2001 CONFESSIONS
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Contents © 2001
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

APRIL 2001 CONFESSIONS

GRACE MAGNETS

For me, college was a spiritual greenhouse -- a place where religious flora, imported from all sorts of environs -- could flourish in a protective Catholic atmosphere. There I encountered practices, beliefs and traditions which had withered away in the arid, post-Vatican II climes of my upbringing. Small wonder that my thoughts drift back to those years -- they bear something of the significance of a conversion.

One aspect I did not encounter, but which was later related to me, came from a fellow from Ghana. He told amazing stories -- stories I am inclined to believe -- about black magic: people levitating, etc. No doubt such a display of physical power served the devil well in that culture; here, it would prove disastrous. Here, the notion that the material world is the only world is cheerfully accepted. Satan knows better than to put on a show -- any sign that the supernatural existed, and people might pay more attention to their spiritual welfare.

The other side of this coin is that when people do start to acknowledge the spiritual, they divorce it overmuch from the material -- "God doesn't care about my bedroom habits," or worse, "All flesh is evil, opposed to the spirit." It's not hard to sniff out a suspicion of mixing the two -- statues, the Eucharist, and obviously, sacramentals. The sacraments have some basis in scripture -- but the rosary? scapulars?

One evening while I was in college, I returned to my room to find a scapular on my desk, along with a note from a friend saying that he had heard that I had not been "bagged" yet. (The scapular -- two brown squares of cloth held together by two long strings, vaguely resembled a teabag.) He urged me to take up the sacramental, saying something along the lines of "every little bit of grace helps." (Funny to imagine grace coming in bits, to think of receiving that one morsel that gives you enough strength to clear the heavenly high bar.) This was from a fellow I admired, and he put it in a way that I did not feel bullied. I visited a priest (per my friend's instructions), received the blessing, and started wearing the scapular.

I did not understand it well -- my friend who passed it on didn't explain its origins, or how it "worked." The thing seemed curious -- it wasn't historical, it had never been relegated to the past, it was connected to my faith. But to me, it was ancient and mysterious -- even dangerous. You wouldn't want to let it become a sort of talisman.

I had heard that Our Lady had promised that if you died while wearing it, you would be preserved from damnation. This sounded suspicious -- surely salvation could not be guaranteed by an article of clothing? And surely wearing the cloth shouldn't allow you to relax your efforts to avoid sin, confident that confession would be available before your expiration? But then, I supposed, if you were not one of the elect, then God would see to it that you were not wearing it at the time of your death. When I lost mine in a riptide-heavy ocean, I felt panic tear at my soul. Was I about to be drowned? Had God removed the scapular so that I could proceed to my spot in hell? I already suspected that I was on shaky ground with God at that particular time; I headed for shore with vigor.

Unsure if I would need a priest's blessing over a new scapular, and lacking accompanying devotion, I never got another. I had never heard of the intercession of the Church independent of my efforts; I suspected that something was required of me, that membership had requirements.

Before I lost my scapular, I tried to get my brother to take it up, arguing, "Why wouldn't you want to?" (This was the very spiritual bullying I had been glad to avoid -- why wouldn't you want to join me in praying fifteen decades of the rosary daily?) No doubt stung by my question, he responded, "I'll stick to the sacraments, thank you." I didn't know how to answer him. (For the record, he has since taken up the scapular.)

Had I thought of it, I could perhaps have pointed out that we both employed the sacramental of holy water, dipping our fingers into the font and crossing ourselves as we entered a church for Mass. This was easier to understand in its relation to the recipient's disposition - the water reminded us of our baptism; the sign of the cross, of our redemption. The memory was awakened, and hopefully, the will was touched. We were encouraged to be purified by repentance, and to give thanks to our Redeemer. Holy water involved doing something; that comforted my American/Pelagian soul, and it might have comforted him. Scapulars -- grace magnets, of a sort -- were a trickier business; it's unsettling to imagine chapters of our spiritual story unfolding without our knowing it.

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