Sooner or later it washes over everyone who realizes that (gasp) God is calling them to the Catholic Chuch, the realization that sooner or later they are going to have to darken the doorstep of a confessional. It isn’t usually a happy prospect. It certainly wasn’t for me. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a few people who take you aside and tell you that it really isn’t all that bad. Some may even tell you that it’s a gift. I heard things like that people who like going to confession must be the sppiritual equivalent of those who get up and declare that they just don’t “feel right” without running ten miles. Trust me. I feel just fine without running a single solitary step. In fact, I have decided that I do not need to get anywhere so quickly that I need to run to get there. Not even if there is a charging herd of water buffalo involved and I promise that I will never say to anyone under any circumstances that I just don’t feel right if I don’t run ten miles at the start of my day. Rolling over and getting more sleep is just fine by me. I felt much the same way about confession as I do about running. Gift? Blessing? Picture my eyeballs rolling way back in my head and getting stuck there. But once again that was an appalling lack of humility on my part and confession is indeed a gift. Recently after I posted “How to Make a Good Confession” and someone who reads this blog shared with me some of the blessings she has received in the confessional. I ask for permission to post it here and she agreed. If anyone else would like to share the way in which the confessional has been a blessing to them, I think your stories might help those on the journey towards Rome. Funny stories are good too….faith isn’t always serious. Send them to redneckwomandesigns [at] yahoo [dot] com and maybe we could put together some encouragement for others. Thank you ‘L’ for sharing this one!!
I have been thinking a lot about why I am so drawn to the sacrament of reconciliation. While it has been a wonderful, affirming experience each time, that’s never what I expect. I hang out my dirty laundry, but it feels like maybe Father doesn’t realize how horrible my sin is or doesn’t take it seriously. I mean, he’s supposed to represent God, right? And God hates sin, so he ought to at least be gruff about it.
A few weeks ago, I had something like confession with another minister. He was disappointed in me, sighed loudly at what he believed was disobedience, and basically did what he could to help me walk out of there feeling awful. I know that his intention was to motivate me toward further repentance, but what he mirrored was a god who preferred sacrifices rather than a contrite heart. I would never willingly go back there.
Which experience was the way confession is supposed to be? What is truly God’s heart, and what is the counterfeit? I know what we heard in RCIA, but it wasn’t yet anchored for me.
Yesterday morning, my small daughter was being very naughty, and she knew it. She was dumping water on the floor with a glass. So I asked her to hand me the glass. She did, but she was angry and half threw it at me, and it smashed all over the kitchen floor. So I sent up a quick prayer that I would be able to respond in love, even though she had been driving me crazy. It was obvious by the look on her face that she was shocked and sorry. So what did I do?
First, I told her to hold still, because she was barefoot. I walked over to pick her up and move her to a safe place. I snuggled her while I carried her, because she was sweet and sad and a little bit scared. Then I told her to go get some shoes on so that she could help clean up without getting hurt. We swept it all up and threw it into the trash together. We wrapped the pieces carefully in newspaper before tossing them, so that they wouldn’t hurt anyone who handled the trash bag later. When we were done, we went out to play.
And that was when I realized that my experience in sacramental confession was not some kind of fake; it was absolutely authentic. The counterfeit was what I anticipated in fear and misunderstanding.
Growing up, it was far wiser never to confess to anything, because the punishment was rarely related to the crime, and its severity could not be predicted, because it had more to do with my mother’s state of mind than what I actually did. Even total accidents could be harshly punished. My parents expressed their disgust freely, and even as an adult I know that they are deeply disappointed in me, my priorities, and the life I have chosen for myself. Past spiritual/religious experiences have been more about people making sure I follow the rules, rather than being in a relationship. That’s the baggage I take to the confessional; that’s the fake.
The reality is what happened between my daughter and me. Repentance is met only with love, not scolding, not groaning disappointment. I didn’t ignore the shards of glass or take them any less than seriously–not when I had to walk over them barefoot! She is my little girl; she knew she blew it, and our priority was to fix the damage together and keep it from hurting anyone else. There wasn’t anything to be gained by shaming her or making her feel worse. That wouldn’t motivate her to avoid smashing dishes (quite the contrary, actually!), but it would hurt our relationship and make it that much harder to be reconciled when she screwed up the next time.
Truly sacramental confession is about a Father and his little girl. She’s crying; she already feels awful. She doesn’t need to feel the weight of His disappointment or disgust, and in fact He isn’t disappointed or disgusted at all, because she is His little girl, and He knows that little girls blow it all the time. They do it less and less as they grow up, but that takes time and patient guidance. Willful disobedience is met with consequences, of course, but a little girl who bravely climbs into her Father’s lap and owns up to what she’s done is met with compassionate hugs and love, and then He gets down on the floor with her to help sweep up the mess and throw it away. Then they go out to play 
May God grant that I always mirror that kind of forgiveness, and may I never fail to be grateful when it is mirrored to me by others.
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