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Contents © 1999
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

Rocked By Gales Of Passion

I didn't pay much attention -- though I wore a scapular, I shared some of my brother's suspicion regarding formulas and sacramentals. There was in these things something a little too material, something bordering on the superstitious and exterior: "Say these prayers and you'll get to heaven," as opposed to, "Love Christ and you'll get to heaven."

We rejected what we saw as the Protestant rejection of matter -- as if Paul's distinction between the flesh and the spirit meant that all things fleshy were unholy. After all, the sacraments involve matter, and the union of man and wife is a sign of Christ and His church, and so on. But these people wearing five and six scapulars -- different colors for different devotions -- seemed a bit much. So did these Marian promises, especially since they were made in the context of private revelation.

One thing I did remember, though, was a particular girl's rapt recital of the priest's elevation of the Host and the chalice was a moment of great grace. If you looked upon the Host and the chalice during the elevation and prayed, you would "get many graces." I didn't like this much either -- the plural "graces" made grace sound like chips you could acquire, then cash in for, say, an answer to prayer. Or, if you saved and saved, eternal life. I also didn't like the notion of a "magic window," a moment when prayers could better slip through into heaven. (I was younger than I am now, and more inclined toward such criticism.)

Nevertheless, I found myself behaving as if the claim were true. When the priest elevated the Host, I prayed (and do to this day), "O Lord, help me to love You more, to put You first in my life." And at the elevation of the cup, "O Lord, keep me chaste and temperate."

I pray these two prayers during the "magic window" because they address my greatest omission and my greatest commission. I need to love God better, to remember Him always and to be grateful for both blessings and trials. And because I am a young man, easily rocked by the gales of passion, I need temperance.

Lust is an obvious temptation against temperance; anger less so. Guys I know are fond of citing Christ's reaction to the money changers in the Temple in defense of "righteous anger." But wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, and with good reason. Like lust, it clouds the mind and bends the will -- judgements made in anger are rarely in keeping with the charity that bears all things and forgives all things. Like lust, it drives the self into itself, so that other people are seen only insofar as they affect the self, and not as people in their own right.

This is not news; but it is in some way news to me. Anger has not been much of a problem for me so far in life. Peevishness, yes; but not anger. Housebuying, an ordeal that began three months ago and has all but consumed my life, has changed that. One example, condensed: two days before the close of escrow on our house, the buyer walks through and, possibly with the help of his agent, decides that he doesn't like the work we have had done on our house.

One issue is with a two-inch long crack in one of the floorboards in the master bedroom. The termite inspector names this (incorrectly, it turns out) a Section 1 item, which the law requires we repair. We call the termite company, and they send a man out who puts some white putty in the crack. The buyer's agent returns a day after the walk through and calls this unsatisfactory. He insists we replace the board, something we can't do before our scheduled closing date. Our life is in boxes, our son has broken his collarbone falling out of bed onto a crate the night before, the move and all attendant utility switchovers are scheduled, the carpet people are coming on moving day, and now it is all going south. My wife stands in our bedroom weeping, crying at the agent, "Why are you making my life hell over this one board? I have two small children! Why are you doing this?" The agent doesn't blink. He says he is protecting the interests of his client.

I am not there when that scene takes place, but when I hear about it, I feel rage. What a bastard this man is; the buyer, too. But when I call my dad to talk about it, he expresses no sympathy. "You have to wonder what this man is going through," he advises instead. "What difficulties must be going on in his life for him to behave that way."

So simple, so basic. It's another suffering soul out there -- however damaged, however sinful. The rage drains away.

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