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Confession: Good for the Soul, Bad for the Psyche

I was raised a Roman Catholic. Ergo, I grew up with plenty of guilt and shame.

Fortunately, the Church provided me, and my sinful 8-year-old compatriots, with

a safety valve for these powerful emotions. It’s called Confession and, once upon a

time, involved a dark closet, a scary man, recitation of horrendous misdeeds and,

finally, divine forgiveness. It was not a wholly pleasant experience. So, with great

relief, I left my parochial grammar school and entered my parochial high school, where

Confession was no longer compelled. That year was the kick-off to a long reign of

unannounced, unrepentant Commandment-breaking. Guilt and shame were preferable to

the embarrassment of proclaiming my various falls from grace. Besides, I rationalized,

my omnipotent God could see what I was doing and we could deal directly, if necessary.


But a few years ago, as I was dragging my own children through the blessed rituals of

Catholicism, I heard a sermon about the beauty and power of admitting aloud, to

another person, the less-than-stellar moments in one’s character development.

That message, coupled with a dawning realization of my own mortality and the

accompanying day of reckoning, led me back to the concept of confession. I decided that

it would be best to verbalize my transgressions to a priest, whose job was to extend the

mercy of Almighty God to the wayward mortals in his care and provide the coveted (did I

say covet?) “Get Out of Hell Free” card. I could mention every offense and there would

be no recriminations. I couldn’t say the same for friends, Mom, or local law

enforcement.

I walked into my cool, dark and beautiful Church only to be directed to the overheated,

musty basement with fluorescent lighting. Gone were the small, dark closets. I stood in

a well-lit room with two metal Canasta chairs and a screen that must have come from the

Christian Dollar Store. The scary guy was still there. Paniced, I started culling some of

my lesser crimes (“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I told my boss I had a back spasm

during Macy’s three-day salabration”). But I pictured St Peter standing at Heaven’s

entrance, refusing to validate my card because I had committed one last sin, that of

omission.

I decided to go for it.

I tried to break the tension with a little humor. “Bless me father for I have

sinned. It’s been thirty years since my last confession and, in the interest of time, I’m

only going to give you the bullet points.” He didn’t laugh.

I launched into a rapid litany of indiscretions. As I exhaled my latest lapse I anxiously

awaited the beauty and power of,” you are forgiven.” Instead, I heard nothing. Well, not

exactly nothing. I heard poor, old Father Damien inhale sharply, then groan slightly. I

thought he might be having a heart attack. Killing a priest with my confession was not

going to look good at the Pearly Gates. No, sir, not good at all.

After what felt like eternity he spoke. “My child, God always forgives.” I could tell

that he was not endorsing the deity’s position but he had to spout the company line. I

didn’t care at that point. As long as he absolved me and took that confidentiality clause

of the priest contract seriously I was okey-dokey.

He muttered something about bringing him the Wicked Witch’s broomstick. “Father,” I

groused, “there’s a line out there worthy of Ticketron. There must be someone worse

than me in that crowd. Just give me my penance and I’ll never bother you again.”

He thought for a moment and yelped, “I’ve got it. Three Our Fathers, Two Hail Marys

and 20 hours of community service.” Community service? Who was I? Winona Ryder?

I thought about dickering but decided against it.

“Deal,” I said decisively. I sweetly thanked him for saving my sin-blotched soul and

flounced out past the impatient crowd.

Community service in exchange for redemption AND a great story to tell.

Not a bad day after all.