Act of Contrition

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been X weeks since my last confession.
I have…
· teased my sister
· used bad words in vain.”

Those were the two most common “sins” I used to report, err, confess, as a young girl being raised as a Catholic.

I used to DREAD going to confession. I hated going into that box/closet contraption where you were in the dark and had to kneel on a kneeler and talk through a darkened screen. The priest – or ONE of the priests (you never knew which one it was going to be) would be hidden on the other side, in HIS little dark closet.

I can only imagine how tedious and boring it must be for priests to listen to everyone’s confessions. Somehow, I imagine them on the other side doing one of those Word-Search books or leafing through a back issue of Playboy (or- Girl, as the case might be)….

I would confess my sins and then cringe, holding my breath, preparing myself for the worst, trembling in fear at what the priest was going to say back to me. Clearly, I must be a horrible, evil person. I should incur the mighty wrath of God! With very few exceptions (in fact, I can’t think of any exceptions), the priest always rattled off some rote prayer and told me to go say ten “Our Fathers” and ten “Hail Marys.” Which I did, quite penitently, out in one of the main pews upon emerging from the dark closet of sin. Then I would proceed to go out and tease my sister some more and use even more bad words in vain.

Sigh.

I was shocked yesterday when someone at our work Christmas party (at a Catholic university) where people at my table were discussing confession, for some reason unknown to me, said she preferred to confess her sins face-to-face to a priest. I think that is admirable, don’t get me wrong. Far more mature than going inside some stupid, dark box and talking to a screen! But I would NEVER, EVER want to do that. I would be too scared to talk to some priest face-to-face.

Of course, my problem has always been that I could never understand why I needed to “go through” a priest – or anyone else, for that matter. Why couldn’t I just talk with God directly and confess my sins straight to him? How was it anybody else’s business, besides mine and God’s, what sins I was committing?

The year we were preparing for First Communion (second grade), we had to attend our First Confession in preparation for our First Holy Communion. I was absolutely terrified. I was filled with angst and guilt about all of the terrible, dreadful, awful things I must have done in my life thus far. I remember lying awake in fear the night before we were scheduled to attend our First Confession. I was totally overcome by feelings of guilt and shame. I had stolen some bubble gum from the Thoroughfare with my sister at some point in my pre-second grade youth, and I was now beside myself with feelings of unworthiness and guilt. I had worked myself up into such a state of anxiety whilst lying there in bed, I didn’t know how I could POSSIBLY wait all the way until the next day to confess my terrible, awful crimes against God and humanity. Suddenly, from out of the blue, this thought came to me: why couldn’t I just confess my sins right there, right then, to God? Surely, He would be listening. He already knew all my sins anyway, didn’t He?

And so that is what I did. Lying there in the dark, I silently confessed all of my terrible misdeeds to God. And as soon as I did so, I felt IMMENSELY better. Relieved. Like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I will NEVER forget that feeling. And I still went to my official first confession the next day and re-confessed all my sins, after waiting my turn forever in line and following Janice T, whom I could hear through the closed confessional door. She had done really bad, bad things, like teasing her little brother and yelling at her puppy.

This is not to say that I really think God “forgave” me on that night I confessed my sins from under my bedclothes. Or even that He was listening. I don’t really see God in that way, anthropomorphized into the old white-haired, white-bearded man in flowing robes from The Bible Story who might look down from on high, omniscient as we all know, but willing to bend his ear towards my tiny bedroom window and give me thirty seconds to bare my breast and then absolve me of my sins and send me on my merry way. My point wasn’t about God or the merits of confession, but rather the fact that I, at age seven, decided I should be able to talk to God myself, one on one, and having done so, I felt MUCH better inside.

One of the (MANY) things I dislike about the Catholic religion is how it trains people to feel guilty about EVERYTHING. Clearly, missing mass is NOT a sin. Clearly, eating meat on Friday during Lent is NOT a sin. Clearly, a whole lot of things are not sins. Made up Church obligations versus actions of wrongness. We all do bad, wrong things, often over and over again, regardless of how sorry we might be that we do them at some point in time. I think most people strive to follow the Golden Rule, at least to some level or degree. We can all think of exceptions to this, but I am an idealist (a naïve idealist, to boot!) and I see man as basically good. Yes, I realize that there are bad people out there, evil people even, and that they do terrible, awful things. I also know that most good people do bad things throughout the courses of their lives. It is a very human, imperfect world that we live in full of tragedy and sorrow. But also goodness and joy.

My gut feeling – and this is probably a shameful thing to say -- is that it is not good to be raised Catholic, because I don’t think you can EVER truly get rid of those feelings of guilt, or the propensity to feel guilty all the time. It was years before I realized that most Protestants, or non-Catholics of any bent, do not have these same feelings of constant, pervasive guilt. “How lucky they must be!” I thought to myself when I first realized how the whole guilt trip thing was such a Catholic thing. And how angry I was at the Catholic Church.

Not that I don’t at times see beauty in the Catholic religion. Because I do. But I become discouraged by the closed-mindedness and exclusivity, which seem so non-Christ like to me. I see this in other religions or denominations, too, especially more fundamentalist ones. And it makes me sad. Most of my problems with religion have nothing to do with God, but everything to do with the men who arbitrarily make up silly rules to suit their purposes and self-interests.

As I write this, I am listening to Christmas songs, many of them religious and deeply moving. Sure, I like the Santa, Frosty, Rudolf, Jingle Bells songs well enough (my favorite non-religious Christmas song is “Winter Wonderland”), but I truly love the deeply religious songs about the Nativity story and the baby Jesus. One of my favorite is “Ave Maria.” I am not really sure how it is a Christmas song, but we seem to hear it most often at Christmas time, sung most famously (and most ironically, as she is Jewish) by Barbra Streisand. I also like “Silent Night,” but in the original German. “O Holy Night” by Nat King Cole. And, of course, “The Halleluiah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. (Again, I am not really sure why that song is traditionally sung around Christmas time. You would think it would be more part of an Easter celebration.)

Then again, I don’t know that I like particular Christmas songs for the meanings of their words as for the beauty of the music and the way they sound to my ear. Plus, Christmas songs offer a comforting sound, songs I know well, effortlessly, without having to think hard upon their lyrics because I have heard them so often, over and over, all throughout my life. While I may be musically impaired, I tend to know the words to most Christmas songs and can replicate their rhythms and notes. In my head, anyway. There is something comforting about that. During a time of year that is really pretty stressful, I find comfort and meaning in traditional songs. And in tradition. And ritual.

Although the commercialism and consumerism of modern day Christmases get me down, as does all the rushing around and stress, I truly enjoy Christmastime.

It is one of my favorite times of year… I have to confess.