I am the worst of all sinners.

There’s a curious thing that happens when you spend time in a darkened room and then step outside on a sunny afternoon. The light, which others walk through without a thought, becomes almost unbearable to your eyes. Every speck of dust dancing in the air, every smudge on your glasses, every imperfection on your skin that you’d never noticed in the dim light is suddenly, painfully visible.

The light hasn’t changed. You have changed. You’ve become exposed to a brightness that reveals what shadow once concealed.

This, I think, is something like what happens to the soul that draws near to God.

It explains a peculiar pattern that anyone reading the lives of the saints quickly notices. The holier they become, the more convinced they are of their own wretchedness.

St. Paul, who was caught up to the third heaven and given revelations so profound he was forbidden to speak of them, calls himself “the foremost” of sinners (1 Timothy 1:15, NRSV).

St. Francis of Assisi, whom we now invoke for his radiant holiness, considered himself the greatest sinner in the world. St. Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower whose autobiography has converted countless souls, spoke constantly of her littleness and weakness. St. Teresa of Ávila, a Doctor of the Church, called herself “this miserable sinner” with such regularity that her readers can be forgiven for occasionally rolling their eyes.

What is going on here? Is this false humility? Spiritual theater? A pious affectation we’re meant to imitate by simply repeating the words?

I don’t think so. I think the saints meant it. And I think understanding why they meant it can transform the way we see ourselves before God.

 

The Mathematics of Grace

The honest reader of Scripture notices that Paul does not say, “I was the foremost of sinners.” He uses the present tense: “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost” (1 Timothy 1:15). This is the same Paul who, in the very same letter, has just been appointed to the apostolic ministry. This is the Paul who gives moral instruction to entire churches, who corrects even St. Peter on one occasion, who suffers shipwreck and beatings for the gospel.

How can he, with a straight face, call himself the worst?

I want to suggest that the saints are not playing a comparison game with the rest of humanity. They are not lining themselves up next to murderers and tyrants and saying, “Yes, I am worse than they are.”

That would, in fact, be a kind of strange pride masquerading as humility, a competitive lowliness.

Rather, they are operating on a different mathematics altogether.

The saint stands before the immensity of the grace they’ve received and measures their response against it. And in that measurement, even the smallest unfaithfulness becomes monstrous.

Consider an analogy. If a stranger on the street fails to greet you warmly, you think nothing of it. If a casual acquaintance is cool toward you, you may shrug. But if your spouse, your child, your dearest friend grows distant for even a day, the wound is profound.

The closeness magnifies the smallest withdrawal. The depth of the love makes the slightest coolness feel like betrayal.

Now imagine that the love in question is the infinite, self-giving love of God.

Imagine that you have been brought into intimate friendship with the One who knit you together in your mother’s womb, who knows the number of hairs on your head, who has poured out his Son’s blood for you.

In that light, what does it mean to give him a divided heart? What does it mean to choose, even in the smallest matter, comfort over love, self over surrender?

The saint sees this. We mostly don’t.

 

The Problem of Spiritual Anesthesia

Most of us live with what we might call spiritual anesthesia. Our consciences are not so much clean as numbed. We measure ourselves against the cultural average, against the people we know, against the version of ourselves we were five years ago.

By these measurements, we are doing reasonably well. We are not, after all, terrible people.

But the saints do not measure themselves this way. They have stepped out of the dim room into the noonday sun. They have come close enough to Holiness Itself that the smallest stain becomes visible.

This is what Isaiah experiences in the temple. He sees the Lord, “high and lofty,” with seraphim crying “Holy, holy, holy” (Isaiah 6:1, 3), and his immediate response is not, “What a wonderful spiritual experience I’m having.” His response is, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips” (Isaiah 6:5). This is not a man who has just committed a great sin. This is a prophet of God in the temple. But in the presence of true holiness, his ordinary humanity feels suddenly, urgently inadequate.

The same thing happens to Peter when he glimpses who Jesus really is after the miraculous catch of fish: “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:8). He hadn’t done anything new. He had simply seen something new. He had seen the holiness that exposed the gap.

This is the saints’ great secret.

They have not become more sinful as they have grown in holiness. They have become more aware.

The light has gotten brighter, and what was always there has come into focus.

 

The Magnification of Unfaithfulness

I am quite convinced, the more I've grown in holiness and intimacy with God, that I'm the greatest of sinners. Things I used to think or do without any consideration, without the slightest pang of guilt, will eat me up now for days. If I were to converse with me of ten years ago, I'd probably roll my eyes at myself. But here's what I've learned as I've approached this issue in prayer, repeatedly.

I may say I’m the worst sinner not necessarily on account of the uniqueness or depravity of my particular sins, but on account of the great undeserved graces I’ve received.

The more I've come to reflect on the grace of God, on the many blessings He's given me, just in the last year, not to mention across the course of my life, and how utterly underserving of any of it I was and remain, the more I recognize my gratitude is insufficient, the more I'm shocked that I'd so quickly turn toward "self" and entertain the smallest vice.

In fact, it's what some might deem the "smallest" sins that often plague me the most. It's one thing to turn one's back on God for a moment because he was distracted by the "shiny" things of the world, the allure of great riches, or fame, or even recognition. In such instances, it's easy to see why someone might be "captivated" by sinful desire.

Even Judas Iscariot betrayed the Lord for thirty pieces of silver.

Most of the time when I sin, when I am weak in virtue, and vice prevails, I receive nothing of any worth, spiritual or worldly. Usually, when I turn my back on God, and do not hold him foremost in my heart, it's for something trite, some imperfection that most might think excusable.

Tell me, if someone were to betray you and sell you out, would it hurt more if they'd sold you out for a million dollars, or for a mere penny?

I suspect if someone were to betray you, perhaps a boss, or a coworker, and received a million dollars for it, you'd recognize the greatness of the temptation, you'd be less inclined to take in personally, than if they betrayed you just "because;" than if they betrayed you for a penny. The penny-betrayal would feel much more personal.

Most of the time, when temptation takes hold of me, the pay-out is even less than a penny's worth. The "little sins" become great precisely because when I turn away from God in such a way, I do so for nothing at all, for something often of negative worth, that won't benefit my life in the least, that should have held no allure at all, even in terms of my creaturely comforts. 

And it is precisely as I grow in gratitude, as I draw closer to the heart of our Lord, that the penniless betrayals are brought into the light in a way that pierces the heart.

The greater the gift, the more grievous the failure to receive it well. To whom much is given, much is expected (cf. Luke 12:48).

And to those who have been loved with the love of Calvary, what response is adequate? What hesitation, what reservation, what self-protection is not a kind of theft from the One who gave everything?

This is why St. Thérèse can describe her own littleness with such intensity, even as she lives a life that would shame most of us by its devotion. She has seen the Face of merciful Love, and she knows that her little hands have not given back proportionate to what she has received. No human hands could.

This is why St. John of the Cross writes about the soul’s purification with such severity. The closer the soul comes to God, the more even the smallest attachment becomes intolerable—not because God is cruel, but because love itself demands the removal of every obstacle to union.

The saint says, “I am the worst,” and what they mean is something like this: Considering what I have been given, considering the love that has been poured into my heart, considering the patience God has shown me, considering the graces that should have made me a flame of charity—how can I look at my actual life and not weep?

 

The Surprising Joy in This

Here is what may surprise you: this awareness is not crushing. It is liberating.

The person who minimizes their sin, who keeps it at arm’s length with euphemisms and excuses, lives in a kind of low-grade anxiety. They cannot quite face themselves. They must keep up appearances even before their own conscience. The mask is exhausting.

The saint, by contrast, has stopped pretending. They have stood naked before God and said, “Yes. This is who I am. This is what I have done with the gifts you have given me.”

And then, having said it, they discover that God’s love has not flinched. The mercy was always greater than the wound.

Paul, after calling himself the foremost of sinners, immediately adds: “But for that very reason I received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience” (1 Timothy 1:16).

His sinfulness has become, paradoxically, the canvas on which mercy paints. His weakness has become the place where Christ’s strength is shown.

This is why the saints can speak of their sinfulness with something almost like joy. They are not wallowing. They are recognizing. And in recognizing, they are receiving mercy more deeply than the self-justified ever can.

 

Living This Truth

How does any of this reshape an ordinary day? Let me suggest a few practices.

First, practice exposure to the Light. The saints did not arrive at their self-knowledge through introspection alone. They arrived at it through prolonged exposure to God in prayer, in Scripture, in the sacraments. If you want to see your sins as they really are, do not stare at yourself harder. Gaze upon God. Sit in silence with him in adoration. Let the light do its work. Self-examination apart from the gaze of God tends toward either despair or self-deception. Self-examination in the gaze of God tends toward truth.

Second, stop comparing. When you find yourself thinking, “Well, at least I’m not as bad as so-and-so,” recognize this for the trap it is. The question is never how you compare to other sinners. The question is how you have responded to the love poured out for you. That comparison is far more humbling, and far more honest.

Third, let small failures be significant. Not in a scrupulous way, not in a way that produces anxiety, but in a way that takes love seriously. The small unkindness, the small dishonesty, the small refusal to forgive—these matter, because love matters. The saints noticed these things not because they were neurotic but because they were lovers, and lovers notice.

Fourth, receive mercy daily. The point of seeing your sin clearly is not to live under condemnation. It is to live under mercy. Go to confession. Sit with the parable of the Prodigal Son. Let yourself be embraced by a Father who has been watching the road. The deeper you know your need, the deeper you can know his love.

Finally, do not be surprised when the gap remains. The saints saw their sinfulness more clearly the closer they got to God, not less. This is not failure. This is progress. The closer you draw to Holiness Itself, the more you will see how far you have to go—and the more grateful you will be that you are not making the journey alone.

The worst sinner, it turns out, may be the one who knows most deeply that he is loved.

 

God Bless,

Judah