This is the egg timer. (Laughter.)

When I was in the eighth grade, I had a friend named Lukey Stanton. Lukey was a real thug, an eighth grade thug. Tough guy. But he was my best friend. He'd go to confession every Saturday in Lent. And he'd tell me, at the end of every confession he'd say to Father Kelly, who was our parish priest -- kind, wonderful priest, Father Kelly. At the end of every confession Lukey would say, "Faddah" -- from New York -- "Faddah, I'm only human." And he'd hear Father Kelly sigh behind the screen. He'd hear Father Kelly sigh, "Exactly. Exactly." So would you hold on to that phrase for a little while, "Faddah, I'm only human," and the words coming back, "Exactly."

Today is the Feast of the Transfiguration of Our Lord, where the apostles, those three guys, could see Our Lord as he was really, all his glory and beauty, still recognizably Jesus, but transfigured, wonderful. Okay.

Now, as you know, I have these five books, Catholic Bible scholars, and I have to read them every time we're together on a Sunday so I get the clear picture of scholarship, what it means. Here's a passage from one of the books. Typical. "The Transfiguration passage is of a rare  theological and eschatological density replete with Pharisia pertinent..."

It's easy for me to mock Bible scholarship. I'm not mocking. But it's good now and then to get a more human insight. And one that's alluded to is our Lord had favored friends. He did. In the seminary we were taught you have no special friends, you love all the other seminarians. Even as a kid, I knew that was nuts. You're kind. But Our Lord had three special friends. It is human nature. Three men he liked better and trusted more. He's always taking those three men on special things. It is human nature. That's great. Okay.

Now, the Transfiguration, Our Lord shows himself in his full color. What I want to talk about is the seven deadly sins. Now, how I managed to squeeze that into the Gospel of the Transfiguration is this: If we could during Lent in making our communal confession before Easter, if we could pick one of the seven that give us and the people we love the most grief, then we in a sense will have transfigured ourselves a little bit, not only for Our Lord, but for the people we care about. The people we care about. Okay.

So, the seven capital sins, how we can chip away at them, one of them that's our worst sin. We commit all of them, I'm sure. But you know what I mean. And then when we come to confession for Easter, Father, this is the one.  "Faddah, I'm only human." And then Our Lord through the priest will speak gently, wisely, "Exactly." Okay. Here they are.

I can never remember what the seven are, so I worked out an acronym for me. GASLEAP. You know how gas has done leaps recently in the price? So GAS-LEAP: Gluttony, avarice, sloth, lust, envy, anger, pride. GASLEAP. Okay.

Quick example. Most of these, I apologize, are autobiographical. I don't know how else to do this. In the seminary we were together alphabetically for six years. Three meals a day right next to Bill Creaven. Chapel, four, five times a day, right next to Bill Creaven. Classroom seats for six years, five times a day, right next to Bill Creaven. Refectory, right next to Bill Creaven. Creaven-Dibble.

A year after we were ordained, there was a class reunion, and we'd had a couple of drinks. Just two. But Creaven says to me, "Dibble, you know what used to drive me crazy in the seminary?" "No," I said. "You and your left leg, going, going, going. Every chapel, every meal, every class, the nervous left leg twitching away."

"Uh, Bill?" "Yeah?" "You know what drove me crazy?" "No." "This. Hrrmph! Hrrmph! Hrr-hrrmph! Every chapel, every class, every meal for six years."

What's the point? It's a silly point. But the people you live with, people who basically you love, there can be  some quality that can drive you to homicidal fantasies. And if we could think about them, especially if they impinge on a possible sin, you'll make a great Easter confession and have a little transfiguration.

Gluttony. Gluttony in moral theology doesn't just mean gorging with food or booze. Gluttony is preoccupation with food. Preoccupation with food. Example: When I was a kid, a very old priest in the parish would ask me to keep him company in a restaurant. An old guy, a good guy. But, "Oh, waitress!" "Yes, Father?" "I asked you please to cut the edge of the toast, remember? I've been coming here for many years. Would you cut the edge of the toast like I asked you?" "Oh, sure, Father." And I'd see the waitress. She was so tired. And she'd schlepp away, come back. "Oh, waitress!" "Yes, Father?" "You buttered it. Now, I've often told you you don't butter it. And take away the jelly." As she was walking away, I saw her clenching and unclenching her hands. And I knew that she was conceiving various tortures.

Was father committing a sin? Of course not. But to be so persnickety, so preoccupied with food and drink, that is a kind of gluttony. Not just gorging.

Avarice. Avarice means greed. Greed not just for power, and money and control, avarice could be a desperate passion for approval, for love, for applause. Not long ago in this very church, but not at this Mass, there was a man  sitting there, while I was talking, reading a bulletin. I thought, How dare he! Doesn't he know how hard I work on these things? And it's only once every six weeks. And then my buzzard flew in. Now, some of you know about my buzzards. They're these invisible critters, but they're nasty. I've had them since I was a child. I call them buzzards. They tell me I'm junk. They tell me God hates me. They tell me there is no God. And this particular buzzard flew in and said, "Look at that man. He doesn't really love and adore you. So what you should do is stop speaking, fix him with a gimlet eye, and say, 'Do you know who I am?'" I'm not kidding. That's avarice. Everyone love me all the time, whatever I do, whatever I say. I know I exaggerate everything. But I think some of you know what I mean. It's a kind of greed. And it can be sinful, it can go too far.

Sloth. It's only one priest, one life as a priest. I don't meet Catholics who are slothful. I really don't. I think it's the least sin of the seven that Catholics commit, that I've known. We work like mad. We do everything too fast, too hard. We're constantly putting ourselves down, and for too long. My opinion. It's the least of the seven Catholics commit, in my opinion. And I know some of you are out of work and you're worried. I know. Take a nap every day. Take a nap. That's not sloth. It's spiritual  rehab. It's just one opinion.

The next is lust. I have a priest colleague in San Francisco. He said, "You're not going to talk about lust." I said, "Well, yeah. It's one of the seven. I gotta. I gotta." He said, "No. No. Catholics don't like to hear anything about lust or sex. Everyone will drop his eyes, everyone will look at his knuckles, everyone will wish you changed the subject." And I said, "I'm not scared." Of the seven capital sins in the strictest conservative Roman Catholic moral theology, of the seven, lust is the least serious. It's a serious sin, you've known that all your life. Lust is a serious sin. But, of the seven, it's the least serious because it's flesh. Read the Gospel. People committing sins of lust came to Christ, and how quickly He forgave, how gently He forgave. Okay. There's a famous passage about lust in the Gospel. Remember?

(Egg timer sounding.) Our Lord -- oh, gosh. It went off. Oy-oy-oy! (Father turns it off and places it beneath the pulpit.)

Our Lord said whoever looks with lust at a woman has committed adultery with her in his heart. Okay. Now what does that mean? Now, I check all the Catholic scholars, new translations of Greek and Aramaic. What Our Lord meant is this. You look at somebody who's gorgeous -- in today's  nomenclature, hot! -- and you recognize she is a beautiful lady or he's a handsome guy. Lust! You committed lust! No. What Our Lord means is if you look and someone is desirable and attractive, that's just your senses. You can't deny the evidence of your senses. But if the person were to say, "If I could commit adultery" -- he says adultery meaning you or the other person is married -- "If I could get away with it, break my fidelity to the person I'm with, destroy my marriage vow, if I could do it, I would do it," and you mean it and you think it. Not, "Boy, is she hot!" Or, "Is he handsome!" No. And please don't expect your spouse after 20 years of marriage, as one woman said to one man back in New York, "Why don't you look like that guy on Bay Watch?" To which he responded, "Because I've been married 20 years, honey, and I love your pancakes."

Envy. Envy is my sin. Envy, jealousy. I've told you since I arrived in this parish it's always been my sin. Envy, jealousy, wanting what I don't have, looking like I don't look, being a jock, et cetera. My favorite American writer -- I've often shared her with you -- is Flannery O'Connor, a Catholic Southern lady who died young, 39. She wrote the best American fiction in the world, in my opinion. Flannery. A new book has just come out. "A Life - Flannery." It's a great book. She's a great lady. Anyhow, when she was in  college, she was very un-hot, very un-pretty. And a classmate came to her in senior year of college and said to her, "Flannery, I wish I could write like you." And O'Connor said, "Oh, I wish I could look like you." Envy, it's been my sin all my life. It's what I confess every Easter. It's no fun, either. The other sins sometimes kick in with some fun. Not envy.

The next is anger. Anger. When you live with somebody and love somebody under the same roof, you're going to fight. I asked a janitor when I was getting ready to talk at a marriage when was a young priest, this elderly man who was younger than I am now. I said, "Joe." He'd been married most of his life to this lady. They walked together hand in hand. I said, "What would you say to a married couple? I have to give a talk tomorrow." And Joe, leaning on his mop, said, "Tell them if they love each other and they live together they're going to fight, but when they fight, stick to the subject. Stick to the subject." Wow!

And finally, pride is the worst. In Catholic theology pride is the worst because it's rooted in the intellect. It's kind of like a perverted spirituality. I am God. Basically, two people I've met in my life -- only two -- said to me, quoting, "I don't give a damn what anybody thinks." They meant it. They meant Christ. They meant the people they love. "I don't give a damn what anybody thinks." I went  glacial inside. It was so scary. I think you know what I mean. I've only met two in my whole life, but it's terrifying. I am basically God. I saw a buzzard last week in Marin County. Finally. I mean, a real buzzard. They are mean! Oh, my God, are they scary! This big wingspan. This buzzard landed on a branch in Marin County, with this naked bald little head and these big wings and the beak, and the scraggly little red neck. And he looked right at me. And I thought, That's pride. That kind of cold, unfeeling, horribleness.

Anyhow, when you make your Easter confession to father, or me or any of the priests, you just come up, pick one of the seven that you've worked on all through Lent. My sin, as I always say, is envy. And this time you won't just hear the priest talking or Father Kelly. You'll hear Christ, you'll hear Our Lord, what he said to Lukey, "Exactly." "I'm only human, Faddah." "Exactly." We're going to be quiet now, as always. For a minute, just think about which of the seven you should concentrate on, we should concentrate on.

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