The Knitting Theologian

Scanning my Twitter feed this morning, I followed a link to an article about a parish in New York that reopened and refurbished the confessionals, made more times available for confession, and is now seeing a resurgence in the number of people who choose to participate in the sacrament of confession.

A large part of my recent (and ongoing) “reversion” to my Catholic faith is the sacrament of reconciliation. (That’s the new name. When I was a kid, we called it “confession,” and really that term still works better for me.) I am committed to confessing at least once a month, but I find myself there more often. And it seems that the more I go, the more grace I find, and then the more I understand about sin and penitence, which in turn brings me back to the sacrament again and again.

A couple of weeks ago I was chatting at coffee & doughnuts with a guy in the RCIA program who will be entering the church at the Easter Vigil. He had just recently made his first confession, and was feeling just a little let down. He had confessed to our priest associate, a wonderful man in his early 80s who has a somewhat unfortunate habit of rushing. Confessing to him results in what I call the “speed absolution,” and although I’m certain it’s valid, it can leave you wondering whether that’s all there is.

In fact, when I straightened out my life last fall so that I could receive the sacraments again, I happened to draw Fr. Speedy myself and I knew the exact feeling that RCIA Guy was sharing with me. I then told RCIA Guy about how I figure out when our pastor is hearing confessions so that I can confess to him instead, and I realized that I have all the times that confession is available memorized now. “I wouldn’t know this if I didn’t need the sacrament so much myself,” is what I told RCIA Guy, and it’s true.

I cannot emphasize enough what a wonderful sacrament confession is. I do confess face to face, although the reconciliation room at our parish is set up to accommodate both face to face and anonymous confessions. Further, I confess to my pastor, who knows perfectly well who I am because of how active I am at my parish. However, I feel certain that when I am confessing, I am speaking to Jesus through him. And it seems that the more willing I am to humble myself by revealing my failings openly, the more grace God pours down on me.

At our parish mission in January, one of the sisters talked about how sometimes we don’t want to confess our sins because we think they are unforgiveable. We think that God cannot possibly forgive us for this or that sin. But when we do that, we are limiting God. We are saying we don’t really believe that God’s mercy is truly infinite. And of course we are hurting ourselves, keeping ourselves away from this boundless, overflowing, source of grace and peace. That idea struck me, and I’ve been carrying it with me into the confessional ever since.

God loves me. God wants to give me his grace. God wants to forgive me, and he wants me to experience the healing of that forgiveness. And so I go to confession, with my hands full of my failings, my shame, and I give them to God, and then he pours out his grace on me. It never fails.

I am losing my secrets on the road to sanctity, and even though I know it is necessary it frightens me. See, I have these secrets that I’ve carried around with me for most of my life. I’ve held onto them like possessions, even though I don’t look at them or use them.

In the past few months, as my life has changed, I have given away many possessions that I just don’t need anymore, and I continue to do so. The other thing I am doing is telling my secrets, which is, of course, much harder than loading a bunch of stuff into the car and taking it to Goodwill.

For there is nothing hidden except to be made visible; nothing is secret except to come to light. (Mark 4:22)

Every time I come across this verse it knocks me flat. This morning was no exception. I sit there in meditation, and I ask God to show me what He wants me to learn from the verse, and He of course does, and then I sit there and struggle with the challenge of being confronted with the ugliness of my own sin and my belief in God’s love and mercy, which is more of an intellectual belief than an emotional certitude.

Losing my secrets for me means sharing my secrets, both to a very few trusted friends and in Confession. How grateful I am that my parish offers Confession just about every day, if I will only bestir myself to go.

And what do I discover when I do? God’s compassion, right there, in the person of the priest to whom I confess. Here’s a thing about secrets. When I don’t tell them, when I only dwell on them in my mind, what I tell myself about them is harsh and condemning. And then I come to believe that God will also say those things to me. But that isn’t what happens.

I was terrified of Confession as a child. I didn’t experience it as an occasion of grace. I got yelled at too many times for forgetting the Act of Contrition. I couldn’t see any value in it; I couldn’t understand why it was a sacrament, and so, of course, I stopped going.

Now I am trying to keep a commitment of going to Confession once a month—or even more often, when I get tripped up by one of my habitual sins—and I am finding that God is much, much bigger than that harsh, condemning voice in my mind. He is infinitely compassionate and merciful, and all I have to do is tell Him my secrets.