Saints Who Never Remove Their Masks

On November 1, the Catholic Church and other Western churches celebrate All Saints' Day. It is an occasion to honor those who embodied faith, love and mercy in their lives, whether their names are known or their stories have remained out of the spotlight. At the heart of these values lies purity of heart, that inner integrity that brings deeds into harmony with words and keeps people from deceit and duplicity. For holiness, in its deepest sense, is measured by what one does for others and by one's capacity for humility, justice and peacemaking.

Perhaps the most beautiful thing about this idea is that purity does not need to put on a show. Those who help someone do not need an audience. Those who show compassion to the vulnerable do not wait for a camera. And those whose conscience is clear do not spend all their time trying to prove their integrity. An image derives its worth from the truth of the person it portrays, and the halo comes after the life lived, not to conceal what that life contains.

But the eve of this feast presents a very different scene. October 31 brings Halloween, whose name derives from an expression meaning "the eve of All Saints' Day." Its traditions emerged from a blend of ancient folk customs and religious practices before evolving into celebrations featuring costumes, horror stories, carved pumpkins and children going door to door collecting candy. It would therefore be historically inaccurate to suggest that All Saints' Day simply turned into a festival of horror. Yet the proximity of the two occasions invites reflection on the distance between meaning and appearance.

On the threshold of a day devoted to purity, images of ghosts, skeletons, disfigured faces and fake blood abound. Things that people fear become decorations, fear itself becomes entertainment, and the mask commands more attention than the face beneath it. Amid the noisy festivities, the quiet meaning of holiness almost disappears behind an entire industry that knows how to sell horror better than it knows how to celebrate virtue.

And yet there is a certain honesty in this masquerade that deserves appreciation. Everyone knows that a mask is a mask, that the blood is paint, and that the monster approaching the front door may well be the neighbor's child. There is an unspoken agreement that what we see is a performance, that the evening will end, and that faces will eventually return to their owners.

In politics, things are more complicated.

Some people practice disguise in reverse. They appear before the public wearing the face of a saint, while their conduct could provide enough material for an entire season of horror. They don the robes of integrity, preach sacrifice, speak reverently about the rights of the poor, then treat the state as family property and the people as an audience expected to applaud and express gratitude.

On Halloween, people dress up as monsters to make others laugh. In this kind of politics, monsters dress up as saviors to inspire trust.

These people have their own peculiar brand of holiness. They demand austerity from citizens while clinging to their own privileges. They urge people to be patient while rushing to claim their share. They promise a better future while first securing the future of their own children. And when someone asks what became of their promises, they offer yet another, as though failure merely required more eloquent wording.

Even miracles find their way into their hagiographies. Responsibility disappears when disaster strikes, while achievements materialize whenever the cameras arrive. Failure becomes an inheritance left by their predecessors, even when they themselves were those predecessors, while success is attributed to their wisdom, even when it occurred in spite of them. As for memory, it is summoned whenever it serves the narrative and sent into retirement the moment it begins to trouble its owner.

The halo is complete when asking questions becomes an offense, holding leaders accountable is treated as a deliberate attack, and criticism is portrayed as an assault on the community the politician claims to represent. At that point, this supposed holiness extends beyond personal image to become a means of shielding power from its most basic obligations. People are expected to believe in their leader more than they scrutinize him, and to defend his reputation more fiercely than they defend their own rights.

Here, the masquerade reaches its peak. True holiness places the person who embodies it at the service of others, while political holiness places others at the service of the person claiming it. The former is tested in one's conscience; the latter tests the loyalty people show toward their leader. And the wider the gap between words and deeds, the more polishing the mask requires, and the more guards the halo needs.

It is therefore difficult, on this occasion, not to think of our politicians, those who have combined the feast and its eve in a single personality. They have borrowed from the saints the appearance in which they want us to see them, while leaving us with Halloween's fear, anxiety and unpleasant surprises. Then they ask us to celebrate their presence, because, as they tell us, they are our protectors against whatever might come after them.

To all the politicians who recognize themselves in these lines, my warmest wishes on All Saints' Day. You deserve to celebrate it more than anyone, having so thoroughly mastered the art of wearing purity that holding you accountable has become a sin.

Happy All Saints' Day to you, our "saints"...