Eamon is quite fond of the idea. He's heard many a conversation and read many a newspaper article that belittles and chides the Saints for their actions, calling them "zealous vigilantes whose iron fists deliver the message that God is a bullet to the brain." Yet Eamon remembers those hands, knows that they were not iron at all but flesh, soft and gentle even when they were playfully slapping at his fingers.
He has never seen Connor or Murphy again since that morning in the hospital when the bandaged and bloodied twins joked and laughed with him while he waited for his surgery. But he'll never forget that day, never forget the feeling of their hands in his, never forget the comfort and reassurance that had seemed to glow from them like sunlight and fill up the room. He still believes, in his secret soul, that they blessed him that day, and maybe he's right. Maybe it was their blessing that saved him when the surgery went wrong. Or maybe it was just coincidence and Eamon simply wasn't meant to die.
In any event, Eamon knows those hands, and he knows they don't deliver messages from God. They are the message. Truth and Justice, Justice and Truth - whether they hold a handgun or a handshake, well, that depends on you.