In preparation for World Youth Day, the Vatican brought in 150 priests to hear confessions.
The Wall Street Journal
I got my number this morning–137–not bad at all. It’s got three prime numbers in it, and a 3 (Holy Trinity) and a 7 (Seven Virtues, Seven Deadly Sins), plus there’s both a third and a seventh commandment. I know I’m not supposed to believe in non-sacred superstitions like Ouija Boards, but having hit a Catholic theology jackpot like that, well you’ll forgive me if there’s a spring in my step and I wear my galero at a rakish angle this morning.
Galero (not shown actual size)
Still, I know I’m just one of 150, like barbers in a shopping mall: 5 chairs, no waiting. I’m here to mass-produce cleansed souls, and mass-forgive venial, mortal and cardinal sins. Nobody’s going to care who does the job as long as it gets done.
“I can’t HEAR you!”
Our penitents are all teens here for World Youth Day, so I’m expecting the usual laundry list of adolescent sins: I committed self-abuse (i.e., wacked off) five times, I had impure thoughts 50 times a day, etc. For the girls, the offenses are slightly different. I idolized my favorite singer/movie star more than I venerated one or more members of the Holy Trinity, I was disrespectful to my parents/teachers. Mild stuff, misdemeanors to the boys’ felonies. Still, they get me . . . uh . . . turning my eyes heavenward, asking forgiveness for my perhaps excessive contemplation of young people’s thoughts, words and deeds. I ask the Lord to give me strength to separate the wheat of confession from the chaff of burgeoning youth sexuality but–like St. Augustine–not just yet.
“You did WHAT?”
My first customer enters the confessional, kneels down, and begins the spiel handed down from centuries ago when the One True Church was a big deal, and not like at present, a membership organization that trails the American Automobile Association, the AARP, and even Days Inn Rewards Club in terms of members.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned, my last confession was . . . uh . . .”
“Ballpark it kid, we got several thousand youths like you to get through today.”
“It was like February.”
“And this is November, so . . .”
I can hear the kid struggling. I can see him through the screen doing that thing with his knuckles.
” . . . June, July”–I can see that math skills have suffered now that every bleeping K-12 teacher in America thinks it’s her constitutional right to discuss her sexuality with your kids.
“Let’s call it seven.”
“Okay. Uh, nothing to report on the First Commandment.”
“How about the second?”
“Which one is that?”
“Taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I prefer to say ‘fuck you’ instead of ‘God damn.'”
“Okay, that’s under the Sixth Commandment. Keep going. Did you keep the sabbath holy?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you go to church on Sunday.”
“Not if I can help it.”
I do some quick math in my head. “Four times seven is twenty-eight. Did you go at all?”
“More than a coupla times.”
“Okay, so I’ll put you down for fourteen violations. That’s an Our Father each, so you may want to take advantage of our new Saturday Night Special.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve got a great line-up for you folks tonight, so let the Good News of the Gospel roll!”
“You can now go to Sunday mass on Saturday night!”
“Uh, I usually do my best sinning then.”
“Okay. Honor thy Father and Mother is next.”
“I’m a teenager.”
“I’ll put you down for a dozen. Thou shalt not kill.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Good call. Okay, next is the Big One.”
“You can get bigger than killing people?”
Abraham, about to kill Isaac: “Oh, sure, it’s fine when you tell me to do it.”
“In the eyes of Mother Church, yes. The Sixth Commandment–‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,'” I begin in my quasi-judicial mode, “has been broadly interpreted to cover a multitude of lesser sins.”
“Like?”
“Playing with yourself. Thinking impure thoughts.”
“I’m way beyond that,” the kid says, smoothly shifting from scheming humility to youthful braggadocio without skipping a beat.
“Would you like to . . . tell me about them?”
The kid recoils a bit. “In detail?”
“Well, we have a strict set of sentencing guidelines. I have to know what to charge you with.”
“Well, I . . . snuck my hand around Pam Griswold’s shoulder while we were watching the Barbie movie . . .”
“And?”
“I acted like I was squeezing her shoulder . . .”
“To show her how much you cared–right?”
“Exactly. Then my hand sorta slipped.”
“Intentionally?”
“What difference does it make?”
“With intent, it’s a mortal sin. Accidentally, it’s not even a sin as long as you said ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry!’ immediately.”
“Is there a middle ground?”
“If you intended to grab her boob for medical reasons only, I can let you off with a Hail Mary.”
Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Here’s to His Holiness: Fake Stories About Real Popes.”