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The Pope’s announcement this week that Archbishop Oscar Romero is to be declared a saint was hardly a surprise. In the 38 years since he was murdered as he celebrated mass in his native El Salvador, some have continued to dismiss him as a dangerous subversive, but many recognise him as a model of courage and humility. Even coming as I do from a tradition which has always been wary of the whole saint-making process, I’m glad to see this contemporary martyr honoured. It was a privilege, ten years after his death, to stand in his cathedral in San Salvador, and trace my fingers across his tomb - and as a civil war was still claiming victims every day, a greater honour to be meeting people who were living out his legacy. His was a voice for the voiceless, and in his packed services, broadcast across the country, he read out the names of individuals who’d been murdered by the regime’s death squads, spoke up for those who’d been intimidated, tortured, forcibly disappeared. He condemned the abuse of the poor, the terror inflicted by those protecting the interests of the powerful. But his was more than a rage of judgement. Wake up, he would plead, be converted, change your ways. Typically, he appealed to those with uneasy consciences, terrible secrets and hands stained by blood: ‘The God of love is calling you,’ he would say, ‘he wants to forgive you. He wants to save you.’ His sermons remain deeply challenging, and they’re replete with calls to his flock to proclaim the way of Christ with courage, not to be afraid of it, not to be silenced for a quieter life. But he never pretended it was easy, confessing his own timidity, and how much fear he still harboured. I met many courageous individuals during that brief visit - journalists, campaigners, pastors, priests, and many poor people struggling simply to survive - and whenever I could I asked them about being afraid. The most memorable response came in a garrison town 60 miles from the capital. A small convent with just four nuns was one of only two places where civilians could tell their stories about being tortured in the local barracks. Their accounts were painstakingly recorded, and then faxed to an international human rights organisation. The sisters were sometimes raided by the military, and adept at hiding their research. ‘But aren’t you ever frightened for yourself?’ I asked their formidable leader, the Irish Sister Anselma. ‘Ah’, she laughed, ‘I’m scared witless most of the time.’ But she made it clear: the people needed them, God had put them there. The spirit of Romero was alive and well. Long may it continue to inspire.