I confess – I really dislike confession!

I like making long-distance drives. I find them relaxing. The road allows me to forget the daily stresses, leaving my mind free to explore more important things such as faith, family, and how much longer before the New York Yankees win another American League pennant. And every once in a while, a good idea or two may bubble to the top.

There was no room for bubbling ideas, the Yankees, or much of anything else during a drive from Syracuse to Buffalo in October 2001. My wife and daughter were on a last-minute flight from Florida so they could say goodbye to my father. I was hoping and praying he would hang on long enough for them to see him one last time. It was not to be.

I got the call about an hour into the trip. My mom was stoic. I told her how sorry I was, and that I would get home as soon as possible. I remember being a bit surprised at how well I took the news, almost like a business transaction, already thinking about funeral plans that needed to be made. 

A few minutes later, just outside of Rochester, I took a deep breath and called the rectory at St. Joseph’s in Jacksonville, my home parish. It was Saturday, and I wanted to get my dad on the prayer list for the weekend Masses. 

Knowing the office would be closed, I planned to leave a message at the beep. But when I opened my mouth to actually say that my father had died, no words came out. After about two seconds of silence, the only sounds I could manage were sobs.  

I can’t say I was surprised. The tears only confirmed what I already knew. A concept doesn’t become reality until you actually say it. Saying things makes them real. Trying to give voice to my father’s death acknowledged that he was really gone. 

Yes, this is where I finally transition to confession. This whole long set-up was, in part, a delaying tactic to avoid this unpleasant topic. You see, I don’t like going to confession. I don’t even like thinking about going to confession. It forces me to acknowledge that, no matter how hard I try, my human nature prevents me from being the person I want to be. 

Pope John Paul II’s absolution of Ali Mahmet Agca, the man
who tried to kill him, remains a profound example of God’s
grace and forgiveness.

Yes, I know it’s been called the sacrament of reconciliation for decades now, to emphasize the renewed relationship with God. But the process still starts with having to admit failure, and no one likes to do that. It may be a lot easier to confess our sins straight to God in silent prayer, but that deprives us from comprehending the full force and context of our failures. By actually confessing our sins to a priest, saying the words to God’s surrogate, we can fully comprehend the scope and impact of our transgressions and be forgiven. And absolution opens the door to the fullness of God’s grace.

I've recently started going to confession... uh, reconciliation... more often than my usual once or twice a year. Actually, it’s been a pretty positive experience. The sacrament of reconciliation leaves behind a feeling or newness – much like the first day of spring, when the air smells just a bit fresher and the birds sound just a bit brighter. It also renews our strength to fight our own particular weaknesses that are products of our human nature – also known as “original sin.”

I still don’t “like” going to confession, but I’m now able to view it a bit differently. In the “two-steps-forward, one-step-back” progression of my faith journey, the reconciliation component of going to confession makes it easier to take those two steps forward, and keeps those backwards steps a little bit smaller. I’ll probably never get as far as God wants, but confession... uh, reconciliation... gives me the grace to keep me going in the right direction. 

A Belated Elementary School Lesson

The second grade teacher walked into our sixth grade classroom, interrupting our teacher's lesson by announcing, “Someone in here did something very special today, something very caring.”

This was unusual, I thought, as I looked around to see who it might be. When I turned back to the teacher, I was shocked to see she was pointing directly at me. It took a quarter of a century to understand she was pointing to the most oblivious, least-caring person in the room. 

Webster School was our public K-6 school in our blue-collar neighborhood of Syracuse. More than half of us were grandchildren of Italian immigrants, with factory-working fathers and stay-at-home mothers. All but a few were Catholic – let out of school early every Wednesday and bused to church for religion class. Sixth grade was our “senior year.” Our next stop was the big, bad, scary junior high school. We took advantage of our status by making sure the younger students knew who was boss, while at the same time being somewhat paternalistic toward the littlest kids.

Webster School (Syracuse, NY) Class of 1968 – a bunch of
“neighborhood  kids” with a lot of growing up ahead of us.

That particular day, while running an errand, the fire alarm rang. I was in the K-2 hall and my “Mr. Big Shot mode” kicked in. I headed toward the exit so I could hold the door open for the youngsters. They walked exactly as instructed – single file, out the door and down the steps to their assigned spot on the sidewalk. And then “Shelly” arrived in the doorway. 

I knew Shelly and I liked her. She was one of my sister’s second grade classmates, a shy, tiny little wisp of a thing with a coy smile she tried to keep hidden. Shelly appeared to be the type of child who would have preferred to go unnoticed. For her, however, that was made impossible by the heavy braces on her legs. 

Now, under pressure to move quickly, Shelly stood frozen in the doorway. The other children were backing up in the corridor, causing the fire drill to grind to a halt. Still, I saw it as nothing more than a problem that needed fixing. There was no one else around to fix it, so I picked Shelly up, carried her down the steps, and put her down by her classmates. No big deal. Problem solved. 

As an adult, solving problems became part of my identity. As a television news producer, I solved problems. And at home, like most spouses and parents, I spent a lot of time “fixing things.”

I have always believed God grants us insight and knowledge only when we are ready for it. I believe this is what happened some 30 years ago, the last time I stumbled upon that class picture. I recalled the fire drill then, too. But this time, my mind’s eye focused on Shelly's face. 

What I saw shook me deeply. I saw confusion and vulnerability. I saw helplessness and fear. I no longer saw a “problem.” Instead, I saw a human being. 

I saw those emotions on her face originally. They just never registered. Back then, Shelly was simply the cause of a problem, not a living, breathing, feeling human being. Not a sweet, frightened, helpless little girl.

I stared at the picture, transported to 1968, horrified and ashamed of my heartlessness. Sure, I could easily attribute it to the immaturity of an 11-year-old. But I knew better. I had not changed much in the intervening years. As a news producer, for example, I valued the staff for the quality of their work, not as individuals. I was saddened by the thought of how many people I dismissed as mere units of productivity, and how many of them I probably hurt.

So many years later, it can still be a challenge to look past categories of people to see individuals. I see full classrooms of students every day, yet I am still sometimes startled when one ends up breaking down in my office from a personal or family crisis.

And what about others whom I see, some only in news reports? Do I view the unemployed with scorn, or do I remember the feelings of shame and worthlessness when I was “between opportunities?” Do I see the same humanity in immigrants and refugees as I saw in my own immigrant grandparents when I was a child? Or are they just a mass group of people taxing our nation’s resources?

Shelly still lives in the Syracuse area. She married, works for a large grocery chain, is a devoted mother to a newlywed daughter and is a fan of the Syracuse Orange and Buffalo Bills. I also hope Shelly has a forgiving heart for a “Mr. Big Shot” who’s still trying to see people as individuals, not as problems.