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A piece in USA Today got me thinking about my first confession. While the article was concerned about religions and nations admitting and atoning for past transgressions, it reminded me of the day I first blurted out my sins to Father Driscoll. It was two days before my First Communion and I was seven, a second-grader at Christ the King Catholic School in Minneapolis. Sister Teresa Martin prepared us for the two milestones with the precision for which nuns are famous. For the Sacrament of Communion, we practiced over and over. Lined up by height — boys on one side, girls on another — we marched up the center aisle, genuflected, and took our place in the assigned pew. At Sister’s cue, we stood and piously make our way to the altar rail where we knelt, tipped back our heads, and stuck out our tongues (“not too far”) pretending to receive the host from Father.
The drill for confession was easier. The afternoon before, we stood in line outside the confessional as Sister motioned us in turn to step inside and kneel down as though Father were on the other side waiting to hear our infractions. We memorized the Act of Contrition and in Religion class we had talked about the sins a seven-year-old might commit: sassing parents, fighting with siblings, telling a lie. Venial sins, minor compared to mortal sins like murder or robbing a store. Later that night, I awoke awash in anxiety. What if I forgot an offense and made a bad confession? Would that mean I couldn’t wear the pretty white dress and the veil my mother had made?
That night, I made a list to carry into the confessional. During practice, Sister had left the door open but for the real thing, we were to close the door behind us. As I knelt, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” on the tip of my tongue so I’d be ready when he slid the screen open, the cubicle got darker and darker. I couldn’t see my list of misdeeds. Before I could think, Father told me to go ahead. Afterwards, as I made my way to the altar railing to say my penance, I didn’t dare look at the list for fear I’d left out something. To be safe, I said an extra Hail Mary, Our Father, and Glory Be.
Even at 9 and 10, it was hard to remember how many times I sassed Mom or was mean to my little brother and sisters. “A lot” and “too much” weren’t good enough for the priests who wanted actual numbers. As a teenager, it got more complicated. How much kissing was still a venial sin? Was it a fall from grace to say I was going to the library to study if it was really to hold hands with a boy while we pretended to do homework?
All this thinking about sin made me curious about the Sacrament of Penance in the 21st century. Virginia at the Church of St. John Neumann in Eagan told me penitents wishing what is now called Reconciliation receive absolution in a light-filled room. “We no longer confess our sins in the dark,” she said. Years too late for this formerly angst-ridden school child but a good thing for Catholic youngsters of today.