The Confessional Booth

Growing up Roman Catholic had its distinct advantages. If you’ve never had to part a red velvet curtain, seat yourself in a small compartment, and sit quietly until you heard someone on the holy side of a confessional booth inquire about your private pursuits of the profane and then follow this up with a humble admission of guilt, well, then you’ve missed out on a great experience. Leaving a confessional booth after having been assigned some prayers by a priest is spiritually therapeutic! You go in dirty, and come out clean. It’s that simple. Catholics have one major up on Protestants in this practice. Being shrived of your sins by a whispering priest veiled behind a mysterious mesh screen is tantamount to taking a hot shower after having rolled around in a juicy mud fight for a few hours. (Oh and of course there are lurid stories circulating of inquisitive priests and confessing young ladies enough to fill volumes but no different than the sexual escapades on the opposite side of the theologically polarized fence. Need I mention the likes of Jimmy Swaggart? Enough said.) Sometimes I think we used to make up stuff simply because we had to say something and so we might as well make it good. But I do I remember standing in line at St. Athanasius Church waiting my turn to plead guilty for having ripped off some of my sister’s Bazooka gum and to confess that when I did the dishes the night before I never used any Palmolive soap but just rinsed. I didn’t want to be late for Gilligan’s Island.