There is a sin that has learned to survive by not looking like one. We have made room for it—quietly, in the way we work and compete and measure ourselves against the person beside us. We have given it respectable names: ambition, drive, a healthy edge. Everyone feels it, we tell ourselves. So perhaps it cannot be helped. And what cannot be helped, we assume, cannot really be a vice.
But the Christian tradition never granted it that cover. It saw this thing as anti-life. It traced it back to Satan himself—not his first sin, but the bitter fruit of his pride, the refusal to bear that another might be beloved. It warned that this sin shrinks the heart, isolates the soul, and turns its poison first upon the one who harbors it—that to give way to it is, in the old and startling image, to lay the hangman against your own heart. It corrodes friendships and families, churches and nations. And it does all of this while convincing us it is only natural.
What feeds it is a lie: the fear that there is not enough love to go around, that another's blessing must mean my own diminishment, that I am the less-favored child. And if that is the lie, then the remedy is not merely to try harder to be good. It is to be brought somewhere we can finally see the truth—that before God there is no greater and no lesser, only beloved children, and that the gift given at the altar is not divided when it is shared but multiplied. My guest today has spent years unveiling this sin and naming its cure. She is Michon Matthiesen, of the Department of Theology at the University of Notre Dame, and her work traces it through Scripture and the Fathers, through Aquinas and Dante, all the way to the one place she believes it can finally be undone: the Eucharist.
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