A Short Prayer

The star of the movie, A Bronx Tale, is a kid who says early on, “The best thing about being Catholic is you go to confession every week and then you start all over.” It did feel like that when I was his age. I thought the secret to living well and getting into heaven was to go to confession regularly. Barring that, in an emergency a quick Hail Mary would work. Trapped in a crashing plane? No problem! I could fully enunciate the prayer in five seconds.

So what did many Catholic kids like me learn? Grace, apparently, decays rapidly after confession, and the only seconds of our lives that count toward salvation are the last five. We have just that much time to convince God to ignore all the preceding seconds, minutes, hours, and days.

Yes, I know. We should figure out how to make every moment count. Too often, though, we develop bulimia in our souls, stuffing more prayers at a time down our throats than our destinies can digest. Or maybe we’re like the goldfish rising to a pond’s surface to gulp a bubble of air–a gas it cannot respire but which offers temporary equilibrium. Perhaps if fish could pray and tell time, they would be like us, and thus be saved.

 

Dec. 25, 2012

 

Gavin’s Glossary of Terms of Existence

I’ve started a glossary of terms relating to human existence. I’ll flesh it out as our existences go by. Quite a bit of this is stream of consciousness, so it isn’t in alphabetical order.

Birth:
A transpiring event you don’t recall and of which you imagine everything, including a god

Death:
An expiring event you won’t recall and of which you fear everything, including a god

Karma:
Feeling frustrated that, while sitting on one side of a balance scale, you can’t throw marshmallows onto the other side fast enough to raise youself from the tracks before the Evening Express comes through.

Grace:
In the Catholic sense–having invested in a marshmallow factory when you were young.

Luck:
The Evening Express being delayed by a landslide in a mountain pass. All the rail cars have been swept into a swollen river and everyone has died who wasn’t carrying a large bag of marshmallows.

Buddhist monk:
A kindly man in a saffron robe sitting under a nearby tree and telling you in a soothing tone, “Just wait”.

Franciscan monk:
A kindly man in a brown robe sitting under a nearby tree and telling you in a soothing tone, “God‘s will”.

Jesuit priest:
A kindly man in a snappy black suit sitting under a nearby tree and telling you in a not-so-soothing tone, ” Sucks, doesn’t it”.

Bishop:
A kindly man wearing a pointy hat sitting under a nearby tree and asking, “Would you like to buy some marshmallows?”

Satan:
A kindly man with pointy ears and a tan sitting under a nearby tree and asking, “Would you like to buy some marshmallows?”

Politician:
A friendly man wearing a blue and red suit sitting under a nearby tree and imploring, “Be afraid; be very afraid! May I have some of your marshmallows?”

Anthropologist:
A studious man looking at the wrapper of the Big Mac you had for lunch and wondering, “Does this mean he worshipped a god?”

Husband of premenopausal woman:
A clueless man living under a nearby rock exclaiming, “This is funny. Let’s roast marshmallows.”

Premenopausal woman:
A nervous woman sitting on the end of the weakest branch of a nearby tree screaming, “This is not funny! Wait–yes it is! God, it’s hot in here! This is not about marshmallows!”

Catholic nun:
A kindly woman sitting under a nearby tree and asking, “Do I really have to sit with these nits?”

Religion:
Praying for marshmallows to be bestowed upon you by the owner of a marshmallow factory and for a temporary reprieve from the chemistry of oxidation, while ignoring the ultimate effect on everyone in those rail cars.

Fate:
Watching the hooks on the balance scale slowly rust away.

Freedom:
Choosing to get off your ass to see what you can do for anyone in those rail cars who is still alive.

 

Sept. 2012