Bless me Father!

A blog post by Maria Rocha, Spring 2011

Everything on this continent seems to be an experience. The everyday activities that I’ve become so accustomed to in the States often throw me for a loop. I love these experiences, uncomfortable as they may be, because they teach me something and make me laugh later.

Exhibit A:

A few weeks ago, my roommate and I went to confession. It was time, really, and we didn’t want to make up the heathen row during mass. However, we were on a tight schedule due to a room check at 7:30 and meetings at eight. Confession is said to begin at 7.

As we walked into the church, we saw that people were sitting in random rows toward the back of the church. Confused, we asked, “Where’s the end of the line?”

Then the nearest person dropped the bomb. “There is no line.”

No line.

No line?

NO LINE?!

We were aghast.

On main campus, we have a wonderful line with a clicker wielding monitor included. I missed the confession line boy dearly at that moment. My roommate, a business major, is all about efficiency. She almost lost her mind as we sat down and hoped for the best. It seemed we were not alone in our confusion because someone sitting behind us asked, “So, how do we know who’s next?”

“You just have to remember what order we came in. Like, I’m second to last right now,” someone behind us answered.

This and the fact that it was 7:15 and we had yet to see a priest was the last straw for my roommate. She said she’d pay the priest a personal visit in the morning and left to attend to our room check. As soon as she left, the priests emerged from evening prayer and made their way to the confessionals in the back. As I turned to see how many people were left, I caught sight of the confessionals and gasped. There were about 87 doors. It was like the Price is Right! At home there is one door to a spacious confessional. This was like a cardboard box with twelve doors and no windows.

“Which door do I go in?” I asked the guy behind me.

“Go right for face-to-face and left for the screen,” he answered.

“Okay. Right.”

With every creak of the confessional door, every sinner in the church jumped, poised to run for the confessional. There was a girl between me and the aisle. I didn’t stand a chance. I realized I needed a better seat if I was going to win this battle. It was every man for himself at this point. So I sat on the edge of my seat and eyeballed my opponents. Two rows in front and to the left I caught sight of a wise guy with his leg already in the aisle. He was ready to run, but he’d never beat me, I thought to myself, because his other hand was clasped in his girlfriend’s.

At the next creak of the confessional door, I sprang from my seat and sprinted like a hunted gazelle to the confessional. I stood, breathless, in front of the confessional reveling in my victory and feeling quite flustered. I couldn’t remember my left from my right. One door was open, so I shut it and walked to the other end of the confessional and opened the other door. As I was sticking my leg in to the confessional, I realized that I had gone left. NOO, NOT LEFT! RIGHT! RIGHT! I paused ready to go right when I heard, “Come in.” It was over. I was busted. So, I went in, shut the door, and plopped down on the bench.

I took in my environment as I began my confession. “Bless me father for…” I looked down and saw what appeared to me to be a footrest.

A footrest in a confessional? These Europeans have everything!, I thought.

So, the penitent put her feet up and proceeded with confession. As I spoke to the priest behind the screen, I couldn’t help but try and peek through the tiny square cut outs in the screen. I opened my eyes really wide to try and take in the entire scene, but this only made them water and made the priest look like a Picasso. So, I squinted one eye and tried to peek through one hole at a time. This view was much worse because I caught a nostril through the first hole, an eyeball in the next one, and an ear in the next. I then found myself suppressing the urge to shove my finger through one of the squares. So, there I was in the confessional. My feet up on the footrest, hands under my bum so I wouldn’t shove my fingers in the holes, and my eyes squinted trying to catch a good glimpse of the priest.

I snapped back to reality when I heard, “Now, express your sorrow.”

Express my sorrow? My first instinct was to say, “I am so so sorry. I really am!” Then I realized he wanted me to say my Act of Contrition. Thankful that I realized this before I spoke I began, “Oh my God, I am sorry for my sins…” as I continued, my sorrow turned into horror when I looked down and realized two terrible things. First, the footrest was not a footrest at all, but a kneeler. It should have occurred to me that sinners don’t kick it in the confessional. The second revelation is that the footrest/kneeler was about 6 inches from the door. I couldn’t remember if the door opened inward or outward and I was already envisioning myself trapped in this 4’x4’ box.

“Give thanks to the Lord Our God and King!”

“Mmm! I will do that!” I said.

I couldn’t figure out why the priest was spitting scripture at me, though I appreciated it. .

“There is a response to that. Do you know it?” the priest asked.

The line rang a bell but the only response that came to me was the lyrics of a song. I was sure I was wrong.

“His love endures forever,” the priest said slowly.

“…endures forever. Yes. Thank you, Father,” I mumbled, wanting to kick myself because I knew the response but had let my disgruntled state get the better of me.

As I looked to leave the confessional, I prayed that the door would open. I reached up, took hold of the quarter-sized doorknob and gave it a little jiggle. Nothing.

Now, I was more flustered because not only had I missed the boat on the scripture tag line from the priest but now I was lingering. You don’t linger after confession! You leave quickly to do penance and revel in your soul’s newfound cleanliness. The level of awkardness in the room was rising alarmingly quickly. I took the knob in both hands twisted, turned, and pushed in one frantic motion and stumbled out of the confessional.

In retrospect, my topsy-turvy confession experience was a call to greater humility and patience. This entire Austrian experience is a call to virtue. So with every awkward moment and “ugly American” mistake, I am reminded that God works through even the most ridiculous moments in life.