When I was starting out in the religious way as a mere sprig, I had a few harrowing moments. New beliefs and practices tutored us (my sister and I). We never doubted their veracity.
In the Catholic Church you ‘go’ to confession, every second or third Friday evening. Church was usually empty, with the exception of the few confessors, and dim looking, especially when dark outside. It had the feel of a museum, with echoes resounding at a door closing, or, drop of a missal. (Yes, I meant “missal”; the Catholics called a prayer book a “missal”). So; high cathedral ceilings dropped huge chandeliers from long long cable wires, but tonight only a little light shone on the many pictures in the auditorium-sized building, Michelangelo’s brush-strokes emanating.
Life-sized statues of saints and Mary and Jesus with a golden heart were also visible without spot-lights, from secondary illuminations, and the figures filled out the church’s perimeter with their long shadows. Some of these peripheral shinings were candle-filled altars, which flames flickered, and conjured thoughts of hell-fire; the confessional booth area was lit with smaller house-lights.
The front of the church terrified us most, since Jesus lived up there in the “tabernacle.” We wondered if He watched us. The hideous life-sized crucifix made us squirm, but the wonderment of some kind of living Jesus stepping out of that wooden box sent chills up our spines. Truthfully, a spooky feeling could not evade our church, even on a Sunday morning fully lit.
Scented with incense, the church provided a one-of-a-kind aroma. You just sensed this was a holy place. We dipped our fingers in holy water, (could hardly reach the elaborately ornamented laver), and genuflected on one knee.
Confessional booths contained three doors or curtained openings in a row. Each led to a small closet-like space. The Priest occupied the middle—laypeople, the two outside rooms. The one hearing confessions, listened and spoke toward the two outside people-closets, alternately opening inside windows.
So, basically the ordeal went this way; when the line dwindled, you move inside a curtain, feel for the kneeler, get your knees on it, and wait in the dark. Your turn came when your little window opened up, and you say “bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been 3 weeks since my last confession” (or how many). Next we reported our sins one by one and then told how many times. “I lied 4 times, I stole 4 times, I hit my sister 1 time etc.”
Always the priest assigned a penance; “say 5 Our-Fathers and 5 Hail-Mary’s and make a good Act of Contrition”. These first ones were your rattle-em-off type prayers and you did the Act of Contrition while still in the booth. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell …etc”
When the little window shut, you exited the booth the same way you entered. The scary church’s front altar then wrapped up our night, and its remaining prayers were said from there. We happily ran out of church!
Well, this supposed-big-accomplishment didn’t really click much with me, surely guilt owned me. My guilt epitomized the kind of self-disgust where you didn’t often dare to pick up your head and as a kid, I slouched, hands pocketed. I felt ashamed that I even existed, but no adult told me not to be guilty; I think they thought the confessional booth would do the job. After a while I accepted guilt as normal.
One time my Dad told a person (right in front of me) “Tommy is a good boy”. That statement shocked me; seemed so abnormal. Let me clarify; we didn’t do any really bad things, but just doing confession, holding the subjective guilt with nobody explaining to us any different, formed our identities. We were sincere. So, already forming a certain bent, dad’s words caught me off guard.
Now then, we started pinching our lunch time milk nickel, and spending it at the candy store across the street from the church. School offered the option of chocolate milk but we balked at it. We liked candy better. I started labeling this activity as ‘stealing’ and confessing it; 4 times, 5 times, as was the case. I could not tell a lie, so when I started, I counted how many times a week I could get away with it. Too many times and I would miss communion on Sunday and missing communion stirred up mom and dad.
My priest came to life once at confession and asked, “Son, what are you stealing”. “O crap”, I thought. (these guys never discussed anything; were kind of a faceless voice.) I was scared to death, but I told him the story and he said “that’s cheating.” Then, lo and behold, the faceless voice spoke again, ”for your penance don’t eat candy for a month!” I was floored, and felt tears welling, but I swallowed the challenge holding back the flood. What else could I do? My stealing/cheating thing came back and bit me.
So, as the story goes, a week later, riding the school bus, a kid slipped me a gum drop. Half way down, I remembered the penance. I knew, messing up the penance meant forgiveness is lost, and also Sunday communion; deep do-do.
Nevertheless,something came over me and it was too far in, so I just sucked down the rest of it. I could have spit it out but was entranced by its awesome flavor. O the shame!
However, as I was sinking deep in guilt, I suddenly remembered, confession was that very week. Relieved, I bit the bullet till Friday night. I had just sinned but felt, “I’m learning the game”
Boy was I ever wrong! This time I told the priest “I didn’t do my penance, one time.” He asked for details, and then slapped another month of no candy on me; more guilt, I was bummed. I had already failed at it first time. Now, angry and sensing an injustice, the complexity mounted and shook me.
Shortly down the road, another weak moment ensued (I think it was a Peppermint Patti) and my fears and shame were realized again. I started confessing it as “I lied 6 or 7 times” and figured that to cover it all. This brought more guilt because every time I confessed lying, I could have added double; (I lied when I confessed lying, and so on).
I didn’t want to admit stealing or cheating and risk the wrath of that priest again. Finally, I found a real solution: the other priest’s booth, long line and all became my new home. I simply started going to confession in the next booth and later to another church.
Experience, sweet experience grew on our side, and later we battled the can’t-eat-meat-on-Friday rule. Friday in the Fall of the year, brought Football night and the hot dogs were especially inviting. Worse here; this was a mortal sin, meaning if you die with a sin like this on your soul you go strait to hell. Imagine the inward struggle, glands salivating.
In summary, we were trying to play a game which eventually proved too hard to play and we adapted at first. That is all; we just found a way to pretend and adapt at an impossible thing, and we joined the crowd of fakers and shakers. O we figured it out alright; and spent the next several years in an empty phony existence which led to despair. Life was slowly loosing any semblance of making sense.
On the horizon loomed hope—the option for an “eat-drink-and-be-merry for tomorrow we die” deal spoke loudly; and because of our disillusionment, it sounded better and better. Yes, we would try this too. Truthfully, both options only resulted in deeper and emptier despair.
Thankfully, at age 25, mercy found me, and picked me up. I became a child of God, and life and love came back.
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