December 22, 2016 - Post-Confession

It has long been part of my spiritual discipline to make my confession, usually before the two great feasts of the Church Year, during Advent and Lent.  And today was such a day.  It is never easy to do this.  One might think that gathering up one's faults and sharing them with another priest would come easily after all these years.  It isn't! 

My first confession was as a boy of 16 at Church camp one summer in Kansas.  The Chaplain of the camp and the "Theme-Coordinator" were teaching us high school kids on the subject of  "The Five Minor Sacraments."  Some today would take issue with inflicting this sort of thing on unwitting adolescents, but for me it was a profound experience to be there.  The camaraderie among the kids was infectious and the leadership from all the staff, mostly priests, was excellent. 

The day for concentrating on the Sacrament of Penance, as it was then called (this was 1958 after all!), came with a "demonstration" of one priest making a mock confession to the Chaplain.  I recall that, during this time, someone in the back who couldn't hear yelled out "Can't year ya!"  That broke everyone up, but the seriousness of this was imprinted upon me in a way that has never really disappeared.  An impassioned meditation at Evensong that night also made a huge impression upon me: the priest who gave it talked about a young man who'd left home in a huff, and from the bus window he saw a handkerchief tied to a branch of a tree in his yard.  Apparently his mother had left this as a sign of her love for him, even though he'd chosen to run off.  The boy cried as he saw that handkerchief and was reminded of his Mom's love as well as the love of God.

There was a sign-up sheet for those of us who wanted to avail ourselves of this "Most Comfortable Sacrament," as it's been called, and I timorously signed up.  Without going into detail about what I said (remember I was a 16-year-old male!), and all my sweat in that hot place, it went well.  The Chaplain was a most compassionate man and reminded me at the end of our time to throw away the sheet on which I'd listed my faults.

I'd wondered what I'd do - or how I'd act - around that priest when I saw him again.  What would he think of me, spitting out all those "sins" as I knelt beside him as he sat in a chair with a purple stole around his neck?  He had told us that the priest never, ever talked about what was said "in the confessional" to the penitent or to anyone else.  That made the whole thing very safe in my estimation.

Now, fast-forward 58+ years later, and I went again, as I've gone many times before, to another priest to make my confession.  And, every time I go I tremble a bit, but I am so blessed to have a wonderful colleague as my confessor.  He is a wise, understanding man, a busy parish priest who makes time for those of us who want to avail ourselves of this sacrament.  It's obvious that he's heard many confessions.  In my own "career" I have not heard as many.  In fact, in my last parish where I was Rector before I retired, I heard no confessions whatsoever.  And this parish "billed" itself as Anglo-Catholic where such a thing would be expected!  In much "lower" parishes, I heard a few confessions and in one place more than one priest came to me for that sacrament.  That parish had developed something of a reputation as a church to which a priest could go for that purpose, assured that a priest there would be experienced and skilled.  It was a daunting, awesome task.

It is part of what priests do, I suspect fewer and fewer in the contemporary Episcopal Church, but I've often been surprised how many people do "go to confession" and often for the first time.  It is a safe place, as I said earlier, to open up one's soul.  It is making oneself vulnerable in the presence of another human being, being spiritually "stripped naked," as it were.  It is a time of transparency, candidness and truthfulness. I would have to say that the confessor has to muster up all the compassion he/she has to offer.  One has to listen closely, offer what counsel one can, pronounce the absolution provided in the Prayer Book formula, and send the penitent on his/her way. It is hoped that it will be a joyful and forgiven way.

Some priests I've gone to have said an old sentence that always moves me whenever I hear or see it: "May the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ make whatsoever good thou hast done, or evil thou hast endured, be unto thee for the forgiveness of sins, the increase of grace, and the reward of eternal life ... Go in peace, the Lord hath put away all thy sins, and pray for me, a sinner."  That part about "evil thou hast endured" always strikes me right between the eyes.  So many who come to us are in great spiritual pain, some have been abused in one way or another, and they lay themselves bare, heart and soul.  And we are there for them at that crucial time, to be a part of God's great grace and gift of forgiveness and healing and wholeness.  In our tradition, we've come up with a handy little slogan about this sacrament: "All can, some should, none must."  In our Anglican/Episcopal way, it is not required before receiving Communion and there is absolutely no coercion or expectation that people will go to a priest for confession.

It's been my "custom" after finishing my time as a penitent and after praying what the confessor has given me as a "penance" (not really that, but more of a reflection in the way of a Psalm or prayer or hymn), to stop off at a store and purchase a poinsettia (before Christmas) or a lily (before Easter) for our home.  It has become a way of celebrating the fact that my sins have been "put away" and the "slate is cleared."

But, today, a minor disaster occurred when I had to slam on the brakes on a busy freeway on my way home.  I heard some bottles (I'd bought some wine and beer for our family celebration in a few days' time) fall from the seat onto the poinsettia that I'd placed on the floor of my car.  I won't recount what I said just then, but I vowed never again to put anything on the seat - everything from now on would be on the floor!  Well, I was able to salvage a small part of the poinsettia but it looks like another version of Charlie Brown's infamous Christmas tree!

Now, just what, do you suppose, is the metaphor here?  That elated feeling of having re-connected with God in that wonderfully poignant time at confession being shattered by a minor disaster?  I could have had a car wreck and that surely would not have been a very nice Christmas gift.  So I was thankful for that not happening!  Or is there some sort of warning here: don't try to "celebrate" after a confession?  Perhaps God is saying, "Just be with it quietly and confidently!"  Or just maybe it was this: the shattered poinsettia is a symbol of the mess we can easily make of our lives and the need we all have to repent?