During the homily at Sunday’s Mass and after mentioning the first Sunday of Advent as the beginning of a new liturgical year, the priest made a point of discussing our purpose, the purpose for which every human being was created. He said that everyone taught by nuns would know this by heart.
Except, I went to public school. There were no nuns.
The priest reiterated that purpose (to glorify God) and went on to speak to the many distractions thwarting that purpose. Those distractions range from “drunkenness and carousing” (from the Gospel reading) to the “anxieties of everyday life.” In other words, sin. Big sins. Little sins. We’re all sinners, he said.
I can’t disagreed. I don’t know anyone who’s perfect. In fact, this is emphasized with the Confiteor at every Mass:
I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned through my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault; therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and Saints, and you, my brothers and sister, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
That point led to another, the obligation of confession. In the Roman Catholic Church, that obligation is the sacrament of reconciliation and all Catholics are supposed to confess at least once a year.
That’s one of the many ways in which I fall short of my divine purpose as a human being.
When I was a child, my mother ensured my brothers and I went to confession every three months. I hated it. I objected to going, not that my objections did me any good. I even went so far as to speak with candor: “I’m not sorry for what I did.”
“Do you think you’re perfect then?” came the horrified response from my mother.
No, I never thought I was perfect. Sure, I sinned the small, venial sins children often commit, but I didn’t like telling the priest a lie, especially within the holy environs of the church. But I was given no option not to go to confession, so I manufactured guilty feelings and confessed: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …
As a child, I didn’t think that going to confession to lie about feeling remorse for my sins was the right and good thing to do.
I still don’t.
I no longer waste time manufacturing feelings of self-reproach regardless of how guilty I might be. When I do err (i.e., sin) and I am sorry for that sin, I apologize. That apology is sincere, not manufactured.
I still don’t think that going to confession to lie about feeling remorse for my sins is a good thing. Maybe I’ll get lucky and a priest will read this and get back to me. I’d be interested in whether my admittedly weird sense of fair play or honesty is even close to being on-target.
It seems to me that bearing false witness (i.e., lying) in the confessional about feeling remorse for whatever I’ve done is worse than not going to confession at all. Why should God forgive me my sins when I can’t drum up any contrition? The Act of Contrition is a standard part of the sacrament of reconciliation:
My God,
I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.
In choosing to do wrong
and failing to do good,
I have sinned against you
whom I should love above all things.
I firmly intend, with your help,
to do penance,
to sin no more,
and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.
Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us.
In his name, my God, have mercy.
When I err—and I often do because I’m not perfect—it doesn’t necessarily follow that I go on my merry way and leave destruction in my wake. If I feel remorse, then I apologize and the apology is sincere. Sometimes I don’t; sometimes I’m not sorry for what I did. Should I lie about it?
Am I holier than thou? Certainly not. I’m a flawed individual. I can be cruel without realizing it; sometimes, I’m deliberately cruel. I get distracted. My undisciplined mind wanders, leading to thoughts and desires and urges that many would consider petty if not outright depraved or evil. But I’ve always been taught that actions speak louder than words, especially when it comes to being a good person. I might fantasize about doing somebody wrong, but I don’t actually do it. I know some sneaky ways to kill people—now there’s an interesting conversation!—but I don’t act upon that knowledge.
Is that sinful? Is the imagining of harming someone who hurt me as sinful as it would be do actually follow through with the deed?
Some would say it is. I say it’s human to want tit for tat, to desire an eye for an eye. (That comes from Hammurabi’s Code, by the way.)
Am I a good person? I try to be. That doesn’t mean I am or that I believe in my moral superiority over others. There’s no pretension to perfection here, only a striving toward professional excellence and personal integrity. I don’t always achieve that goal, but does anybody?
Regardless, I haven’t been to confession in at least a couple of decades.
I won’t lie to the priest that I feel remorse when I don’t … assuming I could even remember the list of my sins. Perhaps that will count against me on Judgment Day.
Advent is a season of joyful anticipation. It’s also a season of reflection.
Where do your thoughts take you?