AN ANGEL IN THE DESERT

“The brothers said of Abba Macarius that as God protected the world and bore the sins of men so Abba covered the faults of others as if they did not exist, refusing to cast blame on any but only pointing out his own faults. Whatever things he saw and heard, it was as if he heard them not. To them he was an angel walking the earth.” –from The Lives of the Desert Fathers

I have a favorite sin. It’s not the only one I commit—I’m an efficient sinner across the board—but it’s the one I most relish. I know it’s bad for me: it corrodes my soul, weakening my mind and dulling me to the feelings of others. I know that. I know what it promises is a lie, that its allure is false and its results hollow. Yet it tempts me daily—and the temptation “works”: after all these years of fighting it, my soul still savors its sweet smell.

What is it? Before I let you in on that, I’ll let you in on this: you have a favorite sin, too. Like me, it’s not your only one, but also like me, you like the way it makes you feel more than any of the other Six Deadly Ones.

Specialists in the study of the spiritual life call this favorite sin a “besetting sin.” It “besets” us throughout our lives. We may spend our lives combating it, winning some victories over it and losing some battles to it, but as long experience teaches us, it never surrenders.

We fight most effectively when we understand that, as the alcoholic never ceases to be an alcoholic, we never cease to have a soft spot for our favorite offense against God.

My besetting sin is called “vainglory,” an unhappy child of pride and vanity. It leaves me hungry for praise, the love of respect, of being well-thought of to the point of courting admiration. It’s the poison of my soul.

I fight it as I can. If my goal, though, is only to beat down my love of myself, I fight in vain. God offers me more. My besetting sin can become a habitual grace. Through prayer, through the sacraments, following as best I allow myself the spiritual teachers like those in the desert, my sin grudgingly gives ground to Grace. Charity and patience and humility slowly rise from the ashes of my vanity (those who know me know how far I have yet to grow in these gifts, but here and there they peek through in my life). Where Grace, God’s presence and power, finds a home, sin melts like wax.

It’s easy to believe in hell: we see it around us all the time. Watch an evening newscast. Little hells and big ones, most of human devising.

Heaven is harder to believe in because we see it so infrequently. But the Lord, in His love, won’t leave us without glimpses, enticements, promises of Good Things to come. A baby’s gurgling laugh, the palate of a sundown, the clasped hands of an old married couple: these are hints of heaven.

But now and again, Heaven blazes forth in unmistakable, unmuted glory. When the brothers talked about Abba Macarius, they spoke about him as if, through his actions, Heaven had come down. Not only did he not condemn or judge them, they felt that he, like God, protected them.

That Heavenly charity came at a cost. The cost was unseen, the hidden warfare that took place in Abba’s soul. Because he was willing to fight his sin, the ones around him tasted Heaven.

When next you hear the tempter’s whisper, remember Macarius, an angel who walked the earth. We can still follow his path.