- Feb 5, 2002
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ONE SATURDAY, many years ago, a friend of mine was visiting from out of town.
Looking for some prayerful encouragement—and probably a kick in the rear to get himself to confession—he confided painfully to me that he had fallen into a pattern of serious sexual sin, about which he was understandably distressed and embarrassed. (Let’s just say that the particular sins burdening him went beyond the solitary sort which many are prone to.)
During a frank conversation in which my friend was searingly honest with himself, I offered some heartfelt advice and encouragement that he go asap to the sacrament of confession (a.k.a. reconciliation). Agreeing to go, we wasted no time. Clambering into my car, we drove straight to a nearby parish so he could go to confession.
His discomfiture at having to confess these deeply embarrassing sins to another human being was palpable. He was miserable, but he knew he’d be even more miserable if he put off any longer the sacramental moment of reckoning.
Promising him my prayers for courage and trust in the Lord’s mercy, I knelt in a pew at the back of the church while my friend approached the confessional.
The red light above the confessional door indicated that a priest was waiting for penitents. Aside from my friend and me, the large church was completely empty.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Continued below.
patrickmadrid.substack.com
Looking for some prayerful encouragement—and probably a kick in the rear to get himself to confession—he confided painfully to me that he had fallen into a pattern of serious sexual sin, about which he was understandably distressed and embarrassed. (Let’s just say that the particular sins burdening him went beyond the solitary sort which many are prone to.)
During a frank conversation in which my friend was searingly honest with himself, I offered some heartfelt advice and encouragement that he go asap to the sacrament of confession (a.k.a. reconciliation). Agreeing to go, we wasted no time. Clambering into my car, we drove straight to a nearby parish so he could go to confession.
His discomfiture at having to confess these deeply embarrassing sins to another human being was palpable. He was miserable, but he knew he’d be even more miserable if he put off any longer the sacramental moment of reckoning.
Promising him my prayers for courage and trust in the Lord’s mercy, I knelt in a pew at the back of the church while my friend approached the confessional.
The red light above the confessional door indicated that a priest was waiting for penitents. Aside from my friend and me, the large church was completely empty.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Continued below.
The Confession I Didn’t Make
An Embarrassing Case of Sacramental Mistaken Identity
patrickmadrid.substack.com
