Father sighed.
From the other side of the screen, I imagined him rubbing his forehead in a gesture of futility.
My list never changed.
“So,” he started, patiently, “it sounds like these sins are mostly related to pride. Is that right?”
I nodded. Then, remembering he couldn’t see me, said, “Yes, Father.”
“So then, for your penance, I would like you to ask God to help you grow in humility. Ask him what you need to do to grow in this area.”
I rolled my eyes in the semi-darkness, tilting my chin and searching the high corners of the confessional for a way to say it. Finally, I just blurted.
“Father, I’m afraid to pray for humility.”
“Why?”
“Because God will hurt me! He’ll make something…HUMILIATING…happen! Humiliation is all about pain!”
I waited for the platitude. Would he tell me to buck up and be brave or just to deal with it? My prideful heart was already stirring rebelliously.
“Well,” he replied without missing a beat, “be open to whatever He gives you as coming from His own hand.”
Ach! What could you say to that? Coming from the mangled, impaled hand of a friend?
I sagged. “Okay, Father.”
“Now, make your act of contrition.”
I strode resolutely to the pews and planted myself before the crucifix. Unfolding my list of sins, I stared at my notes, barely legible from having been scribbled in the dark.
Then, kneeling, I read the words, monotone, to our Lord.
“Lord, please help me grow in humility. Please show me what I need to do to grow in this area. Help me be open to what You give me as coming from Your hand. And, Lord give me courage,” I added grimly.
In a strange way, I was grateful. Under the obligation of obedience, I prayed a prayer I desperately needed, but had been afraid to pray. I closed my eyes and imagined the terror which would hit me or my family any minute now, when God started to teach me how to be humble. I already felt my nose rubbing in the dirt. I knew how God answered prayers for humility and patience, because I had prayed them before. His answers always hurt.
I went to the car with a bitter seed germinating in my heart.
That night, I took my friends to an outdoor concert venue where we were scheduled to sell refreshments. We were volunteers, but since we were raising money for a non-profit, a small percentage of our total sales went to our Church organization.
It seemed like a great way to earn money, have fun with each other, and hear a concert. At least until the gates opened and the crowd poured in.
The act on stage was a well-known celebrity and his back-up band, whose country/folksy music had pumped audiences for thirty years. He was a classic, and a great entertainer. Some people didn’t wear much when they came to hear him, I noticed. Nor did my wedding ring or crucifix deter their flirtatious and blasphemous comments. But, I was having fun getting attention from so many different people, and that can’t be wrong, I reasoned, because I am selling more drinks, which makes more money for this good, holy cause.
As the evening wore on, the crowd grew wild. Police stepped in to quell several incidents which erupted near our little beverage cart. I watched as another volunteer, who I knew struggled with faithfulness, fell again and again into suggestive conversations with concert-goers.
It was as if a dark cloud of debauchery and violent excess hung over the concert pavilion, swirling viciously behind the rocking, happy music. No matter how bright our internal lights, they would soon go out in this sea of blackness.
When it was over, we seeped slowly from the swollen parking lots like blood trickling from an infected wound.
Our Lord opened our conversation with a sense of foreboding in my heart.
“What, Lord? What is it? What are you telling me?”
It took shape now, the foreboding, and solidified into a feeling of danger. With it, I saw in my mind the shape of the pavilion, shrouded in darkness.
And I realized what I had done.
I had led my friends into a situation where our vocations were endangered. Where we were surrounded by a cloud of offenses against our Lord, and to sell the drinks, we had participated in the flirtatious behavior and flippant, fruitless conversation; we had encouraged the excess, the sin, to make money for God’s cause. God was not happy with us being there.
Suddenly, like a spotlight, I saw our vocations, each one in danger. Married. With families. All of us. We didn’t belong there. We wouldn’t make it if we went back. We would all fall away. Maybe not immediately, but soon. It was a matter of time.
“Oh, Lord. I guess the concert two days from now needs to be our last, then.”
My belly tightened with a sudden sadness — a tired sadness, the pain Christ felt, carrying the load of sin from this single concert.
And I knew we were done. It’s one thing to feel pain, but to be a part of the cause? That, I couldn’t bear.
I slunk back to the confessional.
“Why are you back here so soon?” Father sounded exasperated.
And I explained.
He was silent for awhile, during which time I rearranged the pile of confession booklets and straightened the Act of Contrition poster, thumb-tacked to the wall.
“Well,” he said slowly, “at the very least, it was a sin against prudence to be there.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And at worst, well, worse. It gives Jesus pain.”
I begged Our Lord’s forgiveness, and, ever a gentleman, he forgave me the pain I caused Him. It was freeing, but I felt humiliated. Not angry humiliated, just humbled. Contrite.
And with blinding clarity, I suddenly realized.
I had been angry and afraid to ask for God to help me grow in humility. Positive He would cause me pain with His heavy-handed lesson.
Instead, he allowed me to cause HIM pain, to pierce Him with my traitor’s kiss, and then forgive me, gently.
It was humbling.
And I loved Him for it.
