forgiveness.
"bless me father for i have sinned. it's been 14 years, 3 months 1 week, and 5 days, since my last confession. these are my sins..."
I have gone to confession one time in this life. I was nine, and I was chubby… go figure. I remember staring blankly down at the ground as I waited my turn. My poor terror-ridden psyche found its only comfort in avoiding eye contact with all forms of life and squandering my final moments making sure I looked presentable. I critically examined my catechumen garb, beginning first with the standard issue blue clip-on tie and white button up shirt that seems to be given to all the little boy first communioners. My paranoia drove me to ask my pal Kevin to yank on my tie to make sure it was fastened securely. I of course returned the favor (we were soldiers on the same battlefield, and we were preparing for a grim conflict). I checked out my freshly pressed blue slacks that my grandmother had gotten me, and I tightened my belt up one more notch… because you can never be too cautious in these situations. I completed the inspection by giving the once-over to my very first pair of black leather dress shoes. These were great shoes. They were wretchedly uncomfortable. I recall the striking contrast they offered against the red shag carpet that covered the floors of the church. Beauty and the Beast for sure. My mom and I spent many laborious hours trying to find the perfect pair. Preparation for confession is just as important as confession itself… or so I’ve heard.
Before stepping into the booth I spent my last waning moments hoping against all odds that maybe the priest would take it easy on me and assign only a lap or two around the Rosary. I pleaded with my past and prayed that whatever I had done in these first few years of my life wouldn’t warrant any major time-consuming penance activity. I watched in fear as my brother-in-arms, Kevin disappeared into the confessional. I found myself alone and receiving a nominal source of comfort in resting my heard against the cool door of the adjacent confessional. I slowly closed my eyes and pressed replay on the story of my life, taking inventory of all the sins that I deemed worthy of inclusion in my impending conversation with Father Lenahan. Alas, my imagination was unable to sweep me away to another place before I was yanked back to reality. I had barely made it beyond that incident with me, Leslie Moore (names have been changed to protect the innocent), and a toy doctor’s set when Kevin stumbled forth from the portal of doom and pensively shuffled by me in silence.
There was no momentary glance shared between us. There was no smirk of reassurance to ease my mounting fears. Benedict Arnold offered no sort of outward expression to privy my soul to the next moment’s events. In fact, there was no recognition of my existence at all.
What had they done to him?
There was no consolation to be had for this weary soul and there was an overpowering trepidation mounting in my chest. The inevitable moment when silence would become the cue for me to begin my spiel of iniquity was soon approaching.
I took confession very seriously. Partly because I thought my Confirmation teacher was very pretty and I wanted to impress her, but on the other hand confession felt so right. It was what grownups did. Confession was a right of passage. It was one of the many hoops life seems to make you jump through in order to become the person fate has squared away for you to be.
And I must admit, confession wasn’t bad at all. I told Father all the things I had done in my life that I wished I could take back. It was quite obvious that my little mind had taken my fears in all sorts of directions. He offered advice on how to love my brother even when he picks on me, he talked me through the consequences of being dishonest, and suggested ways for me to better honor my parents. He even chuckled a little when I told him about the time I tried running over my brother with our four-wheeler. But most important, he told me that confession is about forgiveness. It’s about me accepting my need for forgiveness and God’s free offer of forgiveness.
Now, separate all this from the Catholic understanding of ritual absolution and I think you are on to something.
I fear that we have bought into a system that promotes the idea that achieving perfection in life, academics, and ministryare the real moneymakers when it comes to “bringing God glory” (thanks Hyde). As if God’s glory were a substance that I could add to or subtract from. We live in a culture that tells us that things/job positions/grades make us who we are. Our accomplishments in life are the tell-alls in how holy and acceptable we are before God.
Looking back on my first and last confesion, I realize now that my fear was not about confession itself, but about letting it out in the open that I was a broken vessel. I had convinced myself that up to that point I was the poster child for sainthood, and that confession was a denial of that badge that I had given myself. I had to come clean with the fact that as hard as I tried to present perfection, there were still times when I let my anger get the best of me. Confession is about me admitting to the fact that my deep down expectations for goodness will never match up to the way that I actually live.
Taking this moment to look back upon my 9 year-old, over analytical, high-strung-self has taught me a great lesson:
Confession is not what I fear… It’s imperfection.
