I work in the office with a guy named "Rob." We're the same age and had a lot of the same experiences growing up: listened to the same music, watched the same Detroit Lions teams, saw the same blockbuster movies of the 80s like Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
It's the Fast Times part that interests me. We were also both raised Lutherans. He's still Lutheran and pretty serious about leading a Christ-like life. I'm trying to do the same thing with the extra help of the Church's sacraments and saints.
Notwithstanding our efforts at holiness, we still chuckle about that era's racy movies like Porky's and Risky Business. We also joke about other aspects of that era that aren't fit for pew or home, and sometimes the discourse ventures where it shouldn't.
I'm not proud of it. We're slowly (oh, so slowly) maturing, mellowing, meandering in our efforts at holiness. But we're both still sinners and liable to stumble during a ten-minute break filled with hard laughter stemming from a risqué comment or two.
I've noticed something, though: There are times when he better avoids the risqué talk, there are times I better avoid it. There are times when he tries to elevate the discourse, times I try to elevate it.
I can't speak for him, but my times typically follow Confession. During the days immediately following Confession, I do a pretty good job of walking the narrow. But if he is feeling boisterous, I'm more inclined to stub my toe on something like the gym scene in Porky's. I know I drag him down, too. There is a direct correlation between the lapse of time since my last Confession and my inclination to start ribaldry.
If only we could hit on the same cylinders and experience divine closeness at the same time. Of course, maybe we do, and we just don't know it. As men mostly concerned with the world's practical affairs, it's something we aren't inclined to discuss ("Is your soul elevated today, Rob?").
A similar thing happens with my wife. The best times in our marriage come after we attend Confession together. It doesn't happen often enough. With seven children and scarce Confession times in our rural area, it's often hard for just one of us to get to Confession, much less coordinating a joint trip. But when it does happen, the sense of joy jumps.
It reminds me of a youth group outing that I chaperoned years ago. The priest heard Confession from everyone, then said Mass. The rest of the evening was loud, fun and joyous. I didn't realize it at the time, but another chaperone commented on it later: "Did you notice the good electricity in the air? The whole place was charged with holiness." He was right.
Grace is perhaps the most confusing thing ever. Prevenient grace, sanctifying grace, actual grace, habitual grace, justifying grace. It has spawned heresies from Pelagianism to Quietism. No one knows exactly how it works and why. It's elusive, frustrating, at times despair-invoking.
I don't pretend to know much about grace, but over the years I've grown to understand that it works well when it works with another. Indeed, the Church has always taught that one major effect of Confession is that it reconciles us to each other and revitalizes our relationships, making them right. (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1469) When one grace-filled person meets another, goodness sparks from the contact.
Each of us can be a source of grace for another. Unfortunately, each of us can also be an obstruction. If we could get the grace to work in tandem with those closest to us, we'd be a lot better off.
Might a grace-filled friend and I still joke about Fast Times at Ridgemont High? Sure. But I'm convinced that we'd blush a little sooner and turn the conversation onto better roads more swiftly.
