Regrettably, the hagiography of Expeditus is one of those delightful bits of bungling that occur within a 2,000-year history of a worldwide church. According to John Delaney’s Dictionary of Saints, Expeditus may have been created by some nuns whose Latin was a bit shaky.
St. Expeditus (no date), Patron saint of UPS, FEDEX, DHL, and USPS?
“Mentioned in the Roman Martyrology as one of a group of martyrs who were executed in Militene, Armenia, there is no proof he ever existed. The popular devotion to him may have mistakenly developed when a crate of holy relics from the Catacombs in Rome to a convent in Paris was mistakenly identified by the recipients as St. Expeditus by the word expedito written on the crate. They began to propagate devotion to the imagined saint as the saint to be invoked to expedite matters, and the cult soon spread. [Feast day,] April 19” (Dictionary of Saints, by John Delaney).
I confess, I love the idea of a St. Expeditus, dedicated to helping us deal with the little sin of putting things off — but, lacking him, perhaps St. Augustine will do, coupled with St. Jude Thaddeus, the patron of desperate causes.
Pray (This prayer or your own)
Lord, you created the universe on the strength of your own intention, and sustain the world throughout space and time, which, for you, are neither linear nor limited. Please look upon me, your sometimes time-and-space-challenged child, with patience. Help me to overcome the fears and bad habits that so often prevent me from setting to the tasks you have placed before me, that I might know and serve you better. All good things come from you, and the requests for my help, for my assistance, and for my participation in the world and among my neighbors are good things I need to better appreciate. In your mercy, give me the strength, the energy, the firmness of resolve, and the trust I need so that I might move forward into my work, at the center of which I will discover the depths of your mysterious love for me. I ask this, as ever, in the name of your Son, Christ Jesus. Amen.
—
St. Augustine and St. Jude Thaddeus, unofficial patrons of slacking-off procrastinators,
Ora pro nobis; ora pro me!
Chapter Two
Excessive Self-Interest
But enough about me, let’s talk about you. What do you think of my children? Aren’t they cute? — One of your friends (or, uh, you?)
Have you ever shared something of yourself with someone else — something meaningful and life-affecting — and had the person you’re talking to say, “Oh, that happened to me,” and who then proceeded to turn the conversation to herself?
It’s certainly happened to me, and more than once. I’m sure it has happened to you. Every young couple excitedly anticipating their wedding or the birth of a child has had the experience of announcing their happy news (or sharing their anxieties) only to be regaled with stories from well-meaning people who can’t wait to share their own experiences, and they’re usually cautionary tales (“Let me tell you about Italian mothers-in-law; your meatballs will never be right!”) or outright horror stories (“Thirty-six hours I was in labor, and I didn’t just have front labor, I had back labor; I had thigh labor; I never screamed so much!”).
Over the years, it has seemed to me there might be some element of mischief to all of these stories — I am positive that one of my aunties took secret delight in turning my husband pale with her stories of projectile vomiting, overflowing diapers with neon-colored offerings, and well-intentioned nursing adventures gone horribly awry.
For the most part, though, when people share such stories, they’re not trying to steal anyone’s thunder or stick a wedge into someone’s happiness. In an odd way, they’re trying to share in it.
When our son became engaged, and we related some of our experiences in dealing with the traditions and expectations of others, we quite naturally fell into retelling our own horror stories. We weren’t indifferent to our son or his bride, but we could only speak to what we knew, and that necessarily meant turning the subject us-ward. In situations such as these, people end up talking about themselves, often at length, because it’s what they know. In a way, they are helpfully demonstrating that the difficult things bridal couples and new parents focus on so intently become — with hindsight and the balm of time — hilarious memories.
Such oversharing is usually well intended, and most of the time it does not leave us feeling like we have just played straight man for the gratuitous amusement of an empathy-challenged narcissist who is, in the end, quite indifferent to us.
The “little sin” of excessive self-interest is distinct from narcissism, which is a personality disorder and a legitimate illness, because it involves us making a choice to prefer our own interests, our own stories, and our own voices over those around us.
Not long ago I had lunch with a few business associates, men I had corresponded with but never met. After discussing work issues, which I managed to do like an adult human being, we quite naturally began to chat about our families and personal lives, and that’s where my circuitry went a little haywire. Both gentlemen managed to mention their spouses and children with obvious pride and affection, but with what I would call a seemly restraint.
Not so, Lizzie. Oh … not so.
Now, I grant you, I work from home and sometimes will go a whole day without the opportunity to use my tongue, so when I get around people I can be a bit of a motormouth, and I know it. On this particular afternoon, I had been housebound due to illness; it had literally been weeks since I’d had real conversations with anyone beyond my family, so the pump was primed. Once I began talking about my sons, I lost all sense of professional decorum and began to gush like a broken water main.
The men were perfectly tolerant of the torrent, but while my mouth was flapping, my guardian angel began shouting an interior cue that sounded a lot like begging, or a heavenly face palm: “Please … stop … talking. Ask them something about their kids, like a normal person would!”
Finally, I was thrown a six-word lifesaver: “You mentioned your son studies biology,” I said to the man on my left, and as he answered I felt myself mercifully pulled out from the verbal deluge, only slightly worse for wear.
The devilish spirit of excess thus departed from me, but only because I really wanted it to, and had made a choice to let someone else brag a little, and to actually be present to, and enjoy, the pride he took in his son. I could just as easily have chosen to ignore my better angel and prattled on until my companions, lacking guns, or ropes from which to hang themselves, instead scalded their throats with hot coffee swallowed too fast, in order to end the meal and make their escape.
Excessive self-interest involves choosing to either be considerate of others or completely immune to them. It is a “little sin” for certain, because when we indulge it, we tend to stop seeing the equally interesting humanity of the people around us. They become utilitarian objects; receptacles for our endless streams of me-thought and mine-words. We overwhelm them with our yelps or burden them with our yokes; and although it might — at first consideration — seem like a measure of insecurity is involved in this excess (“Seems, madam? Nay, it is!”), all of it, even the insecurity, is a function and by-product of pride.
I have a friend who is a terrific conversationalist. He can chat extensively with anyone, and do it with a good deal of empathy and charm.