The Devil Had a Field Day and Almost Won

Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Sinned

When you’re in the confessional, either old-style behind a screen and on your knees or sitting on a chair facing the priest you like and trust, it is always easier to confess our sins.

However, as a boater for the last five months, I never know whether I’ll have access to a church on any given Sunday. At times I am lucky and encounter a great priest. One of those with a pop-star personality who is equally at home with a guitar and torn jeans as he is in his green vestment leading the congregation in Gregorian chant. One listens to him deliver a homily with the same avid attention as if he’s performing his latest hit.

Ah yes, they are far and few between, but they are out there.

This Was One of Those Times

I encountered Father G on one of those days when I debated if I should go to mass in an unfamiliar town or if I should just do the online thing. It was a sunny Sunday morning in some unnamed marina. Taming the desire to laze in that sun watching the ducks float by, off to mass I went.

I did my happy dance when I realized we would still be there the following Sunday and decided to go to a long-overdue confession the preceding Saturday. “This priest is someone to whom I can spill my guts,” I told myself. “I can talk to him like a friend. I can tell him things I would be loath to tell my BFF.”

The confession (or disclosure) of sins, even from a simply human point of view, frees us and facilitates our reconciliation with others. Through such an admission man looks squarely at the sins he is guilty of, takes responsibility for them, and thereby opens himself again to God and to the communion of the Church in order to make a new future possible (CCC 1455).

When Confession is a Trial, Tribulation

I approached the church door with a spring in my step. Believe me, at my age, with two wonky store-bought knees, that is an achievement. I didn’t even hesitate at the steps leading from the short terrace, but like a mountain goat tripped up, right leg, left leg, right leg and arrived.

Pushing open the church door, I found the building empty except for a couple of people working near the pulpit, erecting something scaffold-like. A wedding at some time, I wondered. How irreverent of me to think of scaffolding for hanging rather than a wedding bower. Sadly, how true that sometimes turned out to be.

I looked around for something resembling a confessional. In my home parish, it is situated at the front, off to the side of the pulpit.

All week I had looked forward to Saturday, once again bouncing between “shall I, shan’t.” As a convert to Catholicism, confession was a hard pill to swallow, and the promise of absolution didn’t quite cut it as a gooey Godiva chocolate bar filled with cherry liqueur. I just didn’t “get it.” Until a young and lovely smiling Filipino priest, obviously amused by my arguments, said, “I’m just the Front Desk. The Big Guy’s upstairs,” and a forefinger climbed upwards in tiny increments.

The confessor is not the master of God’s forgiveness, but its servant. The minister of this sacrament should unite himself to the intention and charity of Christ. He should have a proven knowledge of Christian behavior, experience of human affairs, respect and sensitivity toward the one who has fallen; he must love the truth, be faithful to the Magisterium of the Church, and lead the penitent with patience toward healing and full maturity. He must pray and do penance for his penitent, entrusting him to the Lord’s mercy (CCC 1466).

Confession or Reconciliation as it is called in the more learned circles, lost a lot of its, “I don’t understand,” when I looked at it that way!

Still, it wasn’t my favorite thing, but a few issues had to be addressed. I’d started dreaming about that index finger pointing the way.

So, there I was. Earlier than the appointed hour. Eager to meet with Father G.

Then, down the aisle, towards the confessional, walking with some difficulty, came this older, bald, and somewhat heavy priest, heading my way.

Satan peeped over my shoulder and –

“No!” my mind screamed. “Where’s Father G? I can’t talk to this man?”

My rebellious body half-turned, feet already in motion, heading for the door. Satan gave an almighty nudge towards the opening but my mind rooted itself in the slush of my indecision, and my guardian angel said, loud and clear, “Shame on you.”

Still, no way could I face this priest and “cry him a river.” I dragged my Croc sandals over to the confessional, shut the door behind me, and knelt on the other side of that screen.

“Forgive Me, Father, for I Have Sinned”

I don’t remember what I said. I do know it wasn’t my prepared litany for Father G. I am ashamed to admit that I did not lower my aging body onto painful creaking knees in a pew for some meditation and quiet reflection after my confession.

I’d come away with a penance of one Our Father and one Hail Mary and took care of that on my way home. I guess that was a winner for Satan there.

The following day, off I went to church. Surely Father G would be there.

“Is he?” I queried a local at the door.

“No, I think it’s a rent-a-priest collecting money for whatever his cause is.”

It was meant to be funny, but somehow it wasn’t. And yes, it was the same aging, balding, priest that had heard my confession.

I watched him more than I listened to him and was deeply embarrassed

Do We Take Care of our Retired Priests?

Here was a man who had given his life to the church. He should’ve been retired. Yet, he was still in the field, traveling, preaching, collecting money to feed the poorest of the poor in South America.

I dared to think him not worthy of listening to my secrets. Who knows what a wonderful time I might’ve had, had I seated my sorry rear in the chair across from him and talked to him?

I kneeled and asked forgiveness. For my pride, my arrogance.

That should’ve been the end of it, but God deemed otherwise. The lesson was incomplete.

A few nights later, I couldn’t sleep. I’d tumble into la-la land and jerk awake. I thought of that priest and my half-hearted way of executing my penance. No better time than right now to do a better job, I thought.

“Our Father who art in heaven,” and I went blank.

“Our Father –“

This happened a few times. Or, I’d get two or three sentences further and then, blank.

Or I’d jumble up the prayer.

By now wide awake and frustrated, I sat up, thumped my pillows into submission, and started again. Crafty me decided I should alternate between languages. One phrase in English, one in my mother tongue.

All I did was create a Tower of Babel.

Nearly in tears, I crawled back into bed. How could I possibly forget The Lord’s Prayer?

The thought came, “what was the second part of the penance?”

I took a deep breath and started.

“Hail Mary –

My mind stilled. I closed my eyes. The Lords Prayer was a vision. My breath slowed. Sleep came.

And Satan retreated into whatever hellhole he’d come from.

The whole power of the sacrament of Penance consists in restoring us to God’s grace and joining us with him in an intimate friendship.”Reconciliation with God is thus the purpose and effect of this sacrament. For those who receive the sacrament of Penance with contrite heart and religious disposition, reconciliation “is usually followed by peace and serenity of conscience with strong spiritual consolation.”Indeed the sacrament of Reconciliation with God brings about a true “spiritual resurrection,” restoration of the dignity and blessings of the life of the children of God, of which the most precious is friendship with God (CCC 1468).