as well as the Wisdom that serves as their source.

Saint Sophia is not the only example. The name of Saint Christopher—who is said to have carried the infant Jesus across a river on his shoulders—means "Christ-bearer" (one who carries Christ) in Greek. Similarly, the name Veronica signifies "true image" in Latin. It is said that the "true image"—the very likeness of Jesus—appeared on the cloth Saint Veronica used to wipe the blood and sweat from His face.

There are also many stories whose historical accuracy cannot be verified. Examples include the tales of Saint George or Saint Margaret "defeating a dragon," as well as hagiographies that seem to borrow from other legends, such as the story of Saint Josaphat, which is reminiscent of the life of Shakyamuni Buddha.

However, the Church does not accept uncertain traditions uncritically. The Second Vatican Council’s Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy (*Sacrosanctum Concilium*) emphasizes regarding liturgical readings that "the accounts of martyrdom or the lives of the saints are to accord with the facts of history" (Article 92).

Consequently, the revised liturgical calendar of 1969 excluded the feast days of saints whose historicity was uncertain. Furthermore, the processes for beatification and canonization prioritize "investigating accurate information regarding the life of the Servant of God" (Pope John Paul II, Apostolic Constitution *Divinus Perfectionis Magister*, Art. 2, §1), requiring that their life, virtues, martyrdom, and reputation be substantiated by evidence and documentation. In short, one cannot become a saint without being a historically verifiable figure with verifiable deeds.

This does not mean, however, that venerating such saints is wrong. Even if their historicity is not proven, one cannot simply dismiss them as "fictional." Stories about real historical figures are often adapted, embellished, or exaggerated as they are passed down through tradition.

Above all, the veneration of saints and the practice of asking for their intercession are ultimately directed toward God through Jesus. The Second Vatican Council’s *Dogmatic Constitution on the Church* (*Lumen Gentium*) explains that “communion with the saints joins us to Christ,” noting that this communion “flows from Christ” and that the love we show the saints is “directed toward God through Christ” (see Article 50). Even if the specific details of a saint’s intercession are difficult to verify, the act of venerating them and directing one’s prayers toward them does not lose its meaning.

Insisting that every story about a saint—even those of uncertain historicity—is factual is not the right approach; however, simply dismissing these stories entirely is not the answer either. Perhaps what we should look for in the stories of the saints are the Gospel virtues and the path to Jesus that the Church has perceived through these traditions.

"Waiting for Godot"

Literature and Christian Spirituality: "Waiting for Godot". The Emptiness of Waiting Without Substance. Even though God is present, what are we waiting for now? In *Waiting for Godot*, Samuel Beckett portrays the significance of God’s absence and silence through the story of two protagonists endlessly waiting for Godot—who never arrives. 

In the Catholic Times weekly, a Jesuit professor at the Jesuit University in Seoul, Korea, offers a meditation on understanding the play.  

During the COVID-19 pandemic, humanity endured unprecedented suffering and isolation, prompting the question: "Where is God?" This is not a new question; throughout history, the same question has always been raised in the face of wars and natural disasters that bring about horrific destruction: "Why is God silent?" In 18th-century Europe—following the Thirty Years' War—Deism emerged as a worldview driven by rationalism, influenced by the Enlightenment and the Scientific Revolution, both of which emphasized human reason and intellect. Deism is a religious perspective holding that while God created the world, He does not directly intervene in human affairs or the laws of nature thereafter. God is viewed as a master clockmaker who constructs the perfect timepiece—winds it up and then ceases to interfere with its operation. 

 Deism appeals to universal human reason by stripping away the element of mystery, a key characteristic of religion. However, even Adorno and Horkheimer—themselves Marxist materialists—critique the Enlightenment for turning against itself in *Dialectic of Enlightenment*, while simultaneously emphasizing the importance of the myth and mysticism that the Enlightenment had obscured. Didi and Gogo waiting for "Godot": Symbols of the absurdity of human existence amidst a meaningless wait. Even if God’s silence persists, one must cast off temptations and illusions to attain true resurrection and salvation. In *Waiting for Godot*—a world-renowned play representing 20th-century Theatre of the Absurd—Samuel Beckett portrays the significance of God’s absence and silence through the story of two protagonists endlessly waiting for a figure named Godot who never arrives. 

While the play illustrates the unbridgeable absurdity of human existence—caught between the human quest for meaning and a cold, unresponsive world—it simultaneously and paradoxically hints at how God’s absence and silence can nonetheless be present and communicative within human life. Although the play consists of two acts, the setting and dialogue in both are strikingly similar. On a roadside featuring a single, barren tree, the two male protagonists—Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo)—meet again at roughly the same time as the previous day. They wait for Godot, engaging in tedious, meaningless conversation. Near the end of each act, a boy appears to deliver news regarding Godot. Godot never actually appears in the play. It is not merely a case of simple physical absence; rather, his arrival is perpetually postponed. The situation is staged to suggest that he might arrive at any moment. In each act, the boy conveys Godot’s promise: he cannot come tonight but will certainly come tomorrow. The curtain falls as the two protagonists pin their hopes on the coming day. Although Godot never appears, he maintains a presence through language. He is referred to by name, his arrival is discussed, he is the object of their waiting, and his promises are conveyed via a boy. His absence permeates the entire discourse; most conversations ultimately circle back to Godot. Who is he? When will he arrive? What did he say? Godot’s absence generates meaning through its linguistic presence and serves as the driving force that sustains the characters' lives. Didi and Gogo’s waiting goes nowhere, consisting only of repetitive actions. “What if he doesn’t come?” / “We’ll come back tomorrow.” / “And the day after, too.” / “I suppose so.” / “And on and on.” They act not *despite* Godot’s absence, but *because* of it. Didi and Gogo shape and sustain their lives around the act of waiting. Were he to appear, their waiting would cease, and the play itself would come to a definitive end. The author transforms Godot’s non-arrival—his absence—into the central engine for generating meaning. Since desire is sustained not by possession but by the repeated experience of non-arrival, Godot’s absence shapes the very structure of desire. Thus, his absence becomes the anchor sustaining their lives, and waiting becomes their mode of existence. At the same time, Godot’s absence is not merely a personal matter; it becomes a communal condition. Waiting is not a solitary act but a shared one. Didi and Gogo share the language surrounding his absence, constantly reaffirming it through their dialogue. Gogo asks Didi, “Don’t leave me.” Didi remarks, “Amidst all this chaos, there is one certainty: we are waiting for Godot to arrive.” Even as Godot’s identity and the question of his arrival collapse into confusion, we affirm a communal certainty: the sure knowledge that we are waiting for Godot. A shared language regarding absence is a core element of the community. Godot’s identity remains unclear. While often interpreted as the Absolute or God, the author himself never specifically defines who—or what—he is; the figure remains open to interpretation. Nevertheless, in many respects, the two protagonists' act of waiting parallels the practice of Christian faith. In our daily lives, God—the Absolute—is not physically present. God often remains silent in the face of individual suffering or horrific societal events. Yet, this God of absence and silence dwells within us through the Word. That Word serves as the driving force that enables us to endure the day meaningfully. At the same time, the Christian community endures precisely because there are people who share and exchange that Word. However, there is a significant difference between the language of absence in Christianity and that in the play. Christianity possesses a narrative—grounded in the covenant with God and the mystery of the Incarnation—that guarantees the meaning of waiting. In contrast, the language of absence in the play offers only the repeated message that Godot will arrive tomorrow; there is no substance regarding the specific meaning of that wait—only the act of waiting itself. This waiting devoid of substance is laid bare through the fragility of the language of absence. Godot is revealed solely through language, yet the words spoken about him lack consistency. The message delivered by the boy keeps changing. Godot’s identity, as expressed through language, remains ambiguous. The protagonists' memories are unreliable. Because language itself cannot be trusted, Godot’s presence remains unstable. He exists through language, yet that very language renders reality unstable. Furthermore, his absence creates a unique temporal dynamic. Because his arrival is perpetually postponed, there is only repetition without progress. A state of waiting without arrival traps the narrative in stasis. The two characters experience cyclical time rather than linear time; they always find themselves in the same place at the same time, engaged in the same act of waiting and the same exchange of meaningless words. The two protagonists are essentially caught in the experience of Holy Saturday—the interval between death and resurrection. It is the Holy Saturday of Jesus’s cry from the cross—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—a time marked by God’s absence and silence, and a world brought to a standstill. In Christianity, Holy Saturday is a transitional phase that ultimately leads to the Resurrection. Yet, Gogo and Didi never attain the salvation of the Resurrection; instead, they endlessly repeat the experience of absence and silence that exists between death and rebirth. In this play, the author offers keen insight into the human condition—specifically, the existence of human beings who are waiting, or compelled to wait, for something. Moreover, the fact that Gogo and Didi repeatedly attempt suicide yet never manage to die underscores the idea that, in the face of the Absolute’s absence and silence, human life is defined by the very act of waiting. The crucial issue lies in the object of that waiting. Today, two millennia after the mystery of the Incarnation, rationalism, materialism, and scientific civilization hold immense sway. Perhaps even those who follow Jesus are waiting not for the God of the Incarnation, but—like Gogo and Didi—for something vague and undefined. Could it be that, despite the Resurrection having already occurred, they remain stuck in Holy Saturday? 

Global Church

Illustrations depicting Artificial Intelligence (AI). The Vatican’s Inter-dicasterial Committee on Artificial Intelligence, established in May of this year, recently held its first meeting in Rome to discuss the direction of its activities. 

Vatican News reported on June 27 that representatives from the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith, the Dicastery for Culture and Education, the Dicastery for Communication, the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development, as well as the Pontifical Academies for Life, Sciences, and Social Sciences, attended the meeting.

The purpose of the meeting was to share the Committee's ongoing plans, identify shared priorities, and promote a vision for AI that serves human dignity, the common good, and the mission of the Church. Cardinal Michael Czerny, Prefect of the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development—who is coordinating the committee's work during its inaugural year—highlighted four particularly significant aspects of current AI development in his opening remarks: the unprecedented speed of advancement, the impact on human dignity, the need for expanded dialogue between the Church and the technology sector, and the profound resonance of Pope Leo XIII’s first encyclical, *Magnifica Humanitas*.

During the committee's first meeting, special attention was paid to the need for careful discernment regarding AI, which presents both immense opportunities and increasingly significant ethical, social, cultural, and environmental risks and challenges.

Regarding the committee's role, discussions focused on the need to foster internal coordination, information sharing, and reflection on AI use within Holy See institutions, as well as to serve as a reference point for discerning and supporting various AI-related initiatives. Participants also emphasized the importance of promoting open dialogue with national episcopal conferences, as well as with the academic, scientific, and industrial sectors. In this context, the committee reached a consensus on the need to create a dedicated website to share relevant initiatives and facilitate information flow.

Air Conditioner

In the Window of the Ark column of the Catholic Times, the director of the Jesuit Human Rights Research Center asks: Do we turn on the Air Conditioner or not?

In mid-June, a chaotic scene reminiscent of a looting spree unfolded at an appliance store in Paris, France, as citizens flocked to purchase air conditioners. France typically has little need for air conditioning due to its mild summer climate and strict installation regulations; consequently, the penetration rate of air conditioners stands at a mere 25%.

However, as relentless heatwaves pushed temperatures above 40°C, forcing schools to close and casualties to mount, the issue of air-conditioning use escalated from a matter of daily personal choice to a national political controversy. Seizing the opportunity, far-right factions considered air conditioning a "fundamental right for survival." They incited public sentiment by claiming that "climate dictators" were driving people to their deaths by imposing guilt on those who use air conditioners. This narrative is gaining significant traction and spreading rapidly.

Two main arguments have long competed regarding how to address the climate crisis. "Climate adaptation" refers to measures that protect lives—such as turning on air conditioners—for those immediately suffering from heatwaves. In contrast, "climate mitigation" involves transforming the energy systems that power those air conditioners to run on renewable energy and remodeling urban infrastructure. Yet "adaptation" and "mitigation" should not be pitted against each other in this manner. 

The greater problem, however, is that such a distinction obscures the true nature of the climate crisis. The choice to turn on the air conditioner places the entire burden of guilt or discomfort on the individual, regardless of the decision made. We need a different kind of language—one that advocates changing the societal mechanisms that endanger our ecosystem while simultaneously protecting the lives of those who bear the consequences first.

The question we must ask regarding the climate crisis is not whether to use air conditioning, but why we have built cities and societies in which survival is difficult without it. The climate crisis is not caused by individuals indiscriminately consuming electricity. Its root causes lie in an economic system that equates endless production and consumption with growth, industrial policies centered on fossil fuels, and an industrial system that has offloaded the costs of carbon emissions onto society at large to maximize profits. Recently, corporations have also begun to take an active lead in implementing "carbon neutrality" policies, such as reducing emissions and adopting renewable energy; they, too, recognize the climate crisis as a serious threat to their capital. This has given rise to concepts like "green growth" and "sustainable development."

Avoiding disposable products out of concern for the environment is certainly a worthwhile practice. However, such actions alone cannot address the root of the problem. In fact, the satisfaction derived from "eco-friendly consumption" can hinder the more fundamental actions required—namely, holding politicians and corporations accountable and demanding alternatives. 

Our sense of relief can serve to uphold the status quo. Corporations leverage an "eco-friendly" image to appease consumers' consciences while maintaining business models that drive mass production and excessive consumption. Ultimately, our good intentions should serve as a starting point for societal change, not as an absolution that masks structural problems. 

Through the concept of "integral ecology," Pope Francis proposed a fundamental solution in which ecological conversion and the transformation of social structures go hand in hand. For those of us accustomed to excessive convenience and endless consumerism, willingly embracing "ecological inconvenience" is not merely an act of patience or sacrifice. It is akin to a declaration of spiritual independence—breaking free from the shackles of the "fake happiness" promoted by capital and reclaiming sovereignty over our own lives. It represents a beautiful form of resistance: preserving the dignity of life and redefining "true happiness" on our own terms amidst a capitalist system racing toward catastrophe. The ecological sensibility cultivated through small, everyday actions forms a solid emotional foundation for the "climate politics" that transforms structures.

To overcome the crises of climate, labor, and life itself, we need not merely "another form of growth," but "another world." Those who must bear the brunt of the climate crisis are always real people with distinct faces. This sense of solidarity—knowing that our ecological choices alleviate the suffering of vulnerable groups plagued by climate disasters and contribute to the life of the global community—imbues our lives with an existential depth that the material abundance provided by capital can never fill. It is also a process of cultivating, from within, the "good life" that we can envision.

Earth Our Common Home

“Let’s Stop Building Nuclear Power Plants That Stake Residents’ Lives” Posted in The Korean Times.

Street Mass and National Rally to Oppose New Nuclear Power Plants by Catholic Climate Action, Catholic Solidarity for the Preservation of Creation, and others participating in the national rally to oppose new nuclear power plants marched to the Blue House on June 27. 

After Korea Hydro & Nuclear Power (KHNP) selected sites for new nuclear power plants and Small Modular Reactors (SMRs), the Diocese of Andong and various Catholic environmental groups immediately voiced their opposition and demanded the withdrawal of the site selections. They urged a halt to the construction plans, citing concerns about nuclear waste, SMR safety, and the hasty nature of the site selection process.

On June 27, Catholic environmental groups—including Catholic Climate Action and the Catholic Solidarity for the Preservation of Creation—held a “Street Mass to Oppose New Nuclear Power Plants” in Seoul. 

In his homily, Father Yang pointed out that the government is acting as a mouthpiece for the nuclear power industry. He stated, “Despite historical evidence confirming that the risks of nuclear power plants and the management of high-level nuclear waste are beyond human technological control, the government is pushing ahead with the construction of new nuclear power plants under the pretext of carbon-free energy to combat the climate crisis.” He further urged the faithful to join the transition toward a nuclear-free society as apostles of ecology.

Following the Mass, a nationwide rally organized by the "National Emergency Action to Stop New Nuclear Power Plants" was held. Participants marched to the Blue House, chanting, “Stop building nuclear power plants; withdraw the site selection!” A married couple who participated in the march—an environmental activist and their two children —said, “My children already know that nuclear power plants are dangerous from reading books about the Fukushima disaster.” She added, “I joined this march to show them just how dangerous it is to build additional nuclear power plants.”

Meanwhile, on June 22, the Social Pastoral Council of the Diocese of Andong (comprising the Catholic Farmers Movement and committees for Ecology and Environment, Justice and Peace, National Reconciliation, and Migrant Pastoral Care) celebrated a “Mass for Life and Peace in a Nuclear-Free World” at Yeongdeok Catholic Church, presided over by the Chairperson of the Diocese of Andong’s Ecology and Environment Committee).

Addressing current issues—such as the hastily conducted site selection process, the lack of alternatives for nuclear waste disposal, and the unverified safety of Small Modular Reactors (SMRs)—“I cannot understand how the current government has simply adopted the previous administration’s nuclear power plant construction plans without correcting them.” During the Mass, the Council for Social Pastoral Care issued a statement titled "Immediately Withdraw the Selection of Sites for New Large-Scale Nuclear Power Plants and Small Modular Reactors (SMRs) That Hold Residents' Lives Hostage." They criticized the move, stating, "Introducing SMR technology—whose economic viability and safety remain unproven—alongside existing nuclear plants is nothing short of cruel violence that tramples on local democracy and disregards safety." They further urged, "The present administration must break away from past misguided practices and establish a just energy policy that prioritizes life above all else."

Permeating Each Other

Love Is the Act of Willingly Permeating Each Other’s Lives. This was an article in the Korean Catholic Times by the Co-director of the Family Humanities Institute.

Clara grows plants. Upon waking in the morning, tending to her plants is the first thing she does. She checks whether their leaves have drooped overnight or if any pests have appeared. She touches the soil surrounding the plants; if it is bone-dry, they need water. When watering, she must soak the soil thoroughly and then wait for the excess water to drain away completely. The timing of watering matters, too; early morning or evening is best. Even if the plants look thirsty or overheated under the blazing sun, one should not water them in the middle of the day. Doing so causes the water temperature inside the pot to rise rapidly, which can rot the roots and turn the tips of the leaves black.

Air circulation is also crucial. Ventilating the room at least once a day is essential; windows should be left open while cleaning or cooking. Without proper air circulation, the leaves quickly wither. Temperature and humidity levels matter as well—conditions should be neither too hot nor too cold, neither too dry nor too humid. By nurturing these delicate living things, Clara has developed a keen, sensitive awareness. It would be fair to say that the plants are nurturing Clara, too, as she draws vitality and energy from them.

When she looks at the short trees in the apartment complex garden or the tall trees along the main road, she feels the presence of God, the Creator of all things. There is something truly wondrous about trees that radiate such vibrant green life, even without anyone specifically tending to their air, water, temperature, and humidity. One cannot help but marvel at the natural phenomena—the alternation of day and night, the blowing winds, and the timely rains—that align perfectly to provide exactly what these trees need. A tree, firmly rooted in the ground yet growing toward the sky, resembles a monk at prayer.

In the redwood forests of California—home to the world’s tallest trees—it is said that the trees grow with their roots intertwined. Some of them are as old as two thousand years. Because their roots touch and support one another, they do not stand alone against fierce winds and heavy rains; instead, they lean upon each other’s roots to remain standing.

Like those trees, the couple Clara and Augustino feel a deep connection. Augustino’s strong roots support Clara’s more fragile ones. Clara, having honed a delicate sensibility through tending to plants, never forgets to care for the precious, everyday essentials—air, water, temperature, and humidity—that healthy individuals might easily overlook. I reflect on the meaning of togetherness. Two distinct individuals spent a quarter-century side by side; though they faced trials, they endured them because their roots were intertwined.

Yet the Lord said, "You have received my grace in abundance. My power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore, I will most gladly boast of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell within me (cf. 2 Corinthians 12:9).

I reflect on weakness. Love is the act of willingly permeating one another’s weaknesses. In doing so, we come to sense the presence of God, the Creator. I, Clara, wish to live a vibrant, flourishing life alongside my spouse, Augustino, like a monastic in prayer, with our roots deeply intertwined.

Language: the Root of Misunderstanding

In the "Window of the Ark" column of the Korean Catholic Times, a scholar of Religious Peace Studies at The Catholic University of Korea sheds light on the phrase: "Language is the root of all misunderstanding."  

While language points to external events and internal emotions, it cannot convey them exactly as they are. Language possesses concepts and boundaries, and meaning is transmitted only partially within those limits. Moreover, the "edges"—or boundaries—of the language envisioned by the speaker differ from those envisioned by the listener.

People speak and listen only to the extent of their own experiences, situations, interests, and intentions. Consequently, the content contained within language becomes further restricted, and the speaking mouth and listening ear often fail to align. Consider, for instance, the differing interpretations and reactions of the Democratic Party of Korea and the People Power Party regarding statements made by North Korean leader Kim Jong-un.

Language points to certain content while simultaneously obscuring what lies "outside" that content. For example, if one focuses on the full moon in the night sky, the surrounding stars fade from view. One person might recall literary language upon seeing the full moon, another might engage in astronomical speculation, and yet another might share a romantic conversation. In this way, language functions by aligning with individual interests while inevitably masking other aspects.

Imagining a vast world often places the smaller world within parentheses. For instance, the statement "Jesus is the Savior" evokes God’s eternal and universal providence, yet this association often obscures the humble, everyday details of Jesus's life. The Jesus of everyday life—walking through desert sandstorms, subsisting on bread given in charity, and occasionally relieving himself in solitude—is often pushed into the background by the grand concept of eternal salvation.

Yet, salvation that excludes the everyday is a contradiction. After all, a full moon shines brightest against a dark backdrop. There is no light without darkness, no resurrection without death. One must look at the hidden aspects of the world to truly perceive reality.

Religious people, in particular, ought to reflect more deeply on the meaning of their own words. For instance, when an atheist claims "there is no God," a Christian counters that "there is a God." However, the assertion "there is a God" implies a background—a specific "place" where God resides. If God exists, 'where' is He? Questioning that "place" reveals how human imagination diminishes God; a God located "somewhere" inevitably becomes smaller than that "somewhere." Christians, too, often encounter this paradox.

Take, for example, the verse "God created the heavens and the earth" (Genesis 1:1); one might imagine God somewhere in the heavens, fashioning light, animals, and humans. Yet, the moment one does so, the heavens become an entity greater and more primary than God Himself. It reduces God to a small being dwelling within a vast space. The notion that God is in the heavens elevates the heavens above God, while the idea that God resides within the human heart implies His absence from the human body.

The moment we conceive of God as existing "somewhere," the space *outside* that location becomes a realm devoid of God. We must constantly ask ourselves whether we have unwittingly grown accustomed to imagining God in ways that contradict the fundamental confession that He is the Creator of heaven and earth.

To avoid the contradiction where the statement "God exists" presupposes a space larger than God or a time preceding Him, we must perceive God within all space and time. The space that exists must be God, and the time that changes must be God. If such a perspective feels dangerous, it is evidence that one has not seriously probed the depths of the concept of "God."

Of course, a God who transmits revelations—like radio waves—from a point in the universe to humans (who are smaller than grains of sand) on Earth (which is smaller than a speck of dust) is also God. Yet such a God is imagined in human terms, confined by the limitations of language. To avoid the error of objectifying God in an egocentric manner, we must repeatedly question the concepts, backgrounds, and contexts of the language we use and delve into their depths.

We must not confine God within our existing self-conceptions, nor fall into the delusion that often masquerades as faith. Only then can we encounter God, who dwells in the depths of all things and reveals Himself through their very forms. Does the scripture not say, "For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things" (Romans 11:36)? We must not remain trapped within the ark of language; instead, we must look out the window of that ark and move forward.