Going to Confession (early and often)

“Back they come at nightfall,

snarling like curs,

prowling through the town…”

Psalm 59:14

I went to confession last weekend.  Hadn’t been for a few weeks and felt a need for it.  And like usual, I was a bit nervous.  If I have my way, I like to go to confession to a priest who doesn’t speak English. At least not very well.  I am content if they don’t fully understand; in my state, I just need the absolution.  Desperately.  Because when I get too tired, feeling overwhelmed, sin seems to come prowling in search of me –like a snarling cur.  And like the psalmist, I am often caught in its snarling jaws. 

I wonder if it is a kind of pridefulness, my fear of confession; is it pridefulness that makes me want a priest who won’t fully understand what I’m saying?  Or is it simply cowardice? Probably a mix of both and certainly there is an element of shame involved as well. Regardless, I go, and I confess and to the best of my ability I let it all out –including my hopes and fears, my intentions and my failings. Oh, how I pity the poor priest!

Anyway, this time something odd happened that (I think) reveals something about the glory and grace of God.  Here’s the story:  First, things were crazy at home, and just getting out of the house to go to confession was hard.  But I needed it and promised the family I’d be first in line and so I’d get back very soon. Heading out the door, I had my rosary. My notebook. My Bible. I think I even had an old granola bar in my coat pocket. Heck, I was ready for Black Friday! And headed for some time alone with God!  But, when I walked into the church there was already a line of people waiting.  Maybe 9 or 10 people, already!  Walking up, they all gave me the traditional confession line nod.  The one that says: Yeah, we expected you.  I looked at the line and for a moment thought of turning right around and going home.  But didn’t. Instead I took my place and opened my Bible and started to read. And pray.  And wait.  And wait. And wait.

So, two things about confession and me.  I came late in life to the sacrament. I didn’t make my first confession until I was in my thirties. Somehow in post Vatican II life at St. Jerome’s we didn’t even have to go to confession before our first communion. So, almost 60 now I still feel a bit like an amateur. But, from an amateur point of view, not only do I prefer priests who don’t necessarily understand English that well[1], but I also like priests who are gentle with their admonitions and easy on the penances.  At this particular church (to remain nameless, though it is actually St. Cecilia) there are a couple of priests who hear confession and one of them kind of scares me.  No matter how many bad jokes he opens his homilies with, he still comes across as stiff and stern and somewhat superior; definitely not a people person.  Not an “act of contrition and 3 Hail Marys” sort. So, standing in line I was feeling a little anxious, part of my prayer even (if I am honest) was that Fr. Superior not be the priest hearing confession today.  At least not mine.  Please, Lord. Dear Heavenly Father, please give me the other priest who always seems half asleep!  Please!

It was almost 3:30 when the women in front of me turned and spoke to me in Spanish.  I smiled and nodded and thought: Uh, Oh. Am I going to have to confess that? Did I just lie to her by pretending to understand Spanish?  She turned and spoke again gesturing to the people behind us and laughing gently.  I turned to look. There were almost 30 people in line behind us.  I smiled and nodded again, but at this point, not needing any more sin on my head, I admitted I didn’t habla espanol.  And she laughed again. Then, in English she said explained that the lines hadn’t been this long for the Reconciliation Night they had the week before.  I raised my eyebrows and nodded and silently thanked God that I wasn’t alone.  As she was about to speak again, Father Narcolepsy pushed through the door and into the sacristy.  Quickly coming back out with vestments on, he went into the confessional and the little light by the door came on and the line lurched forward by one as the first of us walked nervously in.

The line moved slowly.  I began to get concerned for all those people behind us.  How could so many people possibly get their confession heard in an hour.  And I was grateful that I had gotten there early. I put my Bible away and reached into my coat for my rosary. And there was that granola bar.  I hadn’t eaten lunch.  Would it be inappropriate to just open it up quietly and take a bite?  I looked around.  Thought about my second grade teacher, Mrs. Flannagan who looked a lot like Marlo Thomas in That Girl and used to wear Go-Go boots to school. Catching us with candy or gum, she would always ask: Did you bring enough to share?  I checked my other pocket. No.  Just the none. So I left it alone and brought out my rosary and wondered if I needed to confess thinking about Mrs. Flannagan and her Go-Go boots and that wonderful tight fitting wool sweater she sometimes wore…  Oh well.  I was already in line; wouldn’t hurt to just mention it.

By almost four I was second in line. The light clicked on and the lady ahead of me smiled and headed toward it.  There is a shared sense of our own frailty and weakness among the people in line at confession, and a shared sense of the weirdness of what is happening, what we are doing; how strange and amazing it is.  There is a weird radiance in that embarrassed smile: a glow, almost; reflecting something inexpressible, possibly it is touched by the glint of grace.  Anyway, she smiled and went in. And I sighed. I was next. The sins that I would confess rose in my chest and my heart began to race. What the psalmist says is so very true.  And though I am an old man (almost 60), I am still afraid. Afraid of my guilt, afraid of my weakness, afraid of speaking it, afraid of owning it. But it would be over soon, and I thanked God that I had someone easy to confess to today.

And it was exactly then that it happened. Through a side door, in stepped Fr. Superior briskly and unsmiling. Not even going to the sacristy, he went straight into the other confessional and before I could pretend to have a coughing fit and need to step away for a moment the light clicked on and it was time.  I think I looked around at the people behind me desperate for someone to offer to take my place. I must have looked like a prisoner about to be offered a blindfold and a last cigarette.  I had only asked God for one thing: let me have the easy priest!  That’s all.

And that was exactly what he didn’t give me.  Because God doesn’t give us what we ask for.  He gives us what we need.  Through His love and His grac, He gives us exactly what and who we need. 

This priest that I was scared of (Fr. Not-really-so-superior-actually-very-insightful) somehow had the exact words I needed to hear, that afternoon.  As if God had given them to him.  After I had finished my confession, he said:  It doesn’t sound to me like you are despairing.  It sounds like you are overwhelmed.  For my penance, he asked me to meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and look at the example Christ gives us in His suffering.  And then asked me for my act of petition.  It was quick and painless. And beautiful.  I don’t remember what else he said, but his words were only of mercy and love, consolation and healing. Words that, if they had come from another priest might have seemed a little too soft, a little too easy. But coming from someone I had been afraid of even their gentleness had weight, and authority.  And I think that says something profound about how God works. 

Yes, at nightfall sins come prowling like a snarling cur snapping at us in our weakness, but there is a dawn coming and we don’t need to be afraid. We aren’t stuck in the darkness. God knows our weakness, and He knows that it is in our weakness that we most need healing. And no matter how hard we try, He refuses to let us hide.  Instead, He too comes looking for us opening every door and turning on every light and inviting us to come in out of the dark.    

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[1] The Polish priest at Our Lady of Czestochowa is perfect; he can’t understand my sins and I can’t understand his penance. And he offers confession every morning, and usually there is no line! There used to be a sweet older lady in a wheelchair that was there every time I went.  What she had to confess so often I still can’t imagine… or don’t want to. Where is Alfred Hitchcock when we need him? Hmmm.