I was brought up in a middle class family, with middle class friends, middle class problems, middle class lives. Although I was Catholic, I went to a Baptist school for a long time, and was obviously heavily indoctrinated. It wasn’t until my Confirmation, the final stage of acceptance into the Catholic Church, that I really started to question the purpose of organized religion.
One of the requirements to be confirmed was to go to confession, a sacrament I detested and had consequently neglected for many years. I always chose the oldest priest because I felt that he would either be too old to care about the petty sins of a minor or that he would die soon and wouldn’t hold anything against me. That day it was Father Pat, the senile, but well meaning pastor. An Irishman, he was a less than exciting addition to any sermon, and his deliveries were usually made with an overuse of the phrase, “But really and truly...”
The quiet church, lit only by red and brown stained glass, was not a sanctuary, but a torture chamber. I knelt praying as I waited for my turn. The pews had a distinct smell. A slight hint of incense mixed with the sweat and stench of the thousands who had soaked into each cushion. I hated the smell because it followed me every Sunday even after I was home. Kids, some that I knew, walked in and out of the confession booth with apparent confidence—wearing their penance like a new suit. I, however, was stricken with fear. What were my sins? What were my damn sins?
Then the moment came. I opened the door to a small dark room lit only by a single candle that illuminated the priest’s decrepit face. I took a seat, trembling. I quickly realized that this old man was not going to take pity on my young soul. “Bless me father for I have sinned,” I said without hesitation. How did I remember that? It had been years since my last confession.
“What are your sins my son,” he replied in a solemn voice. Then, as if guided by the Holy Spirit, I pieced together a string of sins that quickly spewed from my lips. The typical line up for a fourteen-year-old boy. “I’ve been mean to my little brother, disrespected my parents, made fun of others.” I thought I had made it. I mean I really thought it was over. A relief passed over me. All that was left were a few prayers, and then I’d never have to do this again, I thought. But it wasn’t over. The priest had listened, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. “Have you committed any mortal sins,” he asked. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what mortal sins were, or if I had committed them. Panic set in.
I looked up at the old man. I knew he could see the fear in my eyes, but he didn’t flinch. He just sat there staunch in his dusty robes staring at me without a hint of compassion. Silence. I couldn’t ask him. I didn’t want to look stupid. The air stiff as if we were separated by needles all aimed at me. I knew that I must have been told what the mortal sins were, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Another sin.
I finally asked him. “What are mortal sins.” I tried playing dumb, but he could see right through me. The darkness of the small room seemed to make it expand, and now it was as if we were sitting in a giant dark expanse and the was no where to go, no escape.
My only chance now was to find out what the sins were and confess, but the priest responded with an answer that made the situation infinitely worse.
“Blasphemy is a mortal sin. As well as masturbation. Have you done anything like that?” He asked.
The color drained from my face. If I wasn’t shaking before I sure as hell was then. My face felt cold and gave way to a tingling fire, and I could not speak because the saliva in my mouth had been burned up.
Masturbation? I was only fourteen, but I knew what it was. I loved to jerk off. It had become somewhat of a pastime for me. I knew I felt ashamed afterward because sex was always denied in my home. Anything even remotely sexual was demonized. I had no idea that masturbation was such a serious crime in the church. I can remember choking-the-bishop multiple times a day back then. In fact I probably had done it before coming to confession. I was fourteen. What fourteen year old boy didn’t beat off?
I was speechless. The question was like my mother asking me if I masturbated except worse because it was more like God asking me. I had split seconds to answer. If I took too long he would know I was lying, but I couldn’t lie to a priest, that would be an even more hell worthy misdeed. I had to think quick. If I said no I could leave with my dignity in tact, but God would surely spite me in return. If I said yes I could leave, but I would never be able to look at Father Pat again. I mean what kind of low life kid masturbates? At that moment I was certain that I was the only one. I did what I had to do. I lied.
“Say four Hail Mary’s and seven Our Fathers,” he said. I walked out in disbelief. The high number of prayers made me think that he knew, but I had nothing to compare it to. As I knelt again on the sweat stained cushions and looked at the naked, emaciated Christ hanging above the altar, I was on the verge of tears. I was not sad because of what I had done. I was furious. My head boiled, and I turned away from my friends who were leaving not wanting them to see me. The church was hot, the church was old, it was not peaceful.
For months I looked back on that day with dread. God would never forgive me for this. My confirmation went off without a hitch, but I could not consciously accept myself as a Catholic because I knew the truth. I knew I had lied before God.
High school was a stew of ideas, cultures, identities. Mr. Huey’s class taught me new ways to look at religion as I learned about Islam, Buddhism, etc. Literature classes included books besides the Bible. Compared to a Christian school, public high school was like looking at porn. There were so many ideas that I had known about, but I had denied because I believed everything that had been preached to me. I found myself questioning organized religion, and somewhere near the end, the ideas of Christianity, and finally God.
I saw friends from my Christian school go in many direction when high school started. I knew a pair of twins who became known in high school for carrying around their Bibles and preaching to any open ears. If a girl was wearing a skirt they thought was too short you better believe she was gonna hear about it. I saw other friends drop out of high school. I knew a girl who had transferred twice in two years, finally dropped out, and got her GED. She was very pretty in middle school, but when I saw her some years later she no longer had an aura of innocence as she did in middle school.
One afternoon my junior year, I was at a park when I saw a buddy from middle school, stoned out of his mind in the parking lot. I later learned that he did this everyday. For the most part it seemed that the shock of freedom had caused two extremes. The kids who became more devout in their beliefs, and the ones who rejected them.
Ultimately that is what the church is about anyway. People seem to have a desire to be a part of a group. I’m sure that the kids involved in church talked shit about the kids that partied, and the kids that partied talked shit about the church kids. But I just want to jerk off in peace.
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