Confession

Friar Max had been sitting in his confessional for about two hours. It was a Saturday afternoon, during hours formally scheduled and offered for those parishioners who desired to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Many pious penitents, “the regulars,” as Friar Max called them, had come that day.

He heard many of the usual lists of “run-of-the-mill sins” spoken by the typical procession of penitents who frequented the sacrament. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” they would begin.

Some stuck to more rigid forms of confessing their sins: “I failed to say my night prayers three times; I was rude to my neighbor one time; I used the Lord’s name in vain six times; I had lustful thoughts four times; I missed Sunday Mass once.”

Others took a more casual approach: “I’m not always kind to my wife; I sometimes forget to pray for the needs of others; I wish I had more patience with my kids.”

Still others came with apparently little or no preparation, seemingly having made no examination of conscience before stepping into “the box”: “Father, I’m not sure I’ve done anything wrong, at least not that I can remember. Can you help me to think of things that might be sinful?”

It usually didn’t matter to Friar Max how anyone approached the confessional. “God knows what’s on your heart and certainly forgives you of all your sins, even those you don’t remember,” he would usually say to each penitent, no matter how the tone of the confession landed on his ears.

On that particular Saturday, he was feeling extraordinarily tired. His fatigue had caused the afternoon to feel like an extended period of long suffering, and at various moments he nearly dozed off while some, as if reading ledgers, rattled off lists of faults and failures on the other side of the screen.

I hope they didn’t notice when my head dropped a bit, he thought to himself.

But nonetheless, he believed himself to be, at least usually, a good confessor.

He firmly believed, and often said, “What’s most important in that space is that those who come leave feeling confident that they are forgiven and loved by God more than they can ever realize in this life.”

He was fairly certain, even if he was very exhausted with it all, that he could at least effectively share that sentiment with all who came.

The hour was getting late, and with a tinge of discontent, it seemed to him the line of those waiting for their turn to confess their sins was unending. An elderly woman came and spent several minutes complaining about the faults of her family, friends, and neighbors without mentioning any of her own shortcomings or failures. Even though he couldn’t see her face, he knew who she was. He had spoken to her countless times before, and so he listened with as much patience as he had and then proclaimed the words of absolution:

“God, the Father of mercies . . . and I absolve you of your sins, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

He heard the door close on her side of the confessional, and then for several minutes no one else came.

Finally, I can get out of here and perhaps treat myself to a hearty glass of Bourbon, he thought as he reached to turn off the lights.

But then he heard the door over there open and shut again. Someone else had arrived in the box.

Oh well, he thought with resignation, this is my job.

Friar Max waited for the familiar “Bless me, Father . . .” but he heard nothing. Nothing, but he knew someone was there. He heard the muffled sounds of someone’s movement, and their quiet but somewhat labored breathing, and he also sensed the penitent wasn’t kneeling in the usual place immediately beyond his side of the screen.

He resisted an urge to simply look directly through the screen to discover why.

He waited for a whole minute, a time which, although very short, seemed endless just then. He somehow instinctively knew this person was different from the usual penitent, but he had no idea what might happen next. Contemplating for a while what he should say, and with as much kindness as he could muster, he finally uttered, “Can I help you?”

Then, after another brief pause, from the darkness came a voice. It sounded like a frightened young man, but Friar Max couldn’t locate or even imagine exactly the spot from which he was speaking.

Was he still standing? Leaning against the wall on the other side? Unlike the “usual customer,” was he simply kneeling farther away, below the edge of the kneeler and on the floor?

“God . . . I’m so very sorry for everything,” whispered the man in a low, distant-sounding voice.

He continued, “You know, when I was a little kid, right here in this neighborhood, I remember being pretty happy. You know, I lived with my abuelita and my mom in a small apartment, but it was safe there, well, at least before my abuelita died. I had a little brother and sister, and I think we were pretty much happy together, at least when I was little. My Drina was the most wonderful person I ever knew. You know . . . she’s still there for me. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time to those days when I was a kid, before everything got so fucked up.”

There was another long pause. Friar Max thought he heard sniffling sounds, as if the young man were fighting tears.

“My mom was a good person, but sometimes she really got into some pretty deep shit, you know all her drinking and stuff. But I really loved her so much. I miss her so much.”

There was another long pause, and more sniffling.

“You know, my mom wasn’t so wise when it came to the guys she hooked up with.”

“Some of those guys were real assholes, but, I don’t know why, she never seemed to get it.”

Another pause, some more sniffling.

“You know, she went out with one of those guys for a long time, and he wound up living with us. I don’t even want to mention his name.”

“You know, that fuckin faggot fuckin raped me, my little brother and one of my best friends, right inside our house, and my stupid mother never knew. You know, we were just kids. How did all that happen to us? How?”

“You know, I have a hard time forgiving my mother for that, not to mention how much I hated the mother fucker, and still do, even though he got what he deserved and died from AIDS.”

Friar Max, while listening to the young man, began to feel an almost unbearable sorrow for him and for the things he had endured. He continued to listen quietly.

“God . . . why did my little brother have to die so young?” the young man sobbed.

This time, Friar Max distinctly heard the young man sobbing. The sounds were mournful, but still soft and controlled. Tears welled up in his own eyes.

“You know, Eddy was stabbed to death on the streets when he was just fifteen. You know, he got in with the wrong people, but maybe if I hadn’t started drinking a lot with him a couple of years before he was killed, he never would have ended up like that. I’ve felt like a lot of that was my fault.”

“When we were kids, he was such a sweet little brother. Some people thought we were twins, and now I miss him so much, even after all this time. I wish I could change all that, but I know I can’t. Why does life have to be so horrible sometimes?”

Another pause, some more quiet sobbing.

“God, why did my best friend Berto have to die so young too? That day we went swimming in the East River and he drowned, I’m the one who thought it was a good idea to get all that booze before we went. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”

The sobs became a bit louder, but they still seemed controlled. There were lots of sniffling noises, but Friar Max couldn’t think of a graceful way to inform him about the box of tissues he knew were on the windowsill over there. He didn’t want to say anything to him because by then he had no doubt his only role was just to listen, and listen without interruption.

After another long pause, more sniffling, and a lot of heavy, short breathing, the young man continued:

“I wish I could have done more for my mom before she died. Sure, she caused a lot of her own problems, but I wasn’t the son to her that I should have been. Maybe things would have been different if . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. The sobbing became louder but still seemed somewhat controlled.

“You know, I had a lot of my own issues by then, and because of the way I was living, I wasn’t much use to her, was I? You know, the liquor, the drugs, the loose living, all that.”

“And all that porno stuff, the gay whoring shit, and the things I did, and things that happened to me, just to make a few dollars, I’m so totally ashamed of myself. Why did I get into all that? I don’t even think I can ever forgive myself for all that crazy shit I’ve done. And I’m so sorry . . . so, so sorry.”

“And you know, I can’t stop drinking. I just can’t stop, and I know if I don’t stop it’s gonna stop me, but I can’t stop. And I’m so sorry.”

“God, please help me, please. Please help me. I’m so, so sorry.”

There was a very long pause, longer than any of the others, and the young man on the other side of the screen stopped talking. He didn’t say another word.

Both men sat in the confessional box, saying nothing for at least five, maybe even ten minutes.

Then, Friar Max broke his normal discipline and looked through the screen into the other side of the box. He was barely able to see the outline of the young man through the shadows of that space, but he could now see that he was, and apparently had been all along, sitting on the floor of the confessional, his face buried in both hands held tightly against it.

He then also clearly understood the young man had in fact never actually been speaking to him at all.

His entire confession had been a conversation with God himself. Max was just a coincidental bystander.

Finally, the young man stood, opened the door to the confessional, and without another word departed.

No formal absolution was given, nor really was it even necessary.

Friar Max sat there for a long time. No more penitents came to his confessional that day.

He slumped into his chair as he thought about the young man. He had no certain theological explanation for what had just happened, but he knew the anguished, yet truly genuine faith of the young man had moved him very deeply. He had no clear thoughts about how to process what had just happened, or the depths of the words the man had spoken. Tears filled his eyes and, gushing forth with great sadness, rolled down his face. This was a moment in his priesthood he would never forget, and one that would perhaps forever alter his understanding of sacramental confession.

When he finally turned off the lights in the box and reentered the vast space of the now nearly empty church, at a distance he saw a young man kneeling, head bowed low, at the altar rail before the altar beneath a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It was obvious the man’s body was shaking as he apparently sobbed with great sorrow.

Friar Max quickly exited the church, not because he desired to hurry back to the rectory for some needed repose, but because he wanted to respect the young man’s anonymity and give him that sacred space to himself.