person.”
Well, relative to what? Or to whom? Since the sexual and social revolutions, our Judeo-Christian notions of morality — of good and bad, and right and wrong — have been absorbing a broth of rationalism, and the resultant mush we’ve been eating for nearly 40 years has us regularly burping out, “But I’m a nice/good person,” a phrase suggesting that as long as we are not robbing banks, beating our children, blowing up bridges, or kicking puppies, we are doing all right and ought not be held accountable for much, and certainly not judged — even by ourselves — because we’re “good.”
The thing is, you and I might only be sort of good. We don’t beat the children and kick the dog. We don’t blow up bridges. We don’t take what is not ours or plan elaborate schemes for murder. Most of us are meeting minimum standards of good citizenship (which is not the same as good personhood), and we’re cognizant enough of those standards to soften the blow when we know we’ve done wrong:
• “Yeah, I got wasted and hooked up with someone last night, but I’m basically a good person.”
• “Yeah, I lied to get out of doing that thing, so he was stuck doing it alone, but that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”
• “Yeah, maybe I could afford to be more generous to my family, or to my church, than I am, but as long as I’m a good person….”
Thus do we convince ourselves, and each other, that we are “fine.”
Except that we’re not “fine” — we will eventually be judged, and if we are honest with ourselves we know that by clinging to our claim of “basic” goodness, we are damning ourselves with the faintest of praise, and relying on very adolescent, insufficiently formed consciences to guide us.
That doesn’t mean we don’t want to be good. Obviously we do, which is why we say it, and say it. But what does “goodness” mean?
Those of us who believe we are created by a loving God know that, yes, we are “good.” God’s creation is permeated with goodness, and some of our Christian mystics, like St. Thérèse Couderc and Thomas Merton, have been permitted to see the light of goodness that suffuses all things. Beyond that innate goodness, though, for which we can take no credit, what exactly entitles us to say, “But I’m a good person …”?
Am I, really? Are you? I’m inclined to say, “No, not really,” and as a witness I will call upon Jesus of Nazareth, who once said, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone” (Mk 10:18, RSV).
If we were naturally good, we would not have needed God to go to the trouble of spelling out to Moses that, no, we can’t just abandon our parents when they get old and feeble; we can’t just take what we want; we can’t kill whom we please and have indiscriminate sex all day long. As obvious as those prohibitions sound to us now, we needed to be told not to do those things — because otherwise we would.
So, we’re not “basically good,” but Jesus tells us how we can become good, and it boils down to two things: Love God with your whole heart and spirit, and then love the person who is before you at any given moment. The first is seed for the second; if you’re really doing the first, the second comes naturally. It is the foundation upon which our authentic goodness is built.
But if we are going to try to become truly good persons, we need to identify and then detach from the faults and sins that we so readily give into, and thus keep us always playing defense.
What we’re going to do in this book is identify 13 “little sins” — twelve would have been more biblical, but I couldn’t stop myself — that are surprisingly more important to our spiritual and material well-being, and more detrimental to our “basic goodness” than we realize. We will name the sin, flesh it out with the reality of our own experiences, and then take a look at what Scripture, the saints, and (sometimes) the Catechism of the Catholic Church have to say about it. Finally, to close each chapter, we will look for some practical solutions — ways and means by which we can begin to break out of the small habitual sins that keep us stuck defending our minimal goodness. And then we’ll pray together toward that end.
When I voiced my first objection to taking on this book, it was because I immediately recognized that no one needed it more than I. I anticipate a terrifying bit of self-discovery for me, as I write it. Hopefully, it won’t be quite so scary for you to read.
As we begin this journey, though, in your charity, please offer up a small prayer for me.
— Elizabeth Scalia
Feast of the Annunciation, 2015
Chapter One
Procrastination
Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well. — Mark Twain
I am such a champion procrastinator that this book was pitched to me about two years ago. It took me a year to sign the contract. Did you notice the date at the end of my introduction? As I write this, I am contractually bound to deliver this manuscript in about four weeks, and yes, I only just started it this morning.
It’s all outlined and in my head, you see, but typing it out is such a drag.
If you were a nice person, wanting to encourage me and validate my life choices, you might respond, “So, you’re a procrastinator. So what? We’re all a little like that! It doesn’t make you a bad person! It’s not as if you’re hurting anyone!”
Well, I’m not so sure about that. The editor who suggested I write it has been forced to go into editorial meetings where he undoubtedly endured the repeated inquiry, “And how is that Scalia book coming?” I imagine him raising his hands to heaven and saying, “I don’t know what her problem is, but she seems like a good person and people tell me she’ll deliver. But no, I haven’t heard from her.”
Already my “little” sin of putting something off has made life difficult for someone other than myself. Editors are waiting; schedulers and designers are waiting. My bank account is waiting.
I can hear you thinking, “But this is not a sin; it’s just an inconvenience. It’s maybe thoughtless, but you’re not, like … evil.”
Thank you for saying I’m not evil. There is no “maybe” about my thoughtless inconveniencing of others, though, and yes, my procrastination is in fact a “little sin” because it is a by-product of a bigger sin, and a deadly one: sloth, which the poet Horace called a “wicked siren.”
Procrastination is a refusal to engage in the world that is before you. It is an RSVP of “no” to the big and small invitations life is continually offering us. It is also a show of ingratitude toward the gifts and talents that are the source of so many of those (actually flattering) invitations:
• “You want me to write a book? Oh, okay, I’ll sign the contract, but really, blogging is so much faster and less structured, so I’ll do that for a year, until I really have to think about the deadline.”
• “Yes, of course I am still bringing that dessert you love to your dinner, tonight. I just have to go shopping for those ingredients that aren’t always easy to find, and it needs six hours to set so … I’ll try to get to that this afternoon.”
• “You want me to volunteer to work with the scouts because you’re shorthanded and
