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Contents © 2003
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

CONFESSIONS
November 2003

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WHAT SHOULD WE THINK OF THE DAMNED?

A tutor of mine at college once said that the souls in heaven rejoice to see the suffering of the damned, because they glorify God by manifesting his justice, while the saved glorify Him by manifesting his mercy. The claim -- shocking, yet not outrageous if you follow the line that we are all sinners, and every sin merits hell -- was just like him. He was always looking to garner a visceral response, to rescue Christianity from a watered-down do-right respectability and show it for the radical proposition that it is. Behind such blasts was a tacit challenge -- "This is your faith. Are you in?"

An entirely different spirit animated my friend Andy when she confessed to a certain delight in the news that John Geoghan -- the defrocked priest whose sexual abuse of boys broke the current scandal -- had been strangled in his jail cell. There we were, cleaning up after Saturday breakfast, sweetness in the sunlit kitchen air and on my syrup-slick tongue, the prospect of a birthday/housewarming party brightening the day's horizon. Here, the underlying question was almost a plea. "This is my faith. Can I stay in?" She suspected she was out of synch with current Church sensibilities, and she was looking to me to defend the party line.

It's not a new scenario. Andy is not docile by temperament, but she struggles to rein herself in. She is not afraid to be wrong, or even to appear foolish, and that makes her honest and forthright. She does not easily give in, but she will consider what she hears long after a conversation has ended. She pushes at what she perceives as weak spots, probing them for falsity where I might be inclined to chalk it up to my limited understanding and move on. I admire her spirit, and I do my best to play apologist to my fellow Catholic.

My brain latched onto a line I thought I remembered from Scripture: "God does not delight in the death of his enemies." Rather, He rejoices at the repentance of sinners. I clung to it, almost shamefacedly -- surely I could do better? I warned against confusing bloodlust with justice. She referred to the Old Testament, when blood and justice were more frequently linked. "I think if it were more like that, we'd value life more. We don't value life enough," she said. I said the New Testament represented a break from the Old with regard to vengeance -- viz. turning the other cheek, loving your enemies, etc. I plead for mercy, but secretly, I sympathized. I felt squishy. I know that I am softhearted. Mercy is not softheartedness. Mercy is not squeamishness with regard to justice. Mercy is not weakness, but one may be weak and call it mercy.

She hung on. This wasn't a man killing another man or raping a woman. This was a priest, destroying the lives of boys. That he was a priest made all the difference to Andy. "How can people who are so close to the sacraments be this way? It makes me wonder about the sacraments." She was scandalized where I was not, because she has pushed further than I have. I have said that I am unfazed by the sins of men, even men who are consecrated to God. But she is looking at what they do. These are men who change bread and wine to Body and Blood every day, men who forgive the sins of others. It is easy to think of priests as mere men, sinners like the rest of us; it is harder to think of them as mere conduits of grace, as unaffected by the daily miracles they perform as a power line by the electricity it conducts.

We went 'round and 'round until we were repeating ourselves. Silence settled in; I kept washing dishes. A few minutes later, Andy said, "I'm probably having this reaction because of my own frustration. I pray and pray and try and try and nothing changes. I pray for conversions, and nothing happens. It makes me wonder. And then this happens." As usual, I was impressed by her humility, her willingness to lay out her inner workings.

My wife stepped in. "The smallest act of love has merit. Think of Therese's Little Way."

Andy was unmoved. "Yes, but Therese prayed for the conversion of a murderer when she was five years old, and the murderer converted. That's not small. She knew going in."

Again, I sympathized. I feel like Salieri in Amadeus, able to recognize genius but not possessing it. So it is with me and holiness. Listening to my parents, I sometimes feel as if they are speaking to me from another place, trying desperately to use words I'll understand. Love the cross. Love failure. Give thanks for frustration. Love the cross.

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