Confession

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

That’s how I was taught to begin.

Confession in the Catholic Church

on Saturdays before Mass on Sunday

was the curse I was forced to learn.

And kneeling in the confinement of

a wooden box (much like a coffin to

the dead might seem), hands folded

in reverence and praise to a God I could

not see, I would spill the beans of my

transgressions to a priest who was to

be my judge and jury. And although I

was pronounced guilty as charged of sins,

mortal and venial, I would be given abso-

lution provided that I say the requisite

penance of three Hail Marys, an Our Father,

a Glory Be, and make a sincere Act of

Contrition, begging God to forgive me.

All this superficial bunk because I had

disobeyed my parents and fought with

my brothers once or twice during the

week. I neglected to tell my confessor

priest the serious crap of which I was

guilty. I knew that he couldn’t see the

sweat pouring down my forehead

through the opaque screen positioned

between him and me. It was dark and

foreboding in that sacrificial tomb of

gloom and doom. I was fearful, however,

that with all of His power and might, God

was able to see right through me. Later,

for my newly acquired sins of omission,

I would add an extra Hail Mary to my

assigned repentance, figuring that if

anyone, surely the Blessed Mother of

God would understand.

Chris Hanch 10-18-17