Note: On Tuesdays and some Sundays, you can find me at Your Daily Tripod, owned by my friend TonyD. A longer version of the post below appears there.
It’d been weighing on me for four and a half months, a sin of
impulse that had hurt no one but me. But I’d been without a spiritual director for going on three years, and it wasn’t something I wanted to plop on a priest I knew. Yes, I knew they’ve heard it all and generally forget everything they hear in the confessional (what a charism!), but I kept finding excuses. And so the sin took up more and more space in my head and my soul. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I didn’t know how to explain what I had done without a lot of context, back story, and, well, excuses.
Then I ended up at an out-of-town conference that offered confession from a bevy of priests, only one of whom had any idea who I was. I walked into a little room. The priest’s back was to me. And in that holy space, I managed to articulate my error in about a hundred words. His absolution and assignment of penance took only a few more words than that. One Our Father later, I was free.
And as I said that Our Father, I thought about how silly I’d been. I’d thought I needed words, a lot of words, a self-damning but beautifully told narrative to receive the Lord’s forgiveness. I didn’t need to explain; He already knew what I needed. All I had to do was ask.
