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.    

---

[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.

"They kept asking" --the silence of God on the fifth Sunday of Lent

Meditation for the fifth Sunday of Lent 6 April 19

“But when they kept asking Him…”

John 8: 1-11

“Remember not the events of the past,

the things of long ago consider not;

see, I am doing something new…”

Isaiah 43:16-21

“When they kept asking Him…”  Yes. Isn’t that the whole point of this story.  Not the woman, not the stoning, not even the Lord stooping to write in the dust…  But the religious leaders, the “holy” ones standing there asking and asking:  what should we do Lord? Huh? What do you say?  Stone her? Let her go?  Huh?  C’mon, speak up!

And the silence of the Lord.  That is the other element of this story that fascinates me this morning.  The fact that the people have brought their trial before Him and instead of answering, He remains silent.  Does that sound familiar?  I certainly recognize that situation in my own life. How often do I come to God demanding an answer; putting Him to the test, in fact.  God, if You are real, if You do care, if You have any control over the world, please show me a sign! Fix my marriage! Heal my child! Make me more patient! Now!! 

But in this story, as in life, God takes His time.

When we come to God demanding an answer, too often our hearts (mine, for certain) are set on a particular answer. That is all we want. That is all we are willing to accept.  We are not actually ready to hear God’s answer.  But God is patient with us and willing to wait, allowing our hearts to open (even just a little), that we might be able to let Him in (even just a little).  And I wonder if that isn’t the real reason for God’s apparent silence; not that God doesn’t care, or isn’t willing to answer us –but in the eternal wisdom, He knows that the physics of the soul requires not “action” but “inaction” to stimulate the desired response?  

Jesus remains silent and the people keep asking for an answer.  And then it comes. Unexpected. Challenging. Yet, simple and in some way always new…

The soul requires the stimulation of silence, of stillness to begin to stir, to grow, to open up to the song that God has already set humming within it.  Paradoxically, only through the seeming silence of God –out there-- do we begin to hear the voice of God –within—in our heart, our soul –quietly singing a song of love, of mercy, of forgiveness. A song eternal and yet always new.

The answer Jesus gives: Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone, is not a denial of the law, nor an affirmation of sin. It is a challenge to the people to live a new way: to live the law more fully, more intentionally; to walk more closely with God. To live more fully His love.  Though too often it can seem like an impossible challenge, it is actually an invitation. But we have to be willing to wait (not for God’s answer) but for our hearts (or ears) to be ready to hear it.

Making God Manifest—a meditation on the blind man and the beatitudes

“And His disciples asked Him: Rabbi,

who sinned, this man or his parents, that

he was born blind? Jesus answered:

It was not that this man sinned, or his parents;

but that the works of God might be made

manifest in him.”  --John 9:2-3

When we wonder about suffering, whether in the world art large or at our own particular “ill luck,” or insufficiency, we might want to remember that the suffering isn’t our fault, and it isn’t the fault (or the sin) of our parents.  When some pain or lack in our lives gets too hard to handle, we often seek someone to blame.  We look for some kind of explanation; and it often seems easiest to blame a person—make them the villain of our story.  It feels like a curse has come upon us, and someone has to be at fault; either we have brought this on our self, or someone else is the cause. If we blame bad luck, or fate, or “the world,” then in effect we are actually blaming God (whether we are using a big “G” a little “g”).  But, here in this little story, the Lord seems to be telling us that what feels like a curse (or bad luck) may in fact be a kind of blessing.  Even better, an opportunity for a blessing to be shared: for the “works of God to be made manifest” through us.

In my personal Bible study, I am still reading through the Psalms, and in my work Bible study group we are reading Isaiah, and now for Lent I am rereading a wonderful book by the Orthodox writer Jim Forest, The Ladder of the Beatitudes (Orbis Bks.1999). Which (in turn) sent me in search of John's gospel and this story about a man born blind.   (As the psalmist says: “All doers of evil are scattered…” –and boy am I!)

Anyway, as part of his introduction, Forest devotes a brief chapter to this story from John 9 about a man born blind. And because it seems to have nothing to do with the beatitudes, I almost skipped right over it.  I was too eager to get to the whole "tofu and potatoes" of the poverty and mourning and all that "blessed are" stuff… What does this blind guy have to do with beatitudes, anyway?

Aside:  Let me back up a moment here.  Some people are of the opinion that reading is a linear act… i.e. page 1 is followed by page 2 and then 3 and then 4 and so on until the end is reached (or the book is lost on a bus –whichever comes first).  But I (being a librarian) am a professional and have never felt constrained by things like page numbers and chapter order or plot progression.  To my family’s chagrin and frustration (I fear), I often will begin a book somewhere near the middle and read for several pages (or chapters) before going back and picking up pieces of the earlier action (at random).  It is possible this odd habit of reading a book as if it were a cubist painting is a form of literary dementia, or simply a sign of intellectual instability… Nevertheless, it is true, and I thought I should confess it. 

Back to the story at hand:  Instead of skipping the chapter, for some reason I kept reading; and as I did, I had that wonderful exhilarating sense that something of great import was being said; a truth revealed.  Near the end of his brief chapter, Mr. Forest takes a moment to put himself in the place of the blind man.  He imagines sitting in darkness and hearing people talking; they are asking someone questions (about him!). Whose fault it is that he was born blind (him or his parents)? And with some curiosity, he listens to hear what will be said.  But what he hears catches him off guard. It is someone speaking not about fault or sin or blame, but about making the works of the Lord visible.  Forest imagines the blind man’s confusion; how can his blindness have anything to do with the glory of God?  But then something happens.  The voice comes near and a man puts wet clay on his eyes and tells him to go wash it off.  And when he does, suddenly it is true; the work of God is made manifest in all His glory. 

And that is when I started thinking back to that discussion I was having with my wife the other day. Driving home from work, we were trying to remember all the beatitudes, and wondering what Jesus actually meant by these paradoxical teachings; and how we (personally) might find a blessing in each of them.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are they who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed those who hunger and thirst for righteousness… blessed are the persecuted…

And we struggled.  How can one find a blessing in poverty? Where is the blessedness in mourning? How does one find good in being persecuted? To be concrete, how is homelessness a blessing? In the moment, in the experience of it, they all feel like crushing weights, disasters even.  Yet, Jesus tells His apostles that the blindness of this man isn’t a punishment or a disaster, but an opportunity for the work of God to be made known.  Thinking about this, I realize that I too was blind.  I was getting to wrapped up in the darkness of my own anxieties (and habits) to see the truth; I was too busy blindly searching for the “right answer,” to let God’s work be made manifest.  Yet, something stopped my heedless rush, someone slowed me down with a little simple discussion of a seemingly unrelated passage from a different gospel (simple as dirt and spit) and opened my eyes: the beatitudes are not just about us, or about our comfort, they are about making the glory of God manifest to the world. They are about creating opportunities for God’s presence to be revealed.  And where does Jesus promise He will always be: in the hungry, in the naked, in the prisoners (the persecuted)…

Take a moment and read John 9, you can read the whole chapter in less than 5 minutes.  Then open Matthew and read the Beatitudes (5:3-12), and spend a little time praying over it with that blind man in mind. (And maybe pick up a copy of Jim Forest's book.) Anyway, that will be part of my Lenten prayer this year and if I am lucky, I may begin to see my life in a whole new light. 

Anyway, that’s my plan. This Lent, I will be contemplating the beatitudes with the help of Jim Forest.  And my hope is that I can learn something about the blessing of poverty, or mourning, of hunger and thirst, of mercy and peace or… perhaps, I will wait a while to ask for that other one…

Lord,

Let me not be blind to Your presence in all

those who hunger, in all who mourn, in all who

feel persecuted, belittled or forgotten. Open my eyes

to Your glory, Your grace, Your love made manifest

in the needs of others. Stir my heart, that I may greet

all those in need with generosity with love and humility.

Amen