Rigid Christianity?

In fact, this framework can end up undervaluing repentance. The Tradition of the Church speaks of repentance as a constant and ongoing activity rooted in an essential and inescapable need to cry out to God for grace. This cry leads us to confess our myriad sins. Repentance is always ongoing and ends not even with death (i.e. Purgatory or some sort of Purgatorial state is also the Tradition of the Church). We see this in the Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete:

Where shall I begin to lament the deeds of my wretched life? What first fruit shall I offer, O Christ, for my present lamentation? But in Thy compassion grant me release from my falls.

Come, wretched soul, with thy flesh, confess to the Creator of all. In future refrain from thy former brutishness, and offer to God tears in repentance.

We also see this in the Prayer of the Publican, which is integrated into the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, repeated by parishioners every week:

God, have mercy on me, a sinner. God, cleanse me of my sins and have mercy on me. I have sinned without number, forgive me, O Lord.

In other words, I am not arguing that we need less repentance; rather, I am indicating that such rigidity, rooted in a certain sort of Pelagianism can very easily lead people to direct their attentions wrongly, either too specifically and at others, or simply away from their general need for constant repentance. And this makes sense. Many Latin Mass-goers seem themselves as preserving a sense of righteousness abandoned by the Church as a whole. Carl E. Olson, for example, wrote the following in response to Gaudete et Exsultate:

Unfortunately, the document also contains more than a few remarks or suggestions that are either puzzling or disconcerting—and not, I think, for the right reasons. The passage quoted by Martin is certainly one of more obvious examples. Yes, there are undoubtedly a few Catholics who fixate on liturgy and doctrine in a way that can be unwise or unhealthy. But how many more Catholics obsess about “tolerance” and “openness” to certain ways of being or living—usually advanced with a lengthy, ever-evolving acronym—in a way and to a degree that is far more obvious and problematic? How many Catholics show little or no concern for liturgy and doctrine, and view “being Catholic” as either some sort of curious birthright or an embarrassing attachment to “recover” from? And how many Catholics obsess—and I don’t use the term loosely or lightly—about being accepted, embraced, and otherwise feted by those in power and in the limelight?

Francis, as has been his common practice, warns not only against having too much concern for doctrine, but also too much emphasis on rules, describing as “pelagian or semi-pelagian” those who feel superior “because they observe certain rules or remain intransigently faithful to a particular Catholic style” (par 49). He says that like “the prophet Jonah, we are constantly tempted to flee to a safe haven. It can have many names: individualism, spiritualism, living in a little world, addiction, intransigence, the rejection of new ideas and approaches, dogmatism, nostalgia, pessimism, hiding behind rules and regulations. We can resist leaving behind a familiar and easy way of doing things.”

The argument becomes: “but don’t we have bigger problems?” That is not how a Christian should be thinking about repentance. The issue is not too much doctrine or dogma, but rather how we address ourselves to the need for repentance—is it constant and unending, or something to be made pointed, directed at others, or, at times, too strongly and specifically at oneself?

This last instance (pointedly directing it at oneself) can cause scrupulosity. This is an issue that, I think, we often don’t take seriously enough. One piece on Catholic.com, for example, is entitled “Scrupulosity: The Occupational Hazard of the Catholic Moral Life.” It reads, in part:

There are good intentions behind this way of thinking. It is meant to emphasize our freedom and our responsibility and to uphold God’s sovereignty. The scrupulous individual might feel pretty small at the end of the day, but at least he’s been responsible and God remains sovereign. It is almost as if he can crank up God’s sovereignty a notch or two if he is in a demeaned state of guilt! In fact, the scrupulous person often has a feigned humility. It may look like the real thing, but it’s not.

Note that the emphasis on freedom is resonant with the quasi-Pelagianism I discussed above. But even beyond this we can see how crippling such a condition can be. It turns people into self-interrogators mired in their own sins—finding evil and horror where they are not. It was this mindset that led Martin Luther to sola gratia. The emphasis on particular works and devotions mentioned above (and let me be clear that I am not saying to avoid the Rosary or daily Mass, or whatever else—these are goods, though they must be understood properly) combines with this mentality to produce crippling anxiety. Traditionalist priests and writers will go on about how video games are evil, Harry Potter teaches witchcraft, and any time not spent in prayer is automatically and de facto an offense to God.

All I can say is that I have seen several dear friends travel this road. I have seen how a desire for greater piety can lead to an inability to function, finding any time spent relaxing as a breeding ground for mortal sin (and yes, idle hands may be the Devil’s playthings, but watching some TV, or taking in a film, or having a beer with friends—these things are not merely idleness). Hemmed in on all sides, such people easily slide into a state of hopelessness—unable to practice the true repentance discussed above because their definition has been corrupted by such “rigidity.”