Confession of a Confession Watcher

I went to the Reconciliation service my church held last night. Not a communal penance service, a Reconciliation service with individual confession of sins. Just a gathering of over a hundred or so who wanted to be free of the bondage of sin.

My church is truly lovely, huge but warm, grand but comfortable. Our pastor is also warm and very comfortable—although definitely not huge. He was joined by eight other priests and after some readings and devotional self-inventories we lined up to receive reconciliation, face to face.

Every Saturday confession is offered before Mass and I was surprised how well attended it was. I think Reconciliation/Confession is probably the most avoided Sacrament. Personally it makes me squirm and hash and re-hash all the way up to the time I sit down and say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” and then the relief washes over.

For there is nothing too terrible for Jesus to forgive. The Father removes our sins from us as far as the East is from the West. Nothing I have done is impossible for the Precious Blood of Jesus to remove—if only I ask it.

I’m one of those people who don’t always take their vitamins, don’t always do the healthy things—even the easy and simple ones. I don’t know, stubborn, I guess. And it flows over into my spiritual life. I should go to Confession more often for the way I feel after. But like a stubborn child I cling to the yucky stuff and turn away from healing and happiness…Sigh…

So anyway…before the service, after kneeling in prayer for a while it was hard for me not to notice the number of people present. The size of this parish never ceases to amaze me, the vibrant personalities and the cultural diversity represented are a reflection of God’s great love for the whole world, not just one shade of skin.

And after confessing and more prayer, I watched with sincere joy and affection the other penitents. There were so many middle-aged people like (gulp) me. There were many seniors and some were obviously active and healthy, but the ones who moved me to tears were the ones with canes and walkers, who slowly made their way to the priests. They paid a price to come to confess their sins. I am sure no one would have begrudged them missing this service, individual confession must be infinitely easier. But they came. And waited in line as did everyone else.

Then there were children, many teens. I liked seeing that. They were culturally relevant looking—hair and clothing of their generation, although the young ladies were covered, which was refreshing. There was a little boy, three perhaps, definitely not of Reconciliation age, but insistent to his daddy nonetheless that he was going to talk to Father, too. And he did. Plopped himself right in the chair and shook hands with Father and said his peace and moved maturely on. There goes a man of God.

There was also a father and daughter who caught my eye. Dad definitely wanted to speak with a priest. The young (maybe eight-ish young) lady did not. There was a quiet discussion. She sat and obviously was prepared to wait. Politely she was waiting too. And then there was a pause in the flow and there was an obvious opening with a certain priest. This young lady sighed, stood up and marched herself over and sat down. She was not smiling when she sat. But when she stood up the grin was ear to ear. What words passed between the priest and child I will never know, but the outcome was most obvious.

I’m pretty sure it was a similar reaction as mine.

~ by throughadarkglass on March 13, 2008.