The most recommended books about saints

There are two scenarios in which I will set a book down after reading only the first page: either the prose is so atrociously bad that I fear neuronal loss if I read any further, or the prose is so incandescent that I fear irreparable damage to my self-confidence as a writer. James’s prose made me consider giving up writing and transitioning to, I don’t know, goat farming.

None but the Righteous follows a boy named Ham, who is possessed by the spirit of the saint whose relic he carries around in a pendant. After Hurricane Katrina, he must try to find his way back to his adoptive home of New Orleans despite complicated feelings about the woman who took him in as a child. 

Part climate fiction and part mystical tract, this book is hypnotically, hauntingly beautiful.

Peg Kehret brings humor and a genuine can-do attitude to her memoir about being struck by polio when she was twelve years old, leaving her paralyzed in both her arms and legs. The story of her fight to recover and to walk again is enriched by her friendship with fellow patients, the generous love of her family, and the care of a determined nurse. Peg is neither saint nor grouch—just someone you like as much as you admire. This is a feel-good book about a feel-bad topic. 

This brand-new, prize-winning book is a gorgeous synthesis of some of the most important trends in current Iberian studies. Early modern empire-building, missionary efforts, and the African slave trade fostered a new cult of black saints, which Rowe documents through stunning photography from tiny and forgotten churches across the peninsula. In focusing on black saints and their devotees—a largely understudied part of early modern Catholic culture—Rowe not only centers and elevates the diverse and often marginalized individuals who shaped global Catholicism, but also emphasizes important conversations about race and inclusion in early modern society.

OK, true; I prefer the first two-thirds when Augustine is still unconverted and far from saintly and could do without the pieties of the end. Yes, Augustine is responsible for making the doctrine of “original sin” part of the Western cultural inheritance—but still, what a journey.

The honesty, humility, and candor about his lusts, addictions, pride, and resistance to personal growth; the vivid evocations of life in Roman north Africa in the fourth century; and the home truths about uninformed arrogance; and the final surrender that allows grace to flow in, by whatever name—all make this a timeless and moving account of the real possibilities of human development that I drink up and cherish, even if it is steeped in an alien theology. 

One of the most exciting areas of research and publication in medieval history over the last few generations has been the cult of the saints. A landmark was Peter Brown’s slim but fundamental The Cult of the Saints (1981), an effervescent essay on the origins of the veneration of saints in the Late Antique period. In the same year a very different book appeared, the French original of Vauchez’s enormous and comprehensive study of Christian saints in Latin (western) Christendom, the heart of which was an analysis of the 71 people who were proposed for papal canonization in the period 1198-1431 (only half of them made it). By limiting himself in this way, Vauchez was able to ask statistical questions, demonstrating that as time went on, canonized saints became more female and more lay, as well as pointing out the geography and chronology of sanctity. A monumental achievement.

It had me from the opening paragraph, where the protagonist's mother drives a nail through his shadow and rips it from him. This tight wire balance of tone between the whimsical and the searingly traumatic continues throughout the book. It layers in themes of religion, colonialism, and genocide while somehow remaining witty and engrossing throughout.

I love all of Peek’s Saint stories, but this one really speaks to me. It’s an action-packed story that starts strong—with great tragedy—and goes deep. While the saints inspire me, biographies don’t suck me in and keep me turning the pages late into the night. This story does, and it brings the saint to life. In some ways, Cloud is an ordinary man. He struggles with grief, fear, anger, doubt, and even jealousy, making him easy to relate to. But he does not rely on his strength alone. He turns to God, grows in his love for God, and rises above his faults, becoming what we are all called to become: a saint! And that’s what inspires me.

One of the tropes I always one-click is the well-bred lady with an earthy, pull-himself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guy. Sutton’s Spinster gives you all that and more. Jasper has built his wealth by running a successful gaming hell. When two young daughters land on his doorstep, he finds himself in need of a wife. Octavia dreams of creating a gossip journal, but needs a partner to provide the start-up funds. The heat between these two lights up the pages. I love how Jasper reacts to suddenly becoming a father, and how he transforms from a hard and cutthroat businessman to something softer because of Octavia. Scarlett Scott delivered with this one.

We all think we know the story of Joan of Arc – she’s possibly one of the world’s most famous women. But what Kelly Devries’ book does is to put Joan’s military accomplishments into the spotlight.

By focusing on Joan as a military leader, the book reminds us that women’s military experience was often dismissed. In Joan’s case, the only explanation people had for the military capacity of a teenage girl was magic. The British thought Joan was a witch, the French that she was divinely inspired – but no one thought that she may just have been a good fighter and a good leader.

Devries unpacks some of the more prosaic explanations behind Joan’s military success, explanations that indicate that Joan (like other women) may have had military talents rather than magical ones.