And the prayers trail after ...

Lent is the time for being sorry, and saying so.

Of course, we’ve been treated to the saying so of sorry without the predicate of being so. One can depend, always, on the incessant buzz of politics whose hive-speak never shuts down, for an ever-ready supply of quasi- or even pseudo- states of sorry.

Both parties and all parties are practiced in the various ruses for deflecting complaint, which is the only surviving rationale for making an apology. In happier times, sorrow was appropriate for repentance, or metanoia. There was a real psychic fear of the consequences from having offended the powers, earthly and not-so-earthly.

But today, the political world has educated the rest of us in the stratagems of the passive voice, the limited atonement, and the minimal acknowledgment.

Unpleasant examples jump to mind, unbidden. I see that the mildewed gag “Mistakes were made” has been trotted out, again and again. Another bit of "semi-sorry," this time listed under the “limited atonement” rubric, was pulled out of the closet in the last few months – a former Mr. World uttered “If I offended you I apologize” while explaining his transgression of that well-known kindergarten precept “Hands to self.” I guess there are women, in his conceptual world, who are not offended by groping. Or not offended by being groped by a celebrity like him.

Likewise, the "minimal acknowledgment" is always well represented – it goes something like this: “Never mind my having filleted you alive on the party line to pay you back for your sour look at my orange-carrot-and-green-bean jello salad with mayo dressing at the pot luck [ed. note: these things are never lucky]: what I am apologizing to you for (and publicly) is for not having sent this thank you note sooner for your having brought the pretty white plastic forks to that same pot luck.”

These hardly rate as confessions of sin. These days, confession seems to be limited to an acknowledgment of some sort of indirect responsibility. It is rather like a thief being caught with the goods, and he turns around and states the obvious: “Well, I’m caught, but only with received stolen property.”

Which is true, I guess, but not true enough.

“Sorry” should be an expression of sadness and regret. It is a description of humble fear, and a desperation for a stay of execution, or a liberation from the consequences that are sure to come. There should be, in the saying so, a frisson of terror and the lingering knell of doom: psychically, these are translated as guilt and shame (two very very discredited, podunk terms), and medically experienced as anxiety and depression.

It goes without saying that “sorry” requires spiritual poverty. Physical poverty probably helps. That's why our Lord said that thistle-y thing about the camel.

The best source for sorry, of course, is the Parable of the Prodigal Son. The Holy Tradition is replete , like Mother Mary of Egypt, with examples of how sorry should be done. There should be little confusion in the Church about what my mood should be when I confess my sins. I should be embarrassed and ashamed, and frightened at the inevitabilities of the consequences. There should be no bravado, nor nonchalance, nor soliciting.

Absolution should always come as a surprise.

I should never expect the Crucifixion.

There can be no “of course” to the Cup.

I should feel, escaping from the Mystery, as though I were a death row inmate, whose injection was stopped at 2359, and whose sentence was commuted, who’s been sent to a cottage on the sands for the rest of his days, with my family in flipflops, watching the dolphins pirouette in the blue argent tide, in the Trinitarian sun.

Well, now, that was just too personal, wasn’t it?

But I think some more personal is needed in sorry these days. Myself, I’ve been too doctrinaire in a bureaucratic sort of way, thinking of sin as transgression in some cosmic juridical drama: you know, Christ as my Perry, old Louis the Officer as the DA.

To help with sorry, I’ve found a surprising source. It is Homer, no less, from the Iliad. Here is Phoenix, Achilles’ old tutor, trying to prevail upon his former protégé to join the battle line against Hector and company:

We do have Prayers, you know, Prayers for forgiveness,
daughters of mighty Zeus … and they limp and halt,
they’re all wrinkled, drawn, they squint to the side,
can’t look you in the eyes, and always bent on duty,
trudging after Ruin, maddening, blinding Ruin.
But Ruin is strong and swift –
She outstrips them all by far, stealing a march,
leaping over the whole wide earth to bring mankind to grief.
And the Prayers trail after, trying to heal the wounds.

Here and I thought my prayers for forgiveness, and all my sorry’s, were quite noble, aristocratic works. I was proud of my confessions, because it was, after all, a great condescension on my part to actually kneel down and admit I was wrong, that mistakes were made … or to say that, God, if I offended You, or if You took offense at anything I did (without my knowing) … or to admit that I failed the Fast last Wednesday by eating margarine with whey in it (I should have consulted the label first).

He should have been pleased that I was so articulate, that I fell, rhetorically and oh so Wagnerianly on my mea culpa sword.

But Homer says that my prayers for forgiveness are old ladies, limp and halt, who stumble, wrinkled and squinty, after the mad Ruin of my sin.

Sin is not so much crime, or even disease, as it is ruin. It is the ruin of Creation, logos and telos, meaning and destiny ... it is the shriveling of hypostasis, the schizophrenification of time.

Truly, sin is mad Ruin.

And the Prayers trail after, trying to heal the wounds.

And by His stripes alone are we healed.

Comments

[ochlophobist]

Brilliant and helpful. Thank you.