Let's Talk About Sin
Reflections on an unpopular topic
“Sin is any voluntary violation of the law of God in thought, word, deed, or omission; whereby we fail to do what we ought or go beyond the just limits of our moral freedom, and commit evil.” (Bishop Athanasius Schneider, Credo: Compendium of the Catholic Faith)
“We don’t talk enough about sin,” says the man across the table. “We’re afraid to talk about things like the devil, and sin, and the reality of spiritual warfare that’s going on around us every second.”
The man’s name is Kevin, and the topic of sin has come up as we discuss an article I’m writing for the church bulletin—not on the topic of sin per se, but on Kevin’s personal experience with the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which was called the Sacrament of Penance until 1973, when some people decided that words like penance put too much emphasis on sin rather than mercy.
Yet here we sit, Kevin and I, talking about sin and agreeing that we should talk about it more—not in a frenetic, bible-thumping way, but in a way that keeps us on guard and warns everyone how insidious and destructive it can be.
I don’t know Kevin well, but he seems like a sensible, hard-working man who has taken a look at the world around him and found that people need to wake up. After experiencing firsthand the grace that comes from confessing his sins and having them absolved by a priest, he wishes not only that more of us would talk about sin, but that we’d hear more about it from those who speak from the pulpit.
I can’t argue, and my discussion with Kevin has given me a lot to think about. As he and I part ways, we shake hands, wish each other well, and head boldly out into the sinful world.
“To preach false doctrine or to suppress the truth in preaching is a sin, for it is contrary to the office of a preacher, whose duty is to manifest the truth of the Gospel.” (St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica)
My eyes land on the deacon, a lumbering giant with flyaway hair and a body like a refrigerator. At well over six feet, he stands much taller than the priest, a trim, short-haired man in green polyester who glides about the sanctuary like a swan on water.
This bright Sunday morning marks day four of our trip to California. Before we left home, I found a parish online and checked the Mass schedule. Now I sit with my husband and son in a gaping modern sanctuary with the worst acoustics imaginable. Words bounce off walls and fade into the heights, and if we didn’t know we were at Mass, we might not be able to tell from the sound of it.
The deacon plods forward to read the Gospel, and I stand along with the people to let the haze of syllables wash over our heads like white noise. After the reading, the deacon kisses the book and remains at the microphone to deliver his homily.
Normally I’d make an attempt to listen, but as he rambles on, I begin to yawn. My lazy ears pick out a phrase here and there; he’s talking about sin and relating it to an old football injury from his college days.
Yawn.
Suddenly my ears perk up. What did he just say? “As we know from St. Thomas Aquinas, it isn’t a sin if it doesn’t hurt another person.”
Wait, what? I must have heard him wrong.
But then he doubles down. “Again, as St. Thomas Aquinas teaches, a sin isn’t really a sin if it doesn’t hurt another person.”
Now, I’m no expert on St. Thomas Aquinas, but I know a load of garbage when I hear it, even in this muddled space. What on earth is the deacon talking about, and what will become of the people who are listening? Will they go home, commit one sin after another and think, “Hey, at least I’m not hurting anyone?” And why is the priest just sitting there as if everything is fine?
By the time Mass ends, I’ve worked myself into a tizzy, and by the time we reach the car, I’m ready to unload. So I turn to my hapless family. “Did you hear what that ridiculous man said about sin?”
Of course they didn’t hear, and when I try to explain, they seem unconcerned. “Mama, if it was so bad, why didn’t you say something to him on our way out?”
The fact is, I thought about saying something but decided not to. First of all, I didn’t think it was my place, and second, sin or no sin, we’re on vacation. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could hold my own against an ordained clergyman—even one who thinks sin is just fine as long as no one knows about it.
I turn again to my loved ones, who have to listen because they’re stuck in a car with me. “Sin,” I say measuredly, “is an offense against God, whether anyone sees it or not. And when you do something wrong, it hurts other people for lots of reasons—for one thing, you’re blocking the grace that would have come into the world if you’d resisted the temptation.”
I stop there, but as we make our way across town, my mental gears keep turning. I recall an old thought experiment: If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?
I make up one of my own: If someone sins in California but nobody knows about it, did it really happen?
My husband pulls into Peet’s and we go inside. Together we sit, talk, and scroll absently on our phones. The coffee tastes good, and I remind myself that we have an entire day of rest ahead. I begin to relax, and eventually I decide to let the whole deacon thing go, because sin or no sin, we’re on vacation.
“People with scrupulosity walk around as if they have annoying little pebbles grating and irritating their minds and souls, and they just can’t seem to shake them out.” (Kevin Vost, Catholic Answers Magazine)
I don’t think about Martin Luther very often, but every now and then his name comes up. Brilliant, stubborn, and mercurial, Luther catalyzed the Protestant Reformation with his Ninety-five Theses of 1517, and while most Protestants look on his actions as heroic, to the Catholic Church he remains a heretic.
I learned recently that Luther suffered from scrupulosity, an obsessive tendency to worry about sin. As a young monk, he would spend hours in the confessional, tormented by shame, and through numerous bouts of what we now recognize as severe depression, he couldn’t surrender himself to the mercy of God. Eventually he rejected the Church’s teachings on absolution and penance altogether.
Then, long story short, he broke away and started his own church, with different teachings on absolution and penance.
For Catholics, it might be tempting to dismiss Luther as the brute who tore the Church apart for the sake of his own conscience, but over time scholars have afforded him a measure of sympathy, especially considering his well-documented inner struggles.
Because we all struggle with something, right?
I remember the day I heard a Catholic influencer on YouTube say, “Most people who pray the Rosary are doing it wrong.”
Oh, boy, that got me. I had to know more—but why did I care what this guy had to say?
Because I’m a perfectionist, that’s why, and until recently I assumed this was an admirable trait. High standards are good, aren’t they? I never knew that perfectionism could lead to vanity, or even idolatry. But I knew that if I was praying the Rosary wrong, I wanted to fix it. So I watched the video.
It didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse. In my effort to “fix” the way I prayed the Rosary, I got distracted by my own actions. My attention shifted from the prayers themselves to my way of praying them. Like a scrupulous sinner, I became more focused on myself than on God. I needed to let go.
Scrupulosity and perfectionism are siblings in a disordered family, and while I’d hesitate to compare my little Rosary problem with the history-altering rebellion of Martin Luther, both illustrate an important point: The fundamental sin is pride. It sits at the root of every transgression since the Garden of Eden, and it doesn’t like to surrender.
Luther’s 1517 challenge to the authority of the Church took place on October 31, a day that modern Protestants observe as Reformation Day. Interestingly, this celebration of the tearing asunder of Western Christianity coincides with All Hallows’ Eve, more commonly known as Halloween.
After posting his Ninety-five Theses, Luther made himself available for public debate on the following day—November 1, the Feast of All Saints. Both Lutherans and Catholics still celebrate this feast, but thanks to Martin Luther, with very different ideas about how saints actually become saints.
As of this writing, All Saints Day lies just a few hours away. With that in mind, I’ll wrap up all of this talk about sin with a hopeful quote in honor of those who have shown us how to overcome it:
“The saints, by their holy deeds, are proposed to us as examples, so that we, seeing their good works, may be stirred to follow them in loving and serving God.” (St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica)