The Weekly Confession…or Bless Me Father for I have SINNED!

If you’ve ever been to Catholic school, you know you must keep your sins at bay, just in case you died suddenly!  You couldn’t take a chance that your soul would rot in Hell, or worse, hover in Purgatory for all eternity!  Bless me Father for I have sinned….  Every Catholic knows the pain of thinking just how many times they committed a sin, and then trying to sort the sins into venial or mortal.

Well, most sins, as bad as we thought they were at the time, were probably only slight sins, the Venial sin kind.  Do you remember the agony of deciding just how big a lie you really told, or just exactly how you spoke to your mother, the tone, the language, the pitch, the number of sins contained within the disobedience?  That was just how I remembered each Saturday afternoon about 3:00pm, directly before the daily Mass. 

My weekly ritual began every Saturday, about a half an hour before I actually entered the Confessional.  I struggled to retrace each step I had taken the week before, making sure I dissected every waking moment lest I forget to do a proper Penance for my sins.  I certainly wanted to be sure I didn’t die and leave a stained soul which I was told would be enough for a stint in Purgatory!  I was thorough and thoughtful about what I had done to displease “Our Lord” the week before.

 This particular Saturday, I was at a tremendous loss as to just what I had done wrong.  I had had a particularly good week,  and I couldn’t for the life of me, though I tried, come up with more than one disobedience, and one small, tiny, tiny lie to my brother, no less.  I sat in the church pew. And by now I had ten full years of Catholic school under my belt, and I thought and thought. I was almost embarrassed by my purity!  Should I walk out and not reveal these incidental sins and wait for something bigger to come along?  I even contemplated making something up, just so I had a proper penance to do. 

Let me see.  I could pretend that I smoked.  That would be good for an entire rosary.  No, that was a lie in itself.  Besides, Father O’Leary knew me and the pattern of my sins.  I had better just beef up the usual disobeying to my Mom.  I was at a loss. Now what?  Could it be that I had just not thought hard enough, or was I suppressing my real sins in order to look better to Father?  After about a half hour of soul searching, I stood in line before the imposing wooden confessional with ornate carvings of saints above each confessional door, and patiently waited my turn.

I didn’t recognize the voice of the priest in the confessional this particular Saturday, and it was later that I found out it was a visiting priest from another diocese.  Father O’Leary, I later found out was on vacation.  I didn’t know priests were allowed to take vacations.  And skiing at that?  I wanted to make a good impression and sound sincere to this new priest as I pleaded for forgiveness for all my sins.  I was third in line, and the girls coming out of the confessional seemed contrite and seemed to be praying the Our Father and Hail Mary at a ferocious rate at the altar.  Maybe I should make up something really important, if I were going to have to “do” penance anyhow. 

 

The confessional was entirely made of wood, inside and outside.  The interior of the confessional was stark, a small box with a screen which the priest pushed aside when it was the penitent’s turn to confess her sins.  The small kneeler, placed beneath the screen, was covered in a dark red padded kneeler, very comfortable to kneel on.  I remember when I was younger; I couldn’t even reach the window to talk to the priest. I was older now, and fully grown, a sophomore in high school.  I knelt and waited for my turn. I heard mumbling from the other side of the confessional.  I swear I could hear sobs and harsh penalties rattled off.  Someone must have done something larger than a venial sin in the opposite confessional.  I didn’t know this priest, so I figured I needed to come clean and just tell what happened. 

Well, that’s just what I did.  The confessional window slowly slid open, and a young voice, much younger than Father O’Leary, went through the usual ritual. 

I rattled off my offenses, and the exact number of times I had committed the offense, and waited for the ax to lower.  I figured I was good for at least three hail Mary’s and two Our Fathers, but instead, the priest said, “Margaret,” Is that you?”

I was stunned.  How had he known my name?  I didn’t know him.  Father O’Leary must have told him what a sinner I was. 

“Father O’Leary told me about you, Margaret”.

I waited in silence, almost forgetting to breathe.

“Yes, Father, it is me, Margaret”

 “Well, I am Father Dacey.  Let’s hear those sins again, only go slower.”

 

 I expected a lecture on obeying my Mom, but instead, Father told me I had a remarkable record for always coming dutifully to confession.  He asked me why I came to confession every single Saturday. 

I told him I didn’t want to let the sins build up, just in case I died!

Father let out a rip roaring laugh that reverberated throughout the almost empty church. I swear it lasted an eternity!

I didn’t see what was so funny about that honest confession. 

 Father told me that this week, I had no penance, for I had not committed any sins.  He also told me to come by only once a month or only if I had something really bad to confess.  I had been altogether too conscientious and I should go out to play instead.  “Take in the fresh air, and lighten up on yourself,” were his exact words.

  I actually did feel relieved.  It was a relief to not have to recount my every waking move, to try to remember how many times I had sinned, and to stand in the confessional line every single week.

 And so I did… confess my sins, only less frequently, and only when I had something really juicy to tell! …which was not that often!

And when I went to confession next time with Father O’Leary, he asked me how I liked that young priest, Father Dacey’s style!  And Father confessed to me that he had told Father Dacey all about me!

 And that’s the truth, because Catholic girls don’t lie!