Contrary to popular belief, Catholicism has changed in the past thirty-seven years. Let me take you back, back to 1970, when I was seven years old. Yes, you did the math right, that makes me 44 years old. Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, you can’t see the 24 ounce mason jar of diet coke and the three empty 100 calorie Chips Ahoy packages that litter my desk, or the spot on my hairline where the hair is really grey and grizzled. Oh, wait, there’s another empty package under the monitor. Make that four.
But back to sinning, and Confession. Because that’s what I was leading up to. When I made my First Confession, in the embers of the riotous ‘60’s, and the blaze of “free love”, hip hugger bell bottoms, and The Partridge Family, the Catholic church wasn’t buying into the social changes of the times, and was really big on sin, in the time honored fashion of Catholicism. The pastor at our Church, Monsignor Varni, was educated and ordained pre-Vatican II, which is to say, before the church tried to come into the twentieth century just a little bit. Some of those changes initiated by Pope Paul included recognizing a loving and forgiving God, versus the angry, penitential deity who’d launch you to Hell in a heartbeat if you didn’t follow all the rules.
Monsignor had many admirable qualities, but his sermons were not among them. His were of the “You are truly flawed from birth and God can only forgive a selfish, sinning butthead like you if you cry, pull your hair out in distress, give a lot of money to your Monsignor for his church, and pray every waking moment for forgiveness. Otherwise, you’re screwed.” And he was an intimidating presence, in his Monsignor cap, or whatever it’s called (hey, I went to public school, we didn’t have time to learn all the little details in just one hour a week of religious ed).
In those days, Confession meant going into a tiny dark room, no bigger than a small closet, and kneeling onto a padded kneeler that creaked with your weight. In front of you was a small window, frosted and screened. The room on the other side, where the priest sat, was lighted, and as you sat in the dark, and it was really dark, you spoke through this window to the priest beyond. I can’t remember if there was an opening of some sort so that the priest could hear you. Anyway, he seemed to hear pretty well, so I guess there was something.
As you kneeled, there, shaking in the dark, because what little kid likes to be alone in a dark room, you told the Father your sins. You were given absolution, and a penance, usually some specific prayers to recite quietly in the pews after you left the confessional. Monsignor, bless his soul, might have scared the crap out of you, but he gave the lightest penance of any priest.
Now all of this is really odd to non-Catholics, and I could go into religious theology, and tell you why we do this, and what it is that Jesus said that led to all this, but this isn’t a lesson in theology, and I’ve already admitted I’m a little shaky on my theological history. The point here is that if the experience didn’t scare you into sainthood, you were pretty much a lost cause anyway.
So fast forward to the present day. My seven year old son just had his First Reconciliation. That’s what they call it now, Reconciliation. Because that is what it is supposed to be about, reconciling with God, not beating yourself with a switch and ditching your Gap sweater for a hair shirt. All of the kids who were to make their First Reconciliation, and all of their families, gathered in the church. A joyous service was held. The theme was more “Hey, let’s think about what we might like to do better in our lives, and isn’t it great that God forgives us for all those times we punched our siblings and back talked Mom?”. When it came time to actually do the deed, several smiling priests sat in chairs at various locations around the church, each with an empty chair next to him. One at a time, we took our children to a priest, introduced our child, who was warmly welcomed by the priest. The child was supposed to name one or two things he thought he probably shouldn’t have done.
At the point where the priest gives absolution, he raises his hand. Watching from the sidelines, I saw my son look at this raised hand, hesitate a moment, and then give the priest the old high five. The priest didn’t miss a beat. He finished his piece, patted my son on the shoulder, said something softly to him with a smile, and that was that.
My son came away with a big grin. I didn’t tell him he wasn’t supposed to high five the priest. He was proud of himself, and who was I to take that away? At the time, I was torn between laughter, and chagrin that everyone would see I had not fully prepared my son. But now, several weeks later, I think how appropriate this was. Isn’t this what faith in God is all about? “Good job, I forgive you, now give me five!”