anxiety muffin

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been 3 months since my last confession." The thin door clicked shut behind me, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dim light thrown by one small lamp in the corner. I contemplated my next move, even though it was always the same choice: face to face, or through the grille? I go to school here, they already know me, I thought, so I glanced briefly at the kneeler in front of the grille, and turned to the stiff-backed chair directly across from the priest.

"And what are your sins, my child?" the priest asked. I inhaled once, the smell of incense and softly rotting wood twining together in my nostrils, and began my litany of lies.

My religious upbringing, at least until grade 5, could best be described as E&C Catholic - by which I mean, we went to Easter and Christmas mass and that was about all. I have dim memories of Sunday school, conducted in a classroom that always smelled faintly of soured milk, and one distinct recollection of the teacher, in a very cack-handed way of explaining that God provides, I suppose, telling us that He will give you a house. I remember telling my parents this and my dad said, So, why are there homeless people then?

Because they don't believe, Daddy, I replied.

Seems petty, he said.

So it's not with any particular fervor for Catholicism that found me enrolled in Immaculate Heart of Mary, which I attended from 5th through 8th grade. My parents were disappointed with the local public school, and IHM was closer to both of their jobs. Of course, this meant we would need to show our faces more at church (and of course, tithe, despite paying tuition). Religion classes were every Tuesday morning, and there was regular confession. We would line up and troop down the long main corridor to the large accordion door that joined the school side to the church itself, then line up along the wall. Sometimes we would see older women, heads covered as was de rigueur pre-Vatican II, in the very last pews, heads bowed, telling the beads on their rosary, their lips moving along with the prayer in their heads.

I couldn't linger too long on anything, however, as we were expected to watch for the lights over the doors of the confessionals to turn green, which meant it was our turn to enter.

"I forgot to say grace for God's bounty a coupla times," I said, thinking of every single meal at home where we just started eating and never thought about prayer at all.

"I talked back to my parents a few times," leaving out that sometimes they started it or called me names, and where was their confession? Where was their apology, even?

"I fought with my brother," but he punched me first; yeah, Jesus said 'turn the other cheek' but would he have been so sanguine if he constantly got a fist in his back?

"Um," I said, stalling for time as my brain pictured other things I was supposed to say aloud, but would never, on pain of death: reading V.C. Andrews books and other "impure" literature; thinking about all the things I would do to Mark, the cutest guy in my grade, if he'd only let me; and how many times in the last few weeks I'd slid an idle hand down my pants in the solace of my bedroom, fantasizing about various celebrity boys. "I think that's everything."

We had three priests: Father Knauer, Father Absalom (his last name was difficult to say, so he told us to call him that), and Father Ebert. Father Ebert was "in residence," but they still trotted him out for masses and confession; he was almost completely deaf and watching him lift up the sacrament during mass with palsied hands was a sad sight. However, we used to joke that you could confess to literal murder and he would give you the same standard, pray to the Holy Spirit for guidance and say three Our Fathers.

Father Absalom was the worst because he would try to play armchair psychologist with you, which I don't know if they are really allowed to do. They are intercession, and can counsel on faith, but other than that, I think he was going above his pay grade.

Father Knauer was okay, but sometimes his gimlet eyes seemed to go right through you.

"Your penance this time is three Our Fathers and a Hail Mary. And I want you to really think about the actions towards your family and think about what Jesus would do. And now, your Act of Contrition."

"O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, for choosing to sin and failing to do good. I have sinned against you and the Church. I firmly resolve with your grace to sin no more. Amen."

The priest inhaled and raised his arm to make the sign of the cross in the air as he intoned, "I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

We were taught that, once you were absolved, you would feel lighter, and could revel in that state of grace. Instead, my soul felt like a bowling-ball in my chest that sunk a little further each time I visited that room. The residue of what was left unconfessed, to be sure, but also, as time went on, the contradictions of the religion would roil constantly in my brain.

You can talk to god any time, they told us, and ask for forgiveness.

So, why do I need the priest as intermediary, then?

I slowly made the sign of the cross over my own body - head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder - and said Amen.

"The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

I rose from the chair, feeling slightly stiff, and said Thanks be to God as I turned and opened the door for the next penitent.

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