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SILLINESS AND SIN (they go together, sometimes) by Kelly Clark — the lady in the pew — June, 2004 On the eve of Pentecost Sunday, I stayed up all night, drank an adult beverage (or three), nearly disgraced myself the next day and ended up in the confessional two days later. I’ll elaborate in a moment, but first: One of my favorite fairy tales is called “The Three Sillies.” Do you know it? No? Well, after you read this little column I’ll give you the link to the story — hey, don’t scroll down, that’s not fair! — but let me just give you a brief intro. Seems this family — mom, dad, and daughter-of-marriageable-age — invites a young swain over for supper. Daughter is sent down cellar to fetch some beer. She happens to look up and there, stuck in the ceiling, is an axe. Daughter thinks to herself (and I’m paraphrasing here): “Gee. What if that guy and I get married and have a kid, and the kid grows up, and we send him down here to get some beer, and that axe falls down, beans him good, and he dies?” The notion is so horrible that she sits down and cries her eyes out, beer forgotten. After awhile, mom comes down to see what’s going on. Daughter points out axe and relates her “what-if” scenario, which so distresses mom that soon the two of them are wailing and gnashing their teeth. A thirsty dad makes his way down, sees the weeping women, and asks what’s wrong. They tell him and the old guy simply falls apart, keening more loudly than the two women combined. The abandoned dinner guest finally gets fed up and joins the group down in the cellar. Astonished by their grief, he questions them. Upon hearing the reason for their woe, he cracks up laughing, reaches up, removes the axe and prepares to leave. They protest, but he tells them that he had never met three sillier people ever and no way would he marry the daughter unless he found three people even sillier than they. And then the real story actually begins, so don’t think I’ve spoiled anything for you. I’ve been known to be a “silly” myself, at times. A perfect example? The week before Pentecost Sunday. While skimming through some news articles I happened across one devoted to a homosexual-activist group in Minnesota. Group members announced plans to enter the local Catholic cathedral wearing emblems clearly identifying themselves as — well, as “active homosexuals” — and demand Holy Communion. I hate when stuff like this happens! What I should’ve done was offer up a prayer for the group members and for the Minnesota diocese in general and gone about my business. Which is exactly what I did not do. Instead, I played the “what-if” game. “What if,” I wondered while I was supposed to be writing an ad for a hair salon, “somebody in Boston heard about this group in Minnesota and thought they were on to something good?” “What if,” I wondered while half-listening to a client on the phone, “that person in Boston who heard about this group in Minnesota and thought they were on to something told a friend about it?” “What if,” I wondered while absently stirring Cambell’s® Chicken NoodleO’s™ in a saucepan, “the friend told another friend, and that friend told somebody else, and the whole thing began to gain momentum, and it grew and grew and” — my thoughts were temporarily interrupted by Chicken NoodleO’s boiling wildly over the stove. On Saturday night — I tried to read; couldn’t concentrate. I tried to watch television; didn’t want to concentrate. Finally, I turned to my all-time, tried-and-true, can’t-be-beaten time passer: Paddle Ball! You know what I’m talking about, right? You’ve got this small, wooden paddle with an elastic cord and a red rubber ball attached to it. The idea is to bounce the ball off the paddle as many times as you can without missing. Putting false modesty aside, I’m a virtuoso at Paddle Ball, as a rule. But on this particular night, my (near legendary) dexterity utterly failed me! Finally, I invited a buddy — Mister Jim Beam — over to keep me company. By the time I’d finished my second drink, I had the whole thing pretty much pegged. Since the next day was Pentecost, I’d reasoned, the church would be packed. Elementary. Everybody goes to church on Pentecost. (‘Course, I was confusing Pentecost with Easter and/or Christmas. Jim Beam tends to do stuff like that to me.) The conspirators — and by this time, they numbered in the hundreds — wouldn’t enter the church en bloc. Oh no, they were too wily for that! Instead, they would infiltrate the packed pews. Nobody would notice them, because they would cleverly conceal their “I’m Gay and Proud of It and Screw Catholic Teaching” emblems under their — what? — overcoats. Yeah, overcoats! No, raincoats! Of course! Didn’t the weather guy predict rain? Since the Pentecost crowds would be unexpected by my parish priest (he, presumably, lacking the Jim-Beam-induced wisdom that I’d acquired), there probably would be only one celebrant. How could one priest deal with the ugly confrontation that would most certainly erupt at Communion time? What to do? What ever was I to do? Were it not already after midnight, I might’ve telephoned my parish priest to warn him of the impending catastrophe. Instead, I poured a third shot of good ol’ Jim. “Think, Kelly, think,” I exhorted myself. Because, of course, the entire fate of the next day’s Mass — if not the Future of the Entire Catholic Church! — was In My Hands Alone. Cautiously, I weighed the pros and cons of several courses of action, including:
None of these, nor anything else I could think of, seemed very feasible. Then it hit me: Why not just go to another church tomorrow??? For a few blissful moments, I thought I’d hit upon the perfect solution. Until I realized two things: One: This would be an act of sheer cowardliness. Two: Since (by this time) the Conspiracy had grown to mammoth proportions, probably every church in town would be infiltrated, so what would be the use anyway? I decided to go to sleep. Sleep, alas, was impossible. Not that I didn’t try. I did! But how can anybody sleep with the weight of the Church on her shoulders? The last thing I remember pondering, before finally drifting off at about six thirty in the morning, was the sleep habits of the Holy Father. Good grief, but my alarm clock can be loud sometimes! The next morning I arrived deliberately early for Mass. I was surprised, at first, to see the very sparse collection of worshippers. Surprised, but not fooled. Probably they’d all rush in at the last minute in an attempt to throw me off track. Hah! I knelt in a pew and tried to pray. This was difficult, since I kept looking furtively around, seeking out suspicious-looking raincoats. I didn’t see any, but stuck to my vigil anyway. For one thing, it took my mind off the headache that was beginning to have its way with me. To make a silly story short: nothing happened. Except that I managed to doze off for a few seconds during Mass (I hope I didn’t snore!), completely missed the point of the sermon (which, I learned later, was a masterpiece), and neglected to prepare myself properly for Holy Communion, thereby receiving Jesus in a way that most charitably can be described as “rude.” I crowned Pentecost Sunday — the birthday of Christ’s Church, no less! — by being short with a fellow parishioner after Vespers, arguing about the price of milk with the corner grocer, and yelling at a hapless telemarketer. The following day — for good measure — I overslept, kicked the cat, and, in general, acted as if I were auditioning for the role of the Wicked Witch of the West. On Tuesday, I came to my senses and ran to Confession. Jesus gives Holy Mother Church some truly extraordinary gifts. One of them is the Sacrament of Reconciliation. In the course of my confession, I came to realize that my sins weren’t confined to behaving badly toward other people (and the cat). Nope. I’d fallen prey to the Grand Daddy of Sin: Pride. You, no doubt, figured that one out right away, but it took me awhile. See, the insidious thing about Pride is that it is a terribly efficient blinder. When I allow myself to fall into the sin of Pride, I shut my eyes to anything that might help me out of it. Like prayer, for instance. Notice that not once during my Saturday Night Vigil did it ever occur to me to pray. And the devil must have been having a field day. Old Scratch loves Pride. It’s his stock in trade. He’ll do anything it takes to tempt people like you and me to fall into it. One of his most effective weapons? Evil! It makes sense, doesn’t it? The Prince of Evil knows how to master evil. To manipulate evil itself to further his own ends. Make no mistake about it. The stunt planned by the homosexual activists in Minnesota — known as “The Rainbow Sash Movement” — was and is clearly evil. I wasn’t wrong to be disturbed by it. My screw-up was, first and foremost, neglecting to pray. By ignoring God, I wandered into the silly “what-if” game. Which led to the insufferably arrogant presumption that it was All Up To Me. My confessor reminded me to practice discernment. It’s so simple, really, and yet, without prayer, it’s not possible. Had I prayed, I would have recognized my silliness for what it was — in time to banish it. Had I prayed, I would have realized that it wasn’t God telling me, urging me, exhorting me to foolish plots and schemes and imaginings. It wasn’t God cajoling me into worrying myself sleepless. God doesn’t ask me to be silly. He does ask for my trust. And what a gift that is! “Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in You!” My penance, along with other prayers offered to the exposed Blessed Sacrament, was a repetition of that declaration. The month of June is set apart for devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In my view, anyway, the timing couldn’t have been better. As if the Church wasn’t bleeding hard enough, we are now embroiled in an ugly battle over the most sublime gift Jesus gave us to enjoy in this world: His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. To some, the battle seems to be over who is “worthy enough” to receive Jesus in Holy Communion. That’s nonsense, of course, because nobody is. To others, the battle is over what is perceived as a desecration of the Most Blessed Sacrament. The battle is being waged in the secular media, in Catholic publications, and over dinner tables. Among bishops, priests, and lay folk, the opinions are as passionate as they are diverse. Where it will lead? God only knows. “Hey, Kelly? Got a point coming up? And, uh, soon?” Well yes, actually, I do. I mean, I just made it. “God only knows.” The only way I know how to face this latest challenge in the Church — or any challenge, really — is to turn it over to God. To pray. A lot. To consecrate myself to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. To practice, as my confessor urged, discernment. To seek wisdom. To trust in God’s love. To hope for — and to expect — the best. And, at all costs, NOT to be SILLY! Raincoats, do you believe it? Sheesh. Thank you for joining me! I do so appreciate the fact that you took the time to read this. Please remember the people mentioned in this column in your prayers, and to pray for me when you get the opportunity. I pray for you all the time. Endnote: I didn’t forget! Here’s the link to “The Three Sillies.” And now for the fine print: Kelly Clark is your basic nobody. She serves on no parish councils, belongs to none of the myriad of designer-chic "Catholic" groups, or any Catholic group, for that matter, other than the Roman Catholic Church. Holding no theology degrees, she has no desire to see herself or any of her sex wearing a clerical collar. She figures Jesus knew what He was doing when He established His Church, and also figures that it’s His Church, not hers, and not yours. She’s an ordinary parishioner of Cathedral of the Holy Cross, Boston. Use the links on the left to e-mail Kelly, to visit her parish, read past columns, and check out other cool stuff. (If you don’t see any links on the left, you’ve probably been directed here by a search engine. Just point your browser to http://www.pewlady.com to get to the main site.) Copyright: Kelly Clark, 2004. I don’t care if you share this stuff with others. In fact, I hope you do! Only I’d appreciate it if you’d link me, or print it off as it is. In other words, don’t change anything. Thanks. “The Lady in the Pew” column is updated regularly, God willing. To be notified of updates, please e-mail me. The link’s on the left. “Mary, Mother of the Church, pray for us.”
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