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.

The tears and the law --some thoughts on Nehemiah 8

“...the people were all in tears

as they listened to the words

of the law...”  --Nehemiah 8:9c

Are the laws of God proscriptive or prescriptive?  Proscriptive means to prohibit, denounce or condemn; to forbid.  I think traditionally I was raised with the proscriptive reading of the laws.  I believed that certain acts and desires and even words were forbidden.  And due to human weakness, we were (all of us) in desperate need of the grace of the confessional.  But this view of God’s law leads to a view of God as a judgmental figure who watches our every move.  This God has an eternal tally sheet that he keeps on each and every one of us.  He makes a hashmark every time we cross the line (break His law).  I guess when we go to confession He gets out His eraser.  This God is –in some ways—our nemesis.  He is standing apart and ever ready to accuse.

The more I read the Old Testament, the more I am beginning to see “the law” not as proscriptive, but as prescriptive. More of a guide or road map (an ideal) to help us find our way, than a benchmark we must achieve to avoid punishment or banishment or another stay in the long line outside the confessional.

And yet, the other night a friend reminded me that often the law shows up in scripture hand in hand with what often seem like hard and fast punishments. In fact, the death penalty seems –at times—almost ubiquitous:  blasphemy = death (Lv 24:10-16), contempt of court = death (Dt 17:12), incest = death (Lv 20:19), adultery = death (Lv 20:10), cursing your parents = death (Ex 21:17), etc.  And so, there does seem a kind of punitive element to “the law” which implies at the very least a proscriptive element.  However, as I read, that isn’t the picture of God that I am hearing from the Bible: a God tallying our missteps and failings, imposing or withholding appropriate punishments at His whim –that isn’t the God I meet in the Old Testament.

And all of this is on my mind because I have been reading the book of Nehemiah. This book tells the story of the restored Israelites who have returned from exile.  They are back in their homeland rebuilding Jerusalem.  When they finish their main work, they hold a massive week long celebration (8-9), and the people ask the priest Ezra to “bring the Book of the Law of Moses (perhaps Deuteronomy) which the Lord had prescribed...” (8:1-2) and he reads to them from the book –from “dawn til noon” (8:3)—for seven days straight. Then on the eighth day there is a solemn assembly and as Ezra reads, he sees that the people have tears in their eyes.  He tells them: “Today is sacred to the Lord. Do not be mournful; do not weep...” (8:9b).  But, listening to the reading, the people are so moved they are in tears.  And my first thought was what? Who weeps over a book of laws?  And my second thought was: Uhm, you know...uhm... all this law stuff is really good; great stuff! I mean it. I mean...who doesn’t like a little stoning and... all... But –uhm—I—uh-- I think I left a fleshpot boiling back in Babylon. I was in such a hurry... I uh... I just... You know... I’ll just go back and check on that. Better safe than sorry.  Be right back. And, uhm... If I uhm ...for some reason if I don’t make it... well, you just go ahead and start all that purifying and smiting stuff without me. Okay? Really.  I’ll catch up... No worries...

Like my imaginary character –I am not a rule person. I don’t like doing things because I have to. So, when I read of laws and rules, I tend to react strongly against them. Either by looking for a loophole or by simply declaring that it doesn’t apply to me.  That’s my gut reaction.  I think it is kind of an American reaction –that instinctive: You can’t tell me what to do! You can’t tell me what to say! attitude.

And so, to read that “the people were all in tears as they listened to the law” struck me as an odd paradoxical line.  Attracting my readerly attention. What would cause such a reaction?  What kind of tears did they cry? Tears of joy? Tears of consolation? Tears of dread? Fright?  What is the author telling us with this strangely stirring detail? About the people? About their relationship with God?  About their relationship to the law?

And I began to wonder about my own relationship to the law. My troubled relationship... The hours in line at the confessional trying to make right what I willfully made wrong.  Perhaps if I had greeted the law not with dread, but with tears of gratitude, I could have saved myself some pain, some hours spent in line on a Saturday afternoon at the local church. 

If, I could just remember that we have a God who loves us. A God who wants for us only what is good.  A God of mercy and tenderness. A God who brings us back from exile and offers us again and again (endlessly it seems) His love... A God who gave Himself on the cross for me, for my sins... if only I could remember that, then –instead of fleeing the “prohibitions” of the law, I too might beg for the words of the law to be read aloud, and I too might find my face wet with tears of gratitude and love for a Father who loved me enough to offer me the guidance, the counsel, the prescription of His law.

Nehemiah is a short book with lots of census information but buried in the lists of names and the brief descriptions of action is a beautiful image of a merciful God and a people returning to His love.

NOTE: I think I have more to say on this, but that will have to wait.  I know that reading Dante has inspired my reading of scripture and influenced it greatly.  Perhaps that is where I need to go next time.

Deuteronomy 28: Would a loving God fasten a plague upon us?

“The Lord will fasten the plague on you,

until it has exterminated you from the country

which you are about to enter and make your own.”

--Deuteronomy 28: 21

There is a tendency to think of the Old Testament God as a God of judgment, harsh and demanding.  But, if the Bible is the Word of God and if Jesus came "not to abolish the law, but fulfill it" (cf. Mt 5: 17), then (for me) that puts the Old Testament God (Yahweh) in a different light.  If Jesus is the fulfillment of the law, then there is much more to the "law" than blind obedience and harsh judgment. So... what are we to do with a reading like this? Even a whole book like Deuteronomy?  A book that seems obsessed with laws and obedience and punishment. For me, my first step is to consider (when reading scripture) what part of it troubles me.  And in this particular passage, it is that phrase "fasten the plague on you..."That word “fasten” troubles me. And that means it also interests me. I want to think about it; mull it over; see where it takes me.

            Reading through Deuteronomy there is a lot of talk about laws and commandments that God requires His people to fulfill and uphold.  But here in chapters 27 and 28 we start getting some clear and almost nightmarish statements about what happens if they don’t.  In this chapter we have one of the most horrifying visions in the Bible; a vision of parents eating the flesh of their own children (cf. 28:53ff):

“…you will eat the offspring of your own body… the gentlest and tenderest of your men will scowl at his brother and at his wife… not willing to give any of them any of his own children’s flesh, which he is eating…”

The vision of this terrible hunger comes in a warning.  It is part of a curse that is threatened to befall God’s people if they don’t keep and observe His commandments and laws.  The brutality of it, the immensity of it, overwhelms me. This image of a father, even a gentle or tender one,  eating his own children and eating them so selfishly that he will eye his brother and beloved wife suspiciously --like an animal guarding his kill.  What could have prompted the author to have written this? What could have prompted God to have threatened it? How can such a fate be just? How can it be deserved?  How can it be the judgment of a loving and merciful God? Why would God threaten to "fasten" it upon His people if they do not follow and obey Him.

            Scholars may speculate that this prophecy of a curse was possibly written after the fact and reflects some actual catastrophe that befell the Jews (or that they witnessed) –a siege and horrible time of starvation.  But, taken on its own terms, how does this prophecy reflect the God (and the laws) fulfilled in Christ?  Are we to believe that a loving God fastens such punishments on His beloved people?  Is that how Love acted when it came to earth and took flesh and dwelt among us?

            So then, I ask myself (and the text) regardless of what the original scribe intended, what do you reveal about the God who became man and died on a cross for my sins? How is this “curse” a sign of God's love.  And to me, it seems that it can only be a sign of love if we look at it not as something God imposes or threatens, but as dire consequences God is warning us against. What if, instead of reading this as a threat of something God will do to us, we read it is a warning about the "natural" consequences of sin?  When we turn from God we risk becoming beasts capable of eating our own children.  What if God is telling us, fasten yourself to Me, follow My laws, obey My commands and you will become more fully the creatures you were made to be?  But turn away and you will become fastened instead to exploitation, plunder, selfishness, war, famine, blindness and cruelty --even cruelty toward those you should love (even your own children). If we turn away from God, we risk becoming blind beasts who devour our progeny and beg to be enslaved by our captors, our tormentors (our sin). Turn away from God and we will find ourselves begging to become the slaves of prosperity, technology, pleasure and comfort, selfishness and sin. Sound familiar?

           As the commercial used to say:  Calgon –take me away.