Annie Turner

Annie Turner
Having a Conversation

Monday, May 16, 2011

AN IDIOT'S GUIDE TO CONFESSION

Trying to explain Confession (or The Sacrament of Reconciliation) to non-Catholics is rather like that old cartoon by Thurber, where a woman stands in the middle of a room, nervously expecting electricity to leak out of the wall sockets. She knows it's there--she realizes it "works"--but she can't explain it, and it is also a tad frightening.

Before my conversion I heard vague rumors of Confession with a priest. I wondered, "What an odd thing! What do they DO? What do they SAY?" (Those strange Catholic people...) And it wasn't until just before the Easter Vigil, when I would be officially welcomed into the church, that I experienced Reconciliation.

All of my old sins clanked around like a too-full tool box, knocking against the edges of my soul: things involving probably a rather larger amount of alcohol than was good for me, and also involving a tighter involvement with unmarried men of my acquaintance than was good for me. Actually, I was damned nervous. But a friend who had taught our RCIA group helped me by saying, "Annie, this priest has seen and heard everything. There is nothing new you can tell him, trust me." So I did, and Reconciliation was like nothing else I have ever experienced.

If I told you that Reconciliation is like a combination of therapy, sex, and religion, would you believe me? Here's how it goes: I draw up an interior list of things I have done that set me apart from God's love, and which also separate me from the best parts of myself. (Sometimes I scribble notes on a notepad and keep it nearby during the sacrament.) I go in, sit near my priest (in this case he is sitting opposite me on a comfy sofa in the living room of the Rectory), and confess that I don't know the words to "Bless me father, for I have sinned," but that I do know I have, in fact, sinned. He beams softly at me, encouraging me to go on. Which I do, accompanied by floods of tears and by an emotion I don't usually let in--shame. How could I have let myself behave in those ways? How could I have let God down in such a warty fashion?

After going through my list which stretched back over years before my marriage, I sniff, blow, and tuck sodden Kleenex up the sleeve of my sweater. My priest sits quietly for a moment, looks at me compassionately, and asks, "Is that all, Annie?" I nod, appalled and stunned by these revelations, by the sense that I am little better than a warty toad. Actually a toad is better than I, for he is true to his nature.

Then, my priest puts his hands on either side of my head (I am way beyond worrying if my hair is stiff from gel or somehow strange and repellent) and pronounces that with the authority vested in him by the Catholic Church, my sins are forgiven. We say a prayer together, I cross myself, and he blesses me.

Holy God. I stagger to my feet, almost unable to walk. Something has happened that is so powerful that it's knocked me sideways, and yet--and yet--I am flooded with peace, joy, and a sense of the everlasting arms beneath me. I can almost feel them bearing me up.

So that is why I say Reconciliation is like a combination of therapy, sex, and religion: you have the relief of talking about the darker parts of yourself; you feel the surge of endorphins that comes after good and loving sex; and you feel your heart expanding with God's mercy which is wide and deep as the sky. It is unbeatable. I don't know why the church doesn't sell it. No one else is offering the same thing, and when you are done with the sacrament, you are, of course, not really done. It continues to work in you over the next days, weeks, and months as your heart, newly softened by mercy and forgiveness, opens to God's word and inspiration.

That is why Jesus says to the woman caught in adultery, "Neither do I condemn you. Go (and) from now on do not sin any more." (John 8: 11) I don't know about the not sinning any more part, but I can surely go forth and try to be the person God has created me to be, not some shadowed, broken version of myself.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

THE OCTOPUS OF FORGIVENESS

I came to a rather startling but useful conclusion about forgiveness the other day. Here's the background to it, the scenario, as it were. My stepmom died early in November of last year--a vibrant, very bright, gregarious, and deeply contentious and difficult woman, who outlived my father by twelve years. We had definitely had our run-ins over the years, and my emotional stance with her was rather like a fencer at the start of the match: face mask on, encased in my white padded coat, and foil raised in preparation for some thrust and parry. I was never entirely at my ease with her, nor was trust a real part of our relationship, even though there were parts of me which were fond of her and appreciated her uniqueness.

Since she broke the will my dad and she had made, willing away the major portion of the land around the house(which is actually in a rather dilapidated shape, being built in 1756), I've struggled with what I saw as an unjust distribution of the property. Despite the feelings of myself and my two brothers, it was clear that this new will would be made, and things would be changed and not in line with what my father had intended.

After the Memorial Service (where many very funny stories were told, many highlighting my stepmom's eccentricities and independence) and a gathering at the old family homestead the following day, it became clear to me that I was not done with grief and anger. I had a venting session, witnessed by my dear husband and understanding grown son, where I cried a bit, dribbled, blew my nose, and let fly some curse words about the injustice. I think what it really was about was the loss of the family homestead--the feeling that my side of the family had simply disappeared. I mourned that.

But God is in the tears and the curse words I've found. Just as God is in the Reiki nap I take each day (the pumzika Fr. Jim speaks of from East Africa--a nap, not a Reiki nap!). I prayed to be forgiven and I prayed, in rather sweaty and desperate fashion, to be able to forgive my stepmother, knowing that this anger was not doing any of us any good at all. The image that came to my mind was of an octopus, all eight arms clamped onto my head. The knowing I got was, "All you have to do is remove one of those arms, Annie." Wow, I thought, relief pouring through me; You mean I don't have to forgive EVERYTHING all at ONCE? "No," was the answer.

So I began the hard work of forgiveness. I thought about forgiving my stepmom the breaking of the will (nope, too hard for these tottering beginning steps...); for being so difficult (nope, too much for now); then I thought, "Ok, I'll just work on forgiving her always asking me when I came to visit, what would I like to take home from the house." This was a neurotic dance that happened regularly, with me refusing to take anything, and my stepmom insisting angrily that I take something. So--gradually, carefully, I pulled off one octopus arm from my head, and forgave her those occasions of asking, manipulating, and then being angry. I'll just get this ONE sticky arm off my head!

Obviously, I can't do this on my own. I am way too stubborn, hot-headed, with a deep trench filled with old grief and resentment. God knows what a sceptic tank of resentment I am. But in this time of prayer--of my asking and sending out forgiveness for just this ONE aspect of our relationship--I could feel one row of suckers reluctantly letting go, and one octopus arm sprang free from my head, leaving only seven more to work on. Whew.

I can't tell you how good this felt. Clearly, we're not done yet; clearly, I have a long way to go, but just a little of that old resentment, just a bit of that old anger has left me, flung off into the ether of God's forgiveness.