Mar 15 2008
“Is this the line for the sinners?”
I went to confession on Saturday. It’s the first time I’ve gone that I haven’t felt uplifted when I left.
I headed out early because I’ve arrived a few minutes after 3 pm and the priest is already gone. (At such times, I have considered pounding on the door of the rectory and offering to pay Father overtime. But I really don’t want one of those horrible penances that I used to hear about in grade school.**)
Today there was no danger of the priest going home early. The lines were long and there were two priests. Despite all the people, the church was very quiet. The gurgle of the radiators sounded loud and there was a woodpecker tapping somewhere outside.
A beautiful child with almost-white hair and delicate fingers watched everything with huge eyes, but said practically nothing. He or she climbed out the pew once to stand in the aisle and slowly twirl around as only a young child does – twirling because it’s fun to be a little dizzy, but slowly because balance is such a hard thing to keep when you aren’t even two years old. The only sound the child made was a delighted “ah!” when its brother returned from confession; the boy received a huge back-patting hug from the younger child. (Which, when I think about it, is probably the appropriate “welcome back” for a repentant sinner.)
I didn’t mind waiting. Holy Cross is a beautiful church. It’s even more impressive now that I know so much of what I see is an illusion. It used to be plain wooden interior save for the statues and windows. During the Depression, a painter was hired to paint the interior. The “marble” pillars are wooden – and perhaps plaster, judging from the cracks near their crowns. The golden patterns around the altar are gilt.
My favorite window is the one facing north. It depicts Jesus reaching out a hand as Peter begins sinking into the water as he attempted to walk to Our Lord. In the right panel is Noah’s ark with a dove flying above it. To the left is a tall-sailed ship. At the bottom is the exhortation “Pray for our sailors.”
I was looking at the stations of the cross – specifically Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross – when a lady came up behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned forward to talk to me. ”This isn’t the line for face-to-face, is it?”
“No,” I said. “That’s the other side.” She sat behind me. Anonymous confessions are preferred by us Hard Cases. If the priest recognizes us, he might think we’re sinners. 
We were a motley crew, as sinners always are. A white-haired lady walked up the aisle with the deliberate care of the fragile. A brawny 20-something man still wore his red work apron as he sat next to his mother. A couple came with their three little children.
It got a little noisier when one of the gentleman went to the other side – the Mary side – to go face-to-face. He was 87 and, apparently, nearly deaf. Everyone smiled as he loudly began his confession. Several people nearby moved away discretely.
As for my confession, I must admit I was disappointed. The visiting priest actually stopped and explained that I’m not lying if the person has no right to the information AND silence would be seen as incriminating. I’ve read about that, of course, but it was still a little startling to be told that in confession. What compounded it was that he later explained that one shouldn’t feel a duty to attend Mass, but to do it out of love. (As my favorite little guy would say, “Can’t I do BOTH?”)
I think I know what he was trying to say, but it sounded rather as if he were a lawyer who was advising me not to plead guilty but cut a deal. Maybe he’s one of those priests who want to put people at their ease so they don’t leave the Church.
The penance was nothing: think about what God wants of me and say an “Our Father” sometime during the day. And here I was worried about an Old School penance of novenas and sacrifices. Or maybe I was hoping for it, hence my discontent.
**Example of one of those legendary horrible penances:
A habitual gossip kept confessing the same sin to the priest. Finally, he gave her a different penance.
“Take a feather pillow and climb into the bellfrey,” he said. “Scatter the feathers to the winds. Then climb down and gather those feathers wherever they’ve fallen.”
“But, Father,” she protested, “that’s impossible! I could spend my whole life and never find them all!”
“Just as you could spend your whole life trying to take back every bit of gossip you’ve scattered around this town,” said the priest.
