Sin With Me

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been thirteen years since my last confession.” I don’t have to count the time. I remember exactly how long it’s been since I’ve knelt in a small, stuffy confessional booth and stared through a tightly woven wooden lattice at a shadowed figure beyond. I remember because it’s the last time I trusted God. The priest seated behind the screen murmurs, “The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” I make the sign of the cross over my chest, fold my sweaty hands together, and rest my elbows on the narrow ledge jutting from beneath the lattice. My heart pounds like I’ve been running a race. But it’s not a race that makes the blood roar through my veins. It’s that old familiar demon I’ve spent half a lifetime with. The one that’s carved its name deep into my heart. Shame. After a long, silent moment, the priest gently prompts, “Tell me your sins, my son.” “I . . .” My throat closes. I swallow, fighting the claustrophobia that always follows me into small spaces. I envy everyone who’s never felt this clawing, animal panic, this nauseating sense that all the walls are closing in. I feel trapped. Sick. On the verge of screaming. Through sheer force of will, I manage not to leap to my feet and bolt. I clear my throat and start again. “I’m guilty of everything. I don’t know where to start. Just . . . assume the worst.” The priest answers gently, “Try to think of one specific thing. Start with whatever is most bothering you today.” My grim laugh makes the priest tilt his head. I see him only in profile, the shadowed figure of a gray-haired man wearing black vestments. His posture indicates he’s listening. He’s interested. I wonder if he really thinks he can offer me absolution. I wonder what he’d say if I told him he can’t. “A sin I committed long ago still eats at me, Father. And today . . . something happened today that reminded me of it all over again.” “Have you confessed this sin to God?” “Yes.” His answer is swift. “If God forgives you, son, you must also forgive yourself. The sacrament of reconciliation washes us clean and renews us in Christ.” Washes us clean? Bullshit. If I were clean I wouldn’t be on my knees whispering my secrets to a stranger. I grit my teeth, draw a slow breath through my nose, and fight to keep my voice steady. “I don’t believe that.” I’m startled to hear the priest chuckle. “Then why are you here?” Uncomfortable, sweating, fending off a sudden sharp dizziness that makes the room tilt, I retort, “Old habits die hard.” The priest sagely nods. Though I can’t make out his features or expression, I get the sense that he approves of my honesty. I don’t need his approval. I need an unbiased ear who’s legally and morally obligated to keep his mouth shut. I need a guilt dumpster. And if a Catholic priest isn’t the perfect person for that, I don’t know who would be. “What is this sin you can’t forget?” When I remain silent, wrestling with the horror of saying the words out loud, the priest adds, “Some sins against other people can’t be undone, but instead of hating ourselves, we can view it as a learning experience and an incentive to do good in the future instead of evil.” An incentive to do good. My breathing hitches. I shift my weight, relieving the dull ache that’s begun to settle into my left knee. “So doing good can help . . .” “It can help you forgive yourself, even though God has already done so.” My ears buzz with a high-pitched sound, like a nest of wasps is hovering around my head. Forgiving myself isn’t something I’m capable of. There’s a reason shame and guilt exist. That reason is punishment. Sinners deserve punishment. It’s the one thing the Catholic Church and I wholeheartedly agree on. But his words have caught fire in my mind. Maybe the answer I’m seeking has nothing to do with me. Maybe it has to do with . . . Restitution. Hope rises inside my chest like a cresting wave. “Do I tell this person what I’ve done?” I blurt. Beyond the lattice, there’s a weighted pause. “Only if it would be good for him or her. Would your admission benefit them in any real, concrete way? Because if disclosure would cause more pain than good, you should bear the weight of your transgression alone. A confession to another person motivated solely by a selfish desire to make oneself feel better is, in itself, a sin.” My heart pounds. My hands shake. Water pools in my eyes, making my vision swim. I say hoarsely, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” The priest says, “Well, my son, until you know, hold your tongue and trust in God.” I can’t trust in God. He abandoned me years ago. But I can hold my tongue. I’ve been doing that since the last time I confessed. And until I find out if disclosure is the right way to go, I can do good.