DP Tool Club 26/CD_ASCQ_26_1295.iso/vrac/df9511g.zip/2R

Text File | 1995-11-01 | 24KB | 533 lines

 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 FOR I AM SINNING
   by Randy Attwood
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   "Read that and then tell me you still want to be a Catholic,"
 Fred said and slapped a book called 1984 on my desk one morning
 in our high school world history class. The rest of the day I kept
 the paperback hidden in front of my high school world history,
 trigonometry, American history, psychology, and English textbooks,
 aware that I was reading dynamite.

   "So that's it," I said to myself at 2 a.m. at home in bed when
 I shut the book. "Power."

   The reason for the Holy Roman Catholic Church was simple --
 pure, raw power. It had nothing to do with saving souls or
 Christ's lineage. George Orwell had seen the true light. He was
 not describing some socialistic world to come. He had described
 what was and is: the Church's psychological and material hold over
 men for centuries past, for centuries to come.

   All my life I had been reared and trained and lulled by the
 simple emotional weight of the church. The incense, the glittering
 chalices, the gold-threaded robes, the intricate dance steps, the
 words of mass -- they were all nothing more than plastic push
 buttons. I was the robot.

   True, these last few years, simply uninterested, I had been
 wanting to slip out of the Church quietly, like leaving a boring
 party early without hurting the host's feelings. Now I wanted to
 bang the door on my way out.

   Fred counseled stealth.

   "We can't attack the church by standing outside yelling at it.
 We've got to stay in as spies, provocateurs, guerrilla fighters,"
 Fred said that Friday night, late, his parents gone to bed. We
 munched on hamburger buns toasted and smeared with butter and
 garlic salt and swilled Cokes.

   "What a beautiful scheme the Church has. First of all, what
 better way to gain power than to claim that you are not the power,
 but merely an agent for the unseen power, God, a totally unprovable
 thing, which you say is all-powerful, acting through you. Hideously
 simple."

   The color of the Coke reminded me of the dark wood of the pews
 and the smell of varnish in the hot summer and the sun on the pale
 yellow stucco of the Spanish mission style church where we had gone
 to grade school.

   An ancient retired monsignor used to sit in the afternoon
 shadow under the arcade around the small courtyard that separated
 the school from the church. The autumn shadow would cut sharply
 across his chest so that his head, protected in a skullcap,
 meditated in the shadow, while his hands, folded on his robed lap,
 trembled under the sun. I used to look with awe at his trembling
 hands, caused, I thought, by his close contact with God.

   "And look how they gain obedience," Fred was saying. "A
 simple postponed pain-pleasure scheme. If we are obedient, then
 the pleasure is heaven. If not, then pain in hell. But both only
 after death so you can never prove or disprove it, but only have
 guilt and fear heaped on your head now."

   Fred's eyes glowed in the fire, a glow I knew well. He was on
 the trail of the truth and I was his sidekick, fascinated by what
 he would discover at the next turn in the mental trail.

   "Look at the Church's expansion program. You send a group of
 monks with no money to a poor village. Set them to beg money to
 live on and build a church. Reinforce the people's superstition
 and develop another pocket of power. All without any capital
 outlay!"

   "Did you ever wonder," I put in, wanting to be part of this
 exploration. "Remember when they used to ask us to pray for the
 most forgotten soul in purgatory? What if there were two souls
 equally forgotten? Would your prayer be split in two? Those souls
 need those prayers to get out of purgatory but what if there are
 a million a billion equally forgotten souls in purgatory. Would
 the credit of your prayer be shattered into millions of puny
 parts?"

   "And infallibility," Fred went on, not interested in silly
 spiritual mathematics. "Of course," he squeezed the bridge of
 his thin nose. "You say you interpret what the power wants you to
 do and claim you can't be wrong, so people feel guilty for even
 doubting. And what better way to demonstrate your power over people
 than by making them do silly things: water on the head, crossing
 yourself, kneeling, standing and sitting on command, even crossing
 yourself when you drive by the front of the Church. It's like
 knocking on wood to avoid bad luck. For years you tell them it's a
 sin to eat meat on Friday and then, wham, suddenly it's not a sin."

   What Fred was saying was so obvious. That gave it the ring of
 truth. Surely adults must have had the same questions and doubts.
 Then why did they continue in the farce and teach their children
 to continue the same nonsense?

   "I feel like bombing the damn church," I said.

   "They'd just rebuild it. We have to do something far more
 serious. Hit the church at its most secret manipulative spot,"
 Fred said and then told me his plan. I was stunned by its simple
 daring. But before we could do that, we would start with some
 softening up exercises.

   Over the next two weeks we arranged a series of pranks to let
 the Church know it was in for a fight.

   We wrapped holy cards in bubble gum baseball card wrappers and
 placed them in the pews and hymnals where the small children would
 find them.

   We blasphemed on the church's toilet walls. "God has been
 condemned to hell -- poetic justice," was one of the cuter phrases
 I penned.

   We even replaced the holy water with silver nitrate and scores
 of people went around with blackened fingers and spots on their
 foreheads.

   Father Penny's Sunday sermon was a lecture on the sin of
 sacrilege. I felt sorry for the man. I liked him. If we must have
 priests, I thought, they should at least look like Father Penny:
 tall and gaunt, it seemed his soul was in mortal battle with evil
 and that battle had left its marks on his face. He looked worried
 most of the time, for the souls of others or his own soul, I had
 no idea. It was too bad. I wished we could explain to him that it
 was nothing personal. We weren't attacking him as a person, only
 the Church as a dictatorial institution.

   And how minor our sacrilegious skirmishes were compared to
 what we had planned. We were ready to attack that point where
 the individual opens his secret soul to the ears of the Church
 -- the confessional.

   The micro-recorder fit snugly into the hollowed out Missal. Our
 trial plan was for Fred to confess first and place the Missal under
 the kneeler. Then, after several confessions, I would go in and
 retrieve it. If the recording was clear we would then, over the
 next months, record as many confessions as we could using what we
 learned within them to cause as much havoc as we could.

   "How'd you like to receive in the mail, anonymously, the
 outline of the sins you confessed to? Think you'd ever confess
 freely again?" Fred suggested.

   "And how do you think a wife would like to receive an outline
 of her husband's confession? That could cause some interesting
 consequences," I added.

                                *  *  *

   I was surprised to find myself in the confessional line behind
 Mr. Carlton, our world history teacher. I didn't even know he was
 Catholic. He stood in line not with this hand in prayer in front
 of them but with them hung at his sides. In front of him was
 Susan Driscoll, a cute little sophomore a fellow senior had snapped
 up. In front of her was Mrs. David Blair, too young to be called a
 church biddy but too self-righteous to be called anything else. In
 front of her stood Fred, the loaded Missal tucked under his arm.

   Fred entered and the sin-gab line moved forward. His confession
 was short as mine would be and the red light over the confessional
 went off as he left the booth and Mrs. Blair entered.

   In the center aisle Mr. Hidenmuth was saying the stations of
 the cross. He was at least eighty and his wife had died just a few
 weeks before. They had said the stations of the cross together on
 Wednesday nights every week of their marriage, someone had told me.
 Now he continued on alone. Why, I wondered as I looked at his
 doughy German face bent in prayer. Why waste the time?

   Mrs. Blair left the confessional in a huff and marched down the
 aisle and out of the church. That was strange, not staying even to
 say her penance. What had she confessed? That she had no sins?

   Susan walked into the confessional and I watched her cute behind
 wiggle in her dress. Sitting behind Susan or some other girl and
 fantasizing had gotten me through many a boring Sunday mass. No
 wonder Catholics were famous for their pent up sexual frustrations.
 The Church centered around the priest, the greatest symbol of
 sexual frustration there was.

   Susan left the confessional, there were tears in her eyes. It
 gave her a dewy-eyed attractiveness. Mr. Carlton entered and I
 moved up to be next in the hot seat.

   There came over me as I stood there a sudden wave of feeling I
 could not identify. My face turned red as I remembered how as late
 as the eighth grade I had made a little manger scene on my dresser
 at Christmas time. I remembered how lovingly I used to caress my
 rosary. And I remembered that ancient monsignor who sat in the
 partial sun in the courtyard. I felt myself slipping into the
 shadow.

   Mr. Carlton was taking a long time. He was not our best teacher
 in high school, nor was he our worst. I shifted my weight from foot
 to foot as the time drug on.

   POWER, what a simple explanation for religion. And the Catholic
 church was the most powerful of them all. Men feared death and
 religion assuaged the fear but it cost a price: stand now, sit
 now, pray now, don't eat now, come to church now, donate now,
 don't do this, do that. Power.

   I tried to keep my face pointed at my feet when Mr. Carlton
 walked out but glanced up to see his face, more serious than I
 had ever seen it before.

   It was my turn. I entered the small booth, found the missal
 under the kneeler and waited for the window to slide up. "Bless me,
 Father, for I have sinned . . ." is how the ritual begins for the
 penitent. Better I should say, "Bless me, Father, for I am sinning."

   Fred had the car motor running when I walked out of the church
 and I hopped in beside him.

   "Did you see Carlton?" he asked.

   "Got him here," I tapped the Missal, opened it and switched off
 the micro-recorder and hit the rewind button. The mini-cassette
 sped to the beginning. Fred turned several corners and parked on a
 side street. I hit the replay button.

                              *  *  *

   ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ."

   The quality was superb. Susan's voice was clear and sexy.

   ". . .I had an abortion, Father . . ."

   ". . . Oh my child."

                              *  *  *

   Fred and I looked at each other. "That lucky Alan scored," Fred
 was saying and smiling but the sound of her sobbing took the grin
 away.

                              *  *  *

   ". . . I feel so terrible, Father. I didn't know what else to
 do. I didn't want my parents to know. We can't get married. I
 didn't have any choice . . ."

   ". . . God always gives us a choice. Why didn't you come to me?
 I would have helped you. There is a home I could have sent you to.
 The baby could have been adopted. So many couples want a baby, to
 destroy one, why didn't you come to me? . . ."

   ". . . I was too ashamed . . ."

   ". . . Thank God, you felt shame. So many girls don't today.
 I remember when I gave you your first communion. The white dress
 you wore. Such lovely innocence. Every year now when I do first
 communion I try not to feel sad because I know so many of those
 girls are just years away from the strong temptations of the devil.
 It's not knowing that they will give in that makes me sad, it's
 knowing that many of them will not even feel shame . . ."

   ". . . Is sex shameful, Father? . . ."

   ". . . Of course it isn't shameful . . ."

   Fred and I looked at each other again. The anger in Father
 Penny's voice was obvious. He continued:

   ". . . Sex is one of the most glorious feelings God gives us.
 It is basic to our existence. It is the way in which God creates
 more souls. But we've turned it into such a cheap thing. No wonder
 we feel we can throw away the product of that sexual feeling as
 though it were no more than a mass of tissue -- garbage. Stop your
 crying. At least you feel shame, at least you feel guilty and can
 be forgiven your sin. For you, it is important not to enter again
 into union out of wedlock. I want you to come to mass each morning
 this week and meditate on how you want to live your life. Do you
 want to feel this sort of horrible shame again or do you want to
 do glory unto God? . . ."

                              *  *  *

   "Heavy stuff," Fred said. "Father Penny's a master. He's kept
 a soul for the Church. I wonder if she told Alan. If not, Alan's
 going to wonder why he was suddenly cut off."

   I was staring out the window. My attraction to Susan was suddenly
 deep. It was not her body but a feeling for her heart that drew me
 to her. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder, hug her, tell
 her she was not alone, I understood. I respected her.

                              *  *  *

   ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ."

   The sharp voice of Mrs. Blair issued forth.

   ". . . It has been three weeks since my last confession. I
 have committed no mortal sins. For my venial sins I suppose I
 have been a little too impatient with my children at times. I
 still allow myself to feel despair over my husband although he
 has agreed to come to Easter mass so there is hope, isn't there,
 Father. After all, our maid, Miss Hilda Spencer, was converted
 through my prayer and efforts. I worry about my husband's soul,
 though, he's a good man and I hate to think I'm nagging him . . ."

   ". . . Ma'am, the confessional is a place where we worry about
 our own soul. And God does not ask that we confess our virtues.
 The soul shouts forth its goodness, that is its pride. The
 confessional is a place for humility and self-concern over our own
 lack of grace. . ."

   ". . . Father Smith was never this way, Father Penny. He
 used to advise me about my husband, he was so encouraging, so
 helpful . . ."

   ". . . Mrs. Blair, I don't want to argue with you here. You are
 supposedly here for the purpose of confession not advice . . ."

   ". . . Father, a priest's role, I should remind you, is also to
 give advice and help . . ."

   ". . . Mrs. Sterling, a priest's role is also to determine if a
 person is truly in a repentant attitude for confession. I don't
 believe you are. I think you should try fasting until you are . . ."

                              *  *  *

   The sound of the window closing was loud.

   "Told off that old bitch, didn't he?" Fred laughed.

   "Her name's on the builder's plaque at the school. I don't
 think Father Penny may be long for this parish," I said.

   A deep sign drew or attention back to the tape. It was a sound
 of such despair I could compare it only to the resignation moan
 of the dying. It was matched by the sound of the partition being
 raised.

                              *  *  *

   Silence. Father Penny's voice inquired,

   ". . . Yes? . . ."

   ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over 20
 years, I don't know how long since my last confession. I have lost
 my faith, almost killed myself and, Father, I don't know how to
 begin to confess. How do you confess a life? . . ."

   ". . . But you want to confess? . . ."

   ". . . Yes, Father, I think I do. I need to confess to
 someone . . ."

   ". . .Why? . . ."

   ". . . I guess because of my life, Father. I don't fear hell.
 If there is a hell, I deserve it, but I am sorry for my life. I
 hate myself, my work, I even have begun to hate my wife and
 despise my children. I don't know what to do now with all the
 bitterness I feel. Or why I feel it . . ."

   ". . . God always waits. He always cares . . ."

   ". . . Don't give me those glib phrases. It was those damn easy
 phrases I hated most. They drove me from the Church. My life is at
 a crisis right now. I recognize that. I'm not sure why I came here.
 Not because I suddenly believed, but I . . . I guess, I came to see
 how much of my Catholic machinery is rusted shut. I wanted to know
 if any of the parts would still move, work to help me now . . ."

   ". . . You should really come to see me in my office, not the
 confessional . . ."

   ". . . No. Here it's real. Here I'm hidden. Here you're bound to
 secrecy. Here it's like whispering to myself . . ."

   ". . . Let your soul whisper to me. Let it speak honestly. That
 you came here shows a desire for grace, a need for hope. Tell me
 first how your first doubts about the Church began . . ."

   ". . . The ceremonies, the holy this and holy that, the
 Church's knickknacks, the whole rigmarole seemed overdone after
 a while . . ."

   ". . . I wonder why people can't see that all this rigmarole,
 as you call it, is just a base, just a framework for your crisis.
 Don't you see that all the knickknacks are a part of our history.
 The Church provides you with a history and a place in that history,
 a reference point for your crises when they occur, for your doubts,
 even revolutions. What did Martin Luther nail his piece of paper
 on? On the church door. But what if there had been no church door?
 Luther would have been an ignorant pagan instead of the founder of
 Protestantism. The Church gives you something to bounce your doubts
 off of instead of nothing.

   ". . . Then you doubt, too, Father? . . ."

   ". . . Of course I do. but I don't let my doubts stop me from
 practicing my faith, from performing what has been performed for
 centuries. I'm talking too much. You are the one who should be
 talking, it's your soul that should be speaking, not mine . . ."

   ". . . No, go on, Father. But I tell you, you sound indoctrinated
 to me . . ."

   ". . . That easy word. How weary it makes me. The easy criticisms
 and questions and mocking. Do you think men like St. Augustine and
 St. Thomas Acquinas were idiots. Look, even if the Church pretends
 to have all the answers, it doesn't. Of course it doesn't, how
 could it. The answers change as our study into our faith deepens.
 But the Church keeps all the answers Western man has come up with
 for the last 2,000 years, all codified to be studied. Continued
 practice in the faith is a kind of study . . ."

   ". . . A study into what? . . ."

   ". . . God . . ."

   ". . . I have doubted His existence, too, Father . . ."

   ". . . His existence? Don't you know how unimportant his
 existence is? What red herrings proof of God's existence or non-
 existence are! It is the desire that He be that is all important.
 Look at Good versus Evil. Wasn't there a time in your life when
 there was a possibility of something bad happening, something evil.
 Perhaps -- you are a father -- when your children were born or were
 very sick. Can't you remember your fear of evil: And didn't you
 come here tonight wanting something good to happen? You want some
 kind of direct intervention in your life. It's the wanting of that
 intervention that is important. It's the realizing at times you
 want there to be a God that matters, whether there is or isn't
 doesn't matter. But I tell you this: for every person, for every
 soul, there will be a time when that person wants there to be a
 God that is all-good and powerful and just and holy . . ."

   ". . . I could have gone to another priest and not been told
 this, Father. This isn't the Catholic line . . ."

   ". . . Maybe God sent you to me. What I'm telling you is my own
 opinion and I wouldn't speak it outside this confessional nor if
 I didn't think you needed to hear it at this time . . ."

   ". . . I want to hear more . . ."

   ". . . I played around with Buddhism in my younger days. I
 learned that the Buddhist hell is still a place of infinite
 hope, a place from which we may repent, live better lives and
 attain Heaven. How much more Godlike that is than the Catholic
 hell. But I didn't become a Buddhist. No, but neither do I preach
 about the pain of hell. I try to teach and preach about the pain
 of separation, about the hope and desire for God. This is as
 honest as I can be with you. Come back into the Church. Make a
 confession now of all the things you feel guilty for, not because
 the Church tells you, you should feel guilty, but because you
 believe you can begin a new life with sins erased. What else does
 confession mean except that if you walk in here truly seeking grace
 that you can walk out of here a new man . . ."

                              *  *  *

   Fred's hand reached across my lap and hit the stop button.

   "I don't want to hear anymore," he said.

   "Neither do I."

   "I think we should burn this tape."

   "So do I."

   "You take care of it," Fred said.

   "Fine," I said and looked out the windshield at the night. Fred
 remained quiet. I wondered if he felt the same sadness I did. That
 which I had always yearned to hear I had just heard, yet I was
 sorry I hadn't formed the words myself.

   "That Father Penny's all right," Fred broke his silence and
 started the car.

   "Yes, yes he is. Here, there's something else you should hear."
 I said and ran the tape fast forward, stopped it, played it, and
 then ran it slightly forward again.

                              *  *  *

   "Bless, me Father, for I am sinning."

   "What do you mean?"

   Fred watched my face as he listened to my voice on the tape
 confessing about the sacrilegious pranks. I took the blame for
 them and didn't mention Fred's name. And I told him about the
 taped confessions and which confessions had probably been recorded.

   I turned the tape off.

   "You know what he told me my penance was?"

   "What?"

   "To listen to the tape before I burned it."

                                {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 Randy Attwood, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 -------------------------------------------------------------------
 Randy is an excellent writer who can be reached at:
 [e-mail]
 ===================================================================