Being saintly is never easy. In the early days of Christianity, the holy faced persecution by the superpower of the day and were likely to be killed in imaginative ways: fed to wild beasts in the arena, like St. Ignatius of Antioch, or tied to a bull and dragged through the streets, like St. Saturninus.

Martyrdom is less common today, but other tests for the pious have multiplied. Consumerism, licentiousness and secularism tempt them at every turn.

Neither the 20th century nor the start of the 21st has been lacking in evil. And advances in science have left less room for miracles. The opposite of a sinner now is someone who eats fair-trade bananas and cycles to work. Little room left, you might think, for exceptional piety. Not so. Sainthood is back in vogue.

At a solemn ceremony in St. John's Basilica at the Vatican just before Easter, five black metal chests were delivered to the Congregation for the Causes of Saints.

Among those present was Sister Marie-Simon-Pierre, a French nun in the Little Sisters of Catholic Motherhood. Foremost among the documents in the chests -- the results of an in-depth examination of the life and beliefs of the late Pope John Paul II -- was evidence of her medically unexplained recovery from Parkinson's disease, a miracle attributed to the intercession of the late Pope.

In the glacially slow world of the Vatican, the presentation of the inquiry's results on the second anniversary of John Paul's death is the equivalent of an overnight delivery by FedEx.

Canonization usually takes decades, sometimes centuries. Joan of Arc, for example, was not officially recognized as a saint until 1920, 489 years after the English burnt her at the stake. According to the rules, the process isn't even supposed to start until five years after death.

In waiving that requirement for John Paul II, Pope Benedict XVI was bowing to the cries of "Santo subito!" ("Sainthood now!") at his predecessor's funeral.

The Polish Pope's elevation will be quicker than St. Joan's for another reason: the reforms he introduced in 1983. Before then, the church demanded proof of two miracles for beatification, the level below full sainthood, and two more for canonization.

Now it requires one for each. Less noted but just as importantly, he abolished the role of Promoter of the Faith, better known as the devil's advocate, whose job was to argue against canonization.

Rev. Stephen Wang, a lecturer at Allen Hall Seminary in London and a spokesman for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Westminster, says the new system is cheaper but no less rigorous.

Some Catholics worry the flood of new saints dilutes their importance, or that their credibility could be called into question later if corners are cut now. Scientists regularly challenge the validity of saintly relics; recently it was found that a Vatican-recognized jar of ashes from St. Joan's pyre were the remains of an Egyptian mummy.

Still others see a reflection of John Paul's conservative control over the earthly church, where by 2005, all but three of the top posts were filled by his men. "He appointed cardinals on earth and saints in heaven," says Rev. John Drury, a fellow of All Souls, Oxford.

Defenders of the late Pope's generosity with halos say he was just continuing the process started with the Vatican II reforms in the 1960s, when the church finally allowed mass to be celebrated in the vernacular as well as Latin.

John Paul's global saints were a recognition that the church's centre of gravity has shifted toward Latin America, Africa and Asia. Among the 464 new saints, 103 were martyred in South Korea and 110 in Vietnam.

"There's no reason why the church's saints should all come from the Mediterranean," says Catherine Pepinster, the editor of The Tablet, a Catholic paper. "Lots of people think the church focuses heavily on sin, but with saints, it's focusing on those who have done good."

Many religions hold that some people are holier than others, from Sufi mystics and Sikh martyrs to enlightened Buddhists. Though they lack the formal vetting procedure, non-Catholic Christian sects -- the Orthodox, the Coptics and the Anglicans -- have their own lists of holy people.

But in early Christianity, the word "saint" referred merely to the baptized. Thus the simple division of people into "saints and sinners." It was under the Roman persecution that sainthood became something special. Ever since, saints have fulfilled two roles for the faithful.

The first is as an inspiration and guide, says Wang. Take St. Francis of Assisi, a 13th-century friar who preached to the birds, made peace with a wolf and gave thanks to his donkey (bringing tears to the beast's eyes). A well-crafted sermon on St. Francis's joyful poverty could make even the most materialistic parishioner reconsider his priorities.

The second is as a spiritual link to God. To this day, shrines are often designed so that worshippers can reach inside and touch something closer to the divine.

They can also call upon saints to intercede with God for them. The Almighty hears all prayers, but apparently he's more likely to respond to pleas channelled through souls who have already proven their sanctity.

But there is a third function, too, one the church does not so readily acknowledge. Saints are, and always have been, political. Even the early martyrs served a political purpose, hardening the resolve of believers and striking awe into the hearts of the unconverted. Without martyrs, Christianity might well have withered.

Holy men and women were venerated where they lived, and their fame gradually spread after they died. Local bishops might declare a feast day, which might or might not be recognized in Rome.

Until the popes began to exert their authority in the 1200s, the system was ripe for corruption. Possession of a well-known saint's relics, however dubious their provenance, guaranteed the arrival of wealthy pilgrims, lavish gifts for the host church and inflated prices for local merchants.

Like Chaucer's pilgrims, I went to Canterbury, the heart of English Christendom. As the spring sunshine spilled through the ancient stained-glass windows, Dean Robert Willis led me through the history, from the cathedral's founder, St. Augustine, to St. Thomas a Becket, martyred by four of King Henry II's knights.

Becket's murder was the result of a broad political clash between the church and the rising feudal states. It was a severe setback for Henry II, who was so remorseful that he came to the cathedral barefoot.

But it is the fate of the cult of St. Thomas that best illustrates the power of sainthood. On the flagstones behind the archbishop's throne, a single white candle flickers where an elaborate shrine once stood. Plated with gold and encrusted with jewels, it was dismantled and carted away to London on the orders of Henry VIII.

Henry may have been motivated by a hunger for treasure or by the Protestant belief that saints, like other mortals, had to wait for Judgment Day before ascending to heaven.

But as a consummate politician, he was keenly aware that shrines could become the focus of resistance to the Reformation. Becket's was a particular threat, as he represents the humiliation of secular authority at the hands of Rome.

Today, even without the shrine, St. Thomas is a powerful draw to Canterbury, while the political controversy has passed into history. Not so the disputes about some of Pope John Paul II's saints, such as St. Josemaria Escriva. The founder of Opus Dei is greeted with suspicion by those who see the order as a shadowy church within the church.

More contentious still is Padre Pio, now St. Pio of Pietrelcina, a charismatic friar famous for supernatural events, including the stigmata -- wounds matching those Christ suffered on the cross. He has been accused of everything from plagiarism to having sex with women in the confessional. During his lifetime, the Vatican denied that he was divinely inspired and restricted his public preaching.

And the canonization of Edith Stein, a Jewish convert killed by the Nazis at Auschwitz, stirred an interfaith row between those who say she was martyred for the anti-Nazi stance of the church in Holland and those who say it was for being Jewish.

Almost as controversial are the candidates John Paul II did not promote, central among them Archbishop Oscar Romero, who was shot by a death squad while celebrating mass at a hospital in El Salvador in 1980.

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