Confession by Mary Ellen Raab

For us Catholics of a certain age, the Sacrament of Confession had much more importance in our lives than it does for the current generation. I write this for the younger people who either have cleaner consciences than we did, or don’t see the value of Confession. We all had to go to Confession once a week on Saturdays. It wasn’t a mortal sin not to go, but it was required by our parents. Confession, supper, Saturday night bath. (Another memoir needs to be devoted to cleanliness, then and now.)

We learned in school that there were two kinds of sins – mortal and venial. Mortal sin meant that you must confess, be forgiven and do penance or your soul was condemned to eternal damnation in Hell. (Is it me, or were we told to capitalize Hell? If so, why not purgatory?) Venial, not so much. Die with venial sin on your soul, and you would have a stint in purgatory. That was like being benched or getting a time out before you were allowed into heaven. As a child, I understood it to mean that purgatory was very hot, but not real fire like Hell. If you were lucky, the living prayed for indulgences which, contrary to the meaning we have today, were not sweets or treats, but a shortening or commutation of the full sentence. These were earned by prayers which were assigned points. I forget how that worked. I just know you wouldn’t waste an indulgence on a soul in Hell. Also, when you were dealing with some crap in your life, you were told to “offer it up for the suffering souls in purgatory.”

The actual experience of penance was simple. You went to church where the priest sat in the confessional box – and that is what it was called – which had three private sections. His section was roomy, at least enough for a chair; a section on either side was for the penitent who had a kneeler and a small ledge on which to lean. The priest would alternately open a small sliding panel on one side where a mesh panel provided the sinner with privacy. The confession always began with the words, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been xx weeks since my last confession.” Then began the list of transgressions, followed by the priest gently asking a question or two, (unless it was the notorious Father Pescurik in St. Simon Stock,) or just saying something like, “Try not to do that again.” Next followed his recommended penance, usually some prayers which might take 5 more minutes in a pew, and the Act of Contrition. Done. Squeaky clean. Live to sin another day. Only not so fast. The forgiveness was only validated if you made the firm resolve never to commit those sins again. In other words, the forgiveness didn’t stick and those nasty little sins could mount up to something mighty and a long sentence in purgatory.

I have two memories from that era. One time, my brother Johnny was in the opposite section of the confessional and I could hear him telling the priest his sins. He completely omitted telling him how he wailed on me the night before and then lied to my mother about it. When the priest dismissed him and opened my panel, I told the priest that the person before me was my brother and he hadn’t been honest about his sins. I proceeded to tell him how badly Johnny had treated me. My motivation was pure – he would never be forgiven if he wasn’t honest and told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. For some reason, the priest laughed. It was lost on me how he couldn’t see the gravity of the situation.

The second memory is one from the summer between second and third grade. I had a book I had borrowed from my classroom library. At home, my sister who was about two at the time had desecrated the book with crayon marks all throughout the pages. I was certain I would be punished if I returned it in that condition, so I never brought it back. Somehow, Mother Anna never missed it and I never spoke up. But, like Poe’s Telltale Heart, that book scorned me every time I saw it. I wanted to throw it away but somehow that would be a worse sin. I finally tearfully told Fr. Considine in Confession of my dastardly crime. He said I was forgiven and as my penance, I had to return the book to him; he would take the book and return it to Mother Anna in September. I am sure it hit the garbage as soon as I walked out the rectory door. I have never felt so unburdened in my life.

Somewhere in the sixties the importance of Penance, which was now called the Sacrament of Reconciliation, started to fade. Long before that the practice of weekly confession had declined and Catholics might go once or twice a year. From 1969 to 1978, I taught in a Catholic School and had to instruct students in the sacraments. First penance was moved back from Grade 1 to 2 and didn’t precede First Communion. In all grades, the teachers taught a kinder, gentler version of the entire act of Reconciliation – a good thing. There was no talk at all in any of the grades about purgatory and Hell. The motivation of all the Sacraments was to become closer to God. My second-grade class was particularly intrigued by this sacrament, having had good or bad experiences with forgiveness from parents. They got it when I told them they had to sincerely want to do better. We never mentioned the word sin or punishment. There were things they had done wrong and we had lengthy discussions about taking responsibility for those actions, for asking forgiveness first from the people who were wronged and then from God. It was a much more wholesome experience. What was interesting is to see was how they had learned to rationalize bad behaviors, and I thought of all the politicians and actors who, when caught in some awful crime or act, have a million reasons why. They often don’t even confront the public themselves but use their publicist. In those days, I tread a fine line with my students, helping them to take ownership of the wrongs they did without causing them to feel they were bad children. I hope I accomplished that.

In spite of my efforts to soften the experience, one little guy went into the confessional and, must have been terrified. Within seconds, a yellow stream flowed from behind his curtain. Lots of “Yewwwws” were heard from his classmates. I forget how I handled that.

I don’t wish back the early days I experienced as a penitent but I do wish everyone could do what we used to call “an examination of conscience,” an admission of guilt, and the firm resolve never to do these actions again. We’d have less need for Prozac, psychologists and maybe even wars.