MY FIRST CATHOLIC CHURCH CONFESSION

THE AUTHOR’S FIRST CONFESSION from “THE SHADOW IN THE COURTHOUSE: MEMOIR OF THE 1940’s WRITTEN AS A NOVEL” (2003) –

James R. Fisher, Jr.

© June 21, 2020

Sister Mary Martina prepared me well. I knew my lines. "Bless me Father for I have sinned. This is my first Holy Confession. I am sorry for these and all my sins."

I was not quite seven and sin was a vague construction. I knew it was terrible. Sister said so. I knew I could spend eternity in Hell for my sins. Father Sunbrueller said so. Hell was scary. At Sunday Mass Father made my ears hurt shouting how I could burn forever in Hell with mortal sin on my soul. I wasn't sure what mortal sin was. Nor did I know what this thing called soul was. Sister explained sin but must have assumed I knew about soul. Venial sin is not as bad as mortal sin that much I knew, but this didn't make things any clearer.

With confusion, I was off to confession standing in line with other first graders waiting my turn. I looked about the church, all those haunting statues on the pillars, Blessed Virgin Mary on the left, Saint Joseph on the right, Saint Michael the Archangel on the main altar with his legion of angels looking down on Jesus on the Cross, and below that the Sacred Host in the golden monstrance in the tabernacle. Candles flickered at the side altars. A red light flickered in a glass near the main altar. Sister said this informs the visitor that Jesus is present in the Blessed Sacrament. I was taught to genuflect and make the sign of the cross when the red light flickers on the main altar.

My eyes move about the church taking in the Stations of the Cross. Each shows Jesus as he moved through his final agony and death. He looks so beautiful, yet so much in pain. I like to come here when the church is empty and study the Stations of the Cross. I don't know the Stations. I just know that I feel safe here looking at them. When I pause to study the face of Jesus at the various stations I don't feel alone. I feel He understands my confusion. Finally, I am next. The confessional is foreboding. It looks like a cage. The wood is dark and contorted into haunting patterns around sculptured doors. The priest's box is in the middle of the confessional with an embroidered door with the letters THS at the top. I have no idea what the letters mean, but I wonder nonetheless. Confessionals are on either side of the priest's box. Wooden lattice screens separate the priest from confessors on either side. The priest sits but we confessors have to kneel on hard kneelers. Sister showed us all this last week so that we wouldn't be afraid. I am still afraid anyway. The wood has a sickening smell, like sweet perfume, which makes me gag. I wonder why it smells so terrible.

The confessor's door opens and my cousin, Francis Martin Dean, comes out with a big grin. Perhaps it isn't all that bad. I enter. I hear the hum of Father in stern voice as he hears the confession of a girl on the other side. I strain to hear what she says, but I can't make out her words. Then I hear Father mumbling some in Latin, then saying, "Say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for your First Holy Penance. Now make a good Act of Contrition." The girl responds in a high pitch muffled voice as Father continues to mumble in Latin. Then bang, bang! Abruptly, her shutter is slammed closed, and mine is opened. The bang-bang throws a shock wave through me. Sweating, tense, I smell Father's cologne, his tobacco breathe, and think of my da. I can see Father vaguely through the wooden lattice. I think of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow on the radio, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows."  The Shadow's eerie laugh trailing. I am terrified. Suffocating. I want to leave, but my legs won't move. Father is mumbling again in Latin. I wait. My lips tremble.

"Come, come, my child," he nearly shouts. I put my hands over my eyes as if fending off a blow.

"Well!" he continues. "We don't have all day!"

Finally, after taking a deep breath, then I begin in a stutter. "Blessss meee, blesss meee, bless me Father, forrr, forrr, forrr I have sinned." I stop. My voice abandons me. I can't speak. If I could, I don't know what I'd say.

"Pleasssse," he says in a solicitous manner. I know that "please."

My da says please that way when he is angry. I am afraid of my da. Still, I can say nothing.

"Well, in that case, you answer me," Father says peevishly. "Have you lied?"

"Lied?"

"Yes, my dear child, have you lied? Have you not always told the truth? You do know what telling the truth is don't you?" I don't answer. He continues.  "Do you lie to your mother? Father?"

"Sommmmetimmes."

"How many times?"

"How many times?"

“Yes, my dear child, five, ten, fifteen times, how many?"

"I don't knowwww, Father."

"You don't know?"

"N0000, Father."

I can hear him breathing. My da breathes that way, especially when he is about to explode. Father resumes more evenly.

"Have you disobeyed your parents?" he says emphasizing each syllable as if I am slow witted. I tremble but I am angry, too. My lips move but no sound comes out.

"My dear child, I am losing my patience. Do you know that?" He takes another deep breath. "Again, have you disobeyed your parents?"

"Illll donn't knnnow, Father."

"Have you had bad thoughts?"

"Illll donn't knnnow, Father."

"Have you said bad words?"

"Illll donn't knnnow, Father."

"Have you done bad things?"

"Baddd things, Father?"

"Yes, bad things."

IIII donn't knnnow, Father."

"Have you pulled your sister's hair? Hit your little brother?"

He knows who I am! He's not supposed to. Sister said that the confessional is sacred, private, between God and me. Father has the power to forgive my sins. But is he supposed to know me? Can he see me? I feel ill. Will he tell my da? Near panic, I manage, "Yessss, Father."

"Have you touched your sister?"

Toucchhhed my sister, Father? Touccchhhed heerrrr where, Father?"

"On her private parts."

"Prrrrivvvate pppartts?"

"Parts of her body covered with her clothing. You do understand the question?"

"Nnnn000, Father."

"No, you don't understand the question, or no you don't touch your sister where you shouldn't touch her?"

"Bbbb000tttth, Father."

"No, to both?"

"Yeessss, Father, IIIIII, whhhyy wouuulld I dooo that?"

A terrible thought races through my head. I am in trouble. Oh, am I ever in trouble! Have I lied? To a priest? What am I to do? I help my mother change my cousin's baby diapers when she takes care of her, and gives her a bath in the kitchen sink. She is six months old. Did I ever touch her ... there? Did I do wrong?

"My child, pleassse," he says, ignoring my growing distress. "Have you stolen anything?"

"Noooo, Father."

Why would I do that? I don't understand the question. Why is he tormenting me? Why is he so mad? I can hear it in his voice, like I can in my mommy's voice when she is disappointed in me.

"A pencil, someone's milk money, something that doesn't belong to you." His German accent is now much more pronounced. Next he will be speaking in German like at Sunday Mass when he explodes into rapturous Germanic rage.

IIII dddonn't kkknnow, Father."

"You don't know? You don't know if you stole an eraser, a pencil, lunch money? You don't know? Or you don't want to confess?"

"NNNNoooo, Father, yyyyouuu'rree confusing me."

"I'm confusing you? I'm confusing you?"

My head hurts. I am angry, confused. I start to cry. My sobs grow louder. He ignores them.

"For heaven's sakes child," he says in a more soothing voice. "Let's say you steal but don't remember. Is that possible?"

I can't stop crying. The harder I try to stop the more the tears flow. I am sobbing now loudly. I pound my fists into my thighs.

"My dear child that is enough! Do you hear me? Enough!"

His voice rises like it does at Sunday Mass. I put my hands over my ears, and say mechanically,

"Yesssss, Father." I am still hiccupping and sobbing.

"Now that is quite enough! Do you understand?"

"Yesssss, Father."

"You have made a bad confession."

"Yesssss, Father."

"A very bad confession."

"Yesssss, Father."

"The worst first confession in all my years as a priest. Do you understand what I am saying, my child?"

"Yessss, Father."

"You are a disgrace to your parents, to Sister Mary ..." He starts to say her name, and decides otherwise.

"Yesssss, Father."

A seemingly interminable pause follows. I fidget. I can hear his breathing. Smell him. It is a bad smell. "Do your parents say the Rosary?"

"Nooooo, Father, IIIII mmmmean mmmy mmmommmy does.”  My da never went to Mass, but my brother and sister did with our mother every Sunday.

"Have your mother teach you the Rosary."

"Yesssss, Father."

"The Sorrowful Mysteries. Can you remember that, the Sorrowful Mysteries?"

"Yesssss, Father."

"Say the complete Sorrowful Mysteries with your mother, and now make a good Act of Contrition."

Yesssss, Father."

I wait.

"Now! I mean now!" he hisses through his teeth.

And so I began, "0 my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who ..."

When I leave the confessional with my head down, I can hear my classmates in line sniggering. I know that no matter how long I live I will never forget this moment. And I will never forgive this priest. The rest of the day was a fog. I couldn't wait to rush home and glue myself to the radio to listen to The Shadow, Terry and the Pirates, Jack Armstrong the All-American Boy, and Superman. My da was more comfortable with me so indulged than in reading my classic comics. I wouldn’t tell him I couldn't wait to read the real classics, which mother told me were beyond me now.

My da was a non-reader, and would only shake his head. Yet, every Friday he would trek off to the Lyons Public Library at Main Avenue and Roosevelt Street to bring back an armload of books for her, picking the books out he said by the color of the cover. My mother didn't care what he brought home. She would read them all, and he would return them the following week, bringing back another armload home. Mother would sit in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a beautiful smile on her face, as she read.

This is the image of her frozen in my memory as we bounced through the door after school. She would have milk and cookies out for us. Patsy and Jackie would go out to play, and I would go into the parlor, turn on the radio and listen to my radio adventures. My mother was hard of hearing and the radio never bothered her. Later, if my da wasn’t home, she would stop reading and tell me about the current book she was reading. "One day, Jimmy, you will be writing better stories than these. You are a handsome boy but have a more beautiful mind. It is that mind that we must not ignore."

I would ask her when I could read books like hers. "Soon," she would say, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, before lighting it with another. "I fear only too soon. You hardly look like a little boy anymore." My reverie was broken as my dying father concluded his assessment of me, most of which I failed to hear. "It is for that reason I am more worried about you than your brother and sisters. Now, go and let me get some rest."

Where was Bobby Witt when I needed him? I suppose he was light years away crafting his own life. Bobby always knew I wanted to write.

Were he around now, he would say, "Rube, you are a thinker who could never hit a curve ball. Your dad is talking curve balls. That's all. He has scouted your weakness and is now reminding you of it. He sees people throwing curves and you striking out again and again. He's got a point. If you want to make the majors, you have to learn how to hit the curve ball.

“Readers are your curve ball. That's the curve ball your dad sees you missing. You love big words, big ideas. People don't. People want to be entertained, to forget, not be reminded. Not sure you understand that.

“Anyway, what I do know is you've got to cut down your swing, speed up your bat, not sit on your back leg, and bail out on the curve. Rube, you don't get it. Readers want to escape thinking. They want to feel smart without being smart. Big thoughts will tank you every time."

St. Patrick's Catholic Church, Rectory & School, Clinton, Iowa