Father Flog

I heard this term in someone's memoirs of a Catholic childhood, and now I know what it means. 

Today is Holy Saturday, and since R1 and R2 are in town, we had the afternoon off while they took Max.  J. and I dropped him off at noon, ran a few errands, had lunch out, took a blissful afternoon nap, and then went to confession.  It had been a looooooong time since I'd been - the last time was a year ago last December.  I'd missed mass a few times this last winter.  Sometimes in the heart of the snow season, I have real motivation problems on Sunday mornings.  I look out, see the gloom and the fresh snow, and it just wilts me.  Also, Max still can't sit through an entire mass (he'll make it through the readings and that's about it), so I invariably wind up in the basement with him, hearing only patches of what's going on through the low volume intercom and Max's running about.  I know I've mentioned this before, but our church has no nursery, no cry room, and no programming for preschoolers or toddlers.  Just the mass which, understandably, has limited appeal for a 3 year old.  He really can't even see much of what does go on because we sit in the back so we can make and easy break for the basement when he starts acting up.  On one occasion this winter, some strange woman made a point of telling us what a brat he was because he wasn't sitting stock still in the basement area.  "He should be upstairs," she railed at us.  J. and I looked at each other, shocked by her rudeness and unawareness.  Yeah, he should be upstairs disturbing everyone up there so she can have the basement to herself.  Wha?

I once asked advice from other [somewhat rabid] Catholic moms on a listserv about what I should do to keep Max still during mass.  They recommended I go to daily mass with him so that he get used to the format and get conditioned to behave appropriately.  Needless to say, I dismissed this suggestion.  I honestly can't see tearing my hair out every day so that I have to only pluck on Sundays.   Already I get little out of the service because Max is so distracting.  Admittedly, the purpose of going to mass isn't for what you get out of it.  You are there to worship.  But if you can't focus on worshipping because your child is simultaneously demonstrating his nose-picking and pew-dancing abilities to the worshippers behind you, not much is getting done.  

I know, I know: excuses, excuses.  

So I'd missed a couple of masses.  I felt guilty enough about that not to go to communion for the past several months.  I also felt bad about not going to confession.  I know you're supposed to go at least once a year and I was long overdue.  It was weighing on my conscience.  I wanted to be able to partake of the eucharist on Easter and thereafter.  We had the afternoon off; there was no reason not to go today.  

My plan was to go to Blessed Sacrament.  It's the closest, and it seems to be a fairly moderate parish.  Unfortunately, there was no one at Blessed Sacrament today.  I don't know if confession is cancelled by virtue of it being Holy Saturday with it's many services, but it wasn't being offered there.  Thinking perhaps this might be the case city-wide, I offered the suggestion to go to St. Isidore's, the ultra-Catholic parish just a little way down the road.  It was probably closed, so I wouldn't have to tremble too hard at the idea of confession there.  

It was open.  Confession was on, and there were plenty of parishioners taking part in the sacrament.  It took at least 40 minutes of waiting for us to get to the head of the line.  By this time I'd had plenty of time to remember how strict the priest is supposed to there.  "He really gives it to you there," H., my BIL in the seminary, had said happily the last time he'd been in town.  

The door to the confessional opened, and I approached with trepidation.   My fears were well founded. 

"Bless me father for I have sinned; it's been a long time since my last confession," I said.  

"How long?" the priest interrupted.  

"Since a year ago last December," I said.  "I have a hard time going to confession," I explained.  "I wasn't raised Catholic, you see."  I didn't mention that sometimes it occurs to me that my parents and sister who aren't Catholic never go to confession, and yet I don't for a moment believe they're mortal souls are in danger.  It seemed...mmm...unlikely that he would respond positively to this piece of heresy.  Also I couldn't seem to interrupt the flow of the mini-tirade he was already on about how this was a sacrament, and by not participating in the sacraments I was not living my faith.  Oh, and how once a year was the bare minimum requirement of the Church.  Really, the minimum should be once every three months or so when I should joyfully go and confess my sins.  

"I do want to try harder, Father," I said.   "I have a small son, and I'm trying to introduce him to the scriptures and the sacraments.  I know it's important to do more than the simple examination of conscience that's at the beginning of mass."  

"Yes, I should think so," he said and gave the topic another go-'round.  Finally, he indicated I should begin ennumerating my sins.   I was a bit hesitant to mention the masses I'd missed given the reaction I'd gotten about skipping confession.  But I plowed on.  I was there.  "I've missed a few masses in the past year.  Sometimes in the winter I get down and don't have the energy to get out very much."

"But you go to the store to get groceries, don't you?" he asked.  

"Well, yes, you have a point there," I said.  It seemed prudent to concede this.

"If you don't go to confession, and don't go to mass, you can't go to communion," he said.

"Well, I haven't gone to communion," I said, "since I first missed mass a few months ago."  I felt I deserved teeny tiny points for knowing that you can't go to communion if you miss mass and for following through on this.  Everyone goes to communion on Sundays, or at least it seems that way to me.  There is some pressure to go up and take it regardless of the state of your conscience.  

"This is a serious, mortal sin," he said.  "If you don't go to confession or mass or communion, you are not living your faith.  It doesn't matter what you're telling your child about your faith, if you're not living it.  He sees what you do and how you do it and learns more from that than from any words.  If you want to be on fire for Jesus, you need to be at mass to get that fire.  If you miss the sacraments, your faith will erode and you won't have anything to pass on to your child.  How can he learn if you are not teaching him?"  He continued for at least three minutes more along this vein.  I am not exaggerating this; I had time to discreetly push the Act of Contrition card back and forth along the confessional ledge and think about all of the people waiting outside.  Would they get a chance to get the the run-through like this or would time run out for them?  Then, when my spirits were fully crushed and I was fighting annoyance and defensiveness - I wanted to mention that out of the past 75 Sundays, I'd been to mass 71 or 72 of them and that I prayed with my son daily and that I was teaching him Bible stories and that I've done a fair good bit of reading myself on spiritual topics and the Bible in that same year - he told me to read three Psalms, and absolved me.  

"Have a Blessed Easter," he said. 

So, that's over.  I know some people respond well to this type of Dr. Laura treatment, but I can't number myself among them.  I suppose this is incentive enough to check those Blessed Sacrament reconciliation times more carefully next time.   

tags: confession