The Beam in my Eye: Sin, Sorrow, Confession, Mercy
Or how canst thou say to thy brother: Brother, let me pull the mote out of thy eye, when thou thyself seest not the beam in thy own eye?
--Douay-Rheims Bible
Frequently, readers of my posts disagree with me. In the past three weeks, for example, two women wrote to object to what I had written. One felt that I was too harsh in my assessment of campus protesters and gays, while the other called me to task for my opinions about the benefits given to the American poor.
Or how canst thou say to thy brother: Brother, let me pull the mote out of thy eye, when thou thyself seest not the beam in thy own eye?
--Douay-Rheims Bible
Frequently, readers of my posts disagree with me. In the past three weeks, for example, two women wrote to object to what I had written. One felt that I was too harsh in my assessment of campus protesters and gays, while the other called me to task for my opinions about the benefits given to the American poor.
On reflection, I decided that both critics were correct. Though the articles in question dealt with other issues, I was uncharitable in my secondary judgments. We live in a fractious society in which we tend to scream at each other instead of listening and reasoning together—think radio talk shows—and in both cases I might have offered more nuanced arguments than in the original article.
Being called out this way is never a pleasant experience, but one to which I am accustomed. I teach home-educated students ages eight to eighteen, and each week I make two or three glaring errors in the classroom. One example: in an Advanced Placement European History class this past week, I wrote June 14th on the whiteboard as the date of the fall of the Bastille in France. Even when I wrote that date, it felt wrong. After a few minutes, a student pointed out that the correct date was July14th. Now, I have known this fact for nearly fifty years and have no idea why I put down the wrong date. Was I embarrassed by my error? Yes, but only a little. When you make as many mistakes as I do, embarrassment flies out the window. But the student was correct, and to refute her would have been the height of folly.
This admission was a trifling matter, but what about the errors, some deliberate, some the result of carelessness, that all of us commit from time to time? What of those times when our words wound the people around us? What about those occasions when we backstab a friend, when we lie to protect ourselves, when we rob everyone from our employers to our children by stealing time from them? What of those darker errors, those thoughts and deeds that for some of us qualify as sins—lust, pride, gluttony, despair, sloth, and so on? To whom do we admit our wrongdoing and offer our apologies when we fall into these dark places?
As a Catholic, I have recourse to the sacrament of confession. I enter the confessional, say the words “I accuse myself of the following sins,” tick off those faults, and receive absolution from a priest acting in persona Christi. At the end of that confession, I say the words “I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin.”
Sometimes I fulfill this resolution, sometimes I fail.
Confession, absolution, and contrition restore me to the sacraments of the Church, and I have on a few occasions left the confessional with a light heart. All too often, however, I carry an abiding guilt for my failings into the street. I may be forgiven, but the shame of what I have done or failed to do continues to resonate.
Part of our present difficulty with guilt in our public and our private lives has to do with our twisted idea of freedom. For most of my life, I have heard people say that we should be able to do as we like so long as we don’t hurt anyone else. This concept is deeply ingrained in us and in our culture. But is it true? Can we really indulge in vices, great or petty, that damage no one? A man in his twenties watches online pornography night after night. We may claim he is hurting no one, but what of his future spouse? What of his ideas about women? Another bachelor drinks his nights away. He seems harmless, perhaps hurting only himself, but he is drowning his talents and connections to the world in a lake of alcohol. A woman frequently lavishes gifts of clothing and jewelry on herself. All well and good, but could she have better spent the money helping others? A credit card user runs up a bill for goods extraneous to his necessities, then wants to renege on payment.
What is missing from our claim to freedom is, I think, the counterclaim of responsibility. We want the one without the other. Somewhere in most of us—I include myself—lives a short-sighted adolescent who wants all the pleasures of living, but none of the pain, all of the diversions, but none of the consequences.
Responsibility is the adult face of freedom. Responsibility—duty, if you prefer—means owning the actions of our freedom. Responsibility means accepting the consequences of our actions and words.
To celebrate freedom while denigrating or ignoring responsibility for our actions is juvenile at best and dangerous at worst.
Being called out this way is never a pleasant experience, but one to which I am accustomed. I teach home-educated students ages eight to eighteen, and each week I make two or three glaring errors in the classroom. One example: in an Advanced Placement European History class this past week, I wrote June 14th on the whiteboard as the date of the fall of the Bastille in France. Even when I wrote that date, it felt wrong. After a few minutes, a student pointed out that the correct date was July14th. Now, I have known this fact for nearly fifty years and have no idea why I put down the wrong date. Was I embarrassed by my error? Yes, but only a little. When you make as many mistakes as I do, embarrassment flies out the window. But the student was correct, and to refute her would have been the height of folly.
This admission was a trifling matter, but what about the errors, some deliberate, some the result of carelessness, that all of us commit from time to time? What of those times when our words wound the people around us? What about those occasions when we backstab a friend, when we lie to protect ourselves, when we rob everyone from our employers to our children by stealing time from them? What of those darker errors, those thoughts and deeds that for some of us qualify as sins—lust, pride, gluttony, despair, sloth, and so on? To whom do we admit our wrongdoing and offer our apologies when we fall into these dark places?
As a Catholic, I have recourse to the sacrament of confession. I enter the confessional, say the words “I accuse myself of the following sins,” tick off those faults, and receive absolution from a priest acting in persona Christi. At the end of that confession, I say the words “I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin.”
Sometimes I fulfill this resolution, sometimes I fail.
Confession, absolution, and contrition restore me to the sacraments of the Church, and I have on a few occasions left the confessional with a light heart. All too often, however, I carry an abiding guilt for my failings into the street. I may be forgiven, but the shame of what I have done or failed to do continues to resonate.
Part of our present difficulty with guilt in our public and our private lives has to do with our twisted idea of freedom. For most of my life, I have heard people say that we should be able to do as we like so long as we don’t hurt anyone else. This concept is deeply ingrained in us and in our culture. But is it true? Can we really indulge in vices, great or petty, that damage no one? A man in his twenties watches online pornography night after night. We may claim he is hurting no one, but what of his future spouse? What of his ideas about women? Another bachelor drinks his nights away. He seems harmless, perhaps hurting only himself, but he is drowning his talents and connections to the world in a lake of alcohol. A woman frequently lavishes gifts of clothing and jewelry on herself. All well and good, but could she have better spent the money helping others? A credit card user runs up a bill for goods extraneous to his necessities, then wants to renege on payment.
What is missing from our claim to freedom is, I think, the counterclaim of responsibility. We want the one without the other. Somewhere in most of us—I include myself—lives a short-sighted adolescent who wants all the pleasures of living, but none of the pain, all of the diversions, but none of the consequences.
Responsibility is the adult face of freedom. Responsibility—duty, if you prefer—means owning the actions of our freedom. Responsibility means accepting the consequences of our actions and words.
To celebrate freedom while denigrating or ignoring responsibility for our actions is juvenile at best and dangerous at worst.
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