TAKE a deep breath before Advent. The traditional themes of
death, judgement, hell, and heaven are weighty enough to make the
hardiest soul stagger.
Add to this the psalmist's dismal cry: "I am a worm," and the
Prayer Book's relentless reiteration that we are miserable sinners,
and you will find yourself heading for a massive guilt complex.
This can become destructive. We need to search for a Christian
response to wrongdoing which can heal us.
Guilt founders in various ways. It is self-hatred, a defamation
of our own character; any loathing, whether for another or for
ourselves, is poisonous. Guilt sets up an insoluble conflict
between what we are and what we think we should be.
This inner struggle can fuel despair and lead to a fractured
personality. It is what ripped St Paul apart. "I can will what is
right, but I cannot do it" (Romans 8.18).
This is not just a private struggle. It seeps out into the
world, affecting every encounter we have. If we cannot accept
ourselves, it is improbable that we will embrace others generously.
Guilt is profoundly at odds with the second great commandment.
It has a last, sly trick up its sleeve. If we are not watchful,
it can descend into an ego trip, a self-glorification. My sins are
so important that they warrant all God's attention, even his wrath.
Members of the clergy will know that peccadilloes are sometimes
blown out of all proportion, in order to bring about a kind of
warped importance in the penitent.
To dismiss guilt summarily may seem like dishing out carte
blanche to adopt an amoral tone, to do what we want and damn the
consequences. But that would be to jump the gun. For guilt has a
fair cousin: remorse.
Remorse is upbeat and constructive. It has no truck with a
brooding, inward-turning judgement. Instead, it thrusts us into a
self-improvement mode.
Remorse starts with contrition, burgeons into expiation, and is
finalised in resolve. We feel sorry, put matters right as far as
possible, and then find the will to move forward. Yes, that act was
shabby. I'll have a shot at improving things from now on.
Sometimes, all that is needed is a letter of regret, or a request
for forgiveness, a kiss, or a touch.
If our failure centres on an abandonment of God, we can take a
leaf out of St Augustine's book: "Late have I loved you, O beauty
so ancient, so new." He owns up, but instead of getting bogged down
in a mire of self-recrimination, he moves on, and turns the future
into a dynamic pilgrimage. "Now I pant for you . . . now I hunger
and thirst for you."
This jettisoning of guilt brought liberation and joy to
Christian in The Pilgrim's Progress: "The burden tumbled
off, dropped into the sepulchre. Then was Christian glad and
lightsome."
It can do the same for us. The Church offers plenty of
stepping-stones to remorse: the Gospels' repeated affirmation that
God is loving and forgiving, the absolution in the Sunday liturgy,
and the sacrament of confession.
At the end of Crime and Punishment, Dostoevsky's
towering story of guilt and remorse, the penniless, murderous
student Raskolnikov, encouraged by the Christlike prostitute Sonia,
heaves himself out of an endless sea of disgust and despair. He
confesses his crime, and heads for Siberia to serve his punishment
of exile, resolved to transform his whole being. At that point, his
guilt loses its demonic hold, and he experiences "a presentiment of
future resurrection and a new life". I cannot think of a more apt
parable for Advent.
The Revd David Bryant is a retired priest living in
Yorkshire.