Confession

                                          CONFESSION

                          "Bless Me Father for I have Sinned,” was the opening incantation of the penitent. "Ego Te Absolve, In Nomine Patris, Filie, Spiritu, Sancti" was the muffled reply. It came both as an admonition and an inquiry, through the wooden, lattice panel, of the confessional. For ease of purpose, the priest in the middle was able to hear confessions from booths, on either side. He had but to slide back the wooden shutter, to speak with either of penitent. Anonymity was hoped for by everyone, but sometimes voices had a way of carrying in the larger churches. Older members, whose hearing wasn't very good, often turned up the volume to the fascinated interest of those waiting in line.

We were performing the age-old, Catholic ritual of "Confession.” It is a simple concept really, though shrouded in mysticism and secrecy. It is sort of like putting a spiritual quarter into a celestial pay phone and dialing up God, using his private number. Or at least that is what we believed in Catholic Grammar School. And like the obligatory call to distant Grandparents, we were expected to make the effort at least once a week. Of course, when you made the connection, you had to fess up to all the mischief that you had been involved in, since the last call. If your calls were infrequent, the session could seem long indeed.

The penalties were quantifiable. The recitation of several “Hail Mary's” and” Our Fathers” was the usual penance. If you got nailed with a few decades of the Rosary or, Heaven forbid, the whole enchilada, there was much speculation, from your peers, as to the level of malfeasance involved.

We stood in line, on either side of the wooden confessional, and awaited our turn. You had to artfully construct the right balance of venial sins, to lend credibility to the whole. Otherwise, the third degree could be considerable. And if, God forbid, you were carrying around an unconfessed and unabsolved mortal sin, the weight could seem oppressive. Of course, you just knew, at that tender age, that the indiscretions were indelibly printed on your face, for all to read. The nuns of course were telepathic, or so it seemed to us at the time. We learned early the value of a good poker face.

I remember on one occasion when I dropped the ball completely. I had forgotten the words to the Act of Contrition, a final prayer made by the penitent. It is a central part in the ritual. It may not seem like much to the uninitiated, but picture Whitney Houston forgetting the second verse to the Star-Spangled Banner, during the Opening Game at Yankee Stadium. It wasn't life threatening, but it was pretty embarrassing. 

I was summarily remanded to the supervising Nun and advised to admit the full enormity of my transgression. It was pretty heavy stuff for a ten year-old kid.

The kindly Sister, who had the heart of a giant, gently prodded my memory, until the entire text came roaring back to me in a flood of youthful relief. Thus armed, I returned to face the anonymous avenger who had sent me to the spiritual nether lands.

As we grew older, the enormity of our sins grew with our exposure to the mortal world. Most of the priests were philosophical, in the face of this endless parade of human weakness. Their penances were perfunctory and their admonitions generic. They knew, in their heart of hearts, that mere mortals are imperfect souls, in need of spiritual solace. Some, however, never lost their indignant righteousness and would lecture the luckless penitent at length. The chain of penance thus dispensed would make the spiritual chains attached to Jacob Marley and Ebeneezer Scrooge seem unburdened and light- footed by comparison.

There was of course a natural correction to this type of behavior. We went "priest shopping,” like the canniest Lawyer looking for a sympathetic Judge. It could be comical at times. One of the stricter priests would have but a few "customers" lined up to make their confession. His more genial colleague, across the aisle, would have a crowd that stretched all the way back to the entrance of the Church.

Sometimes, the best laid plans went awry. The sterner confessor would order several of the people in the longer line to form up in his line. It was like a scene from the Barber shop. You would be too polite to say "no,” when the scalper said "who is next?" You often got drawn into the wrong chair, despite of your best intentions.

Whatever the motivation or machination that got you into the confessional booth, we all felt a catharsis of sorts when we were done. Spiritually and emotionally, we felt better. Whether it is the power of suggestion or a real communion with the Almighty, it worked for us. Some religions have "Sin Eaters.” Others are more physical in their spiritual flagellations. We novice Catholics unburdened ourselves in innocence and asked forgiveness from a loving God.

Years later, the granting of absolutions was made more of a general process and given to the faithful, at weekly Mass. But it didn't seem to have the same quality of ritual. Perhaps, it was the mysticism that enticed us in the former, more private conversation with the deity. More likely, it is the memory of innocence from that time and the feelings of Paradise Lost, as we grew older and our youthful innocence faded. 

                                                            -30-

                                                     ( 919 words)

                                                Joseph Xavier Martin