First Sunday of Advent C
One of our deceased priests used to tell this story
as
if it was about his own niece…so it just might be true…
A
young girl was preparing for her First Holy Communion,
but
was sick on the day when the rest of her classmates
made
their first confessions.
Several
weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon,
she
went in to see the priest.
“Bless
me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.
“This
is my first confession.”
“Oh,
young lady,” the priest smiled,
“you
only say it that way the first time.
That
was three weeks ago! Let’s try
again….”
A
bit more hesitant than before, she said,
“Bless
me, Father, for I have sinned.
This is my first confession.”
“Now,
now,” said the priest, getting a little frustrated,
“what
you need to say today is,
‘My
last confession was three weeks ago.’
One more time….”
But
the girl said again, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
This
is my first confession.”
Beginning
to lose patience, the priest responded,
“OK. How about you just repeat after
me.
‘Bless
me, Father for I have sinned….’
‘My
last confession was three weeks ago….’
Very
good! Now, tell me your
sins.”
“Well…I
guess I just told a lie.”
Young or old,
most of us Catholics
have a complicated relationship
with the Sacrament of Penance.
I am no exception.
When I entered the seminary,
I did so right out of Catholic school,
where confession was scheduled for you
every Advent and Lent.
You went when you were told.
I never rebelled against that.
In fact, I took it seriously,
genuinely examined my conscience,
and appreciated the deep down “clean” feeling
you got after receiving absolution.
But that’s about as far as it went,
and where things pretty much stayed.
When
I went off to major seminary,
the
rector gave us a conference
on
ten helpful hints for a seminarian’s spiritual life.
Most
of what he had to say came as no surprise:
daily
prayer, daily Mass, devotion to the Blessed Mother….
It
was no surprise, either, when regular confession was on his list.
What
did startle me, though, was how often he suggested we go:
about
once a month.
I
seem to recall that he shared
his
own habit was to go every couple of weeks.
I
had previously felt like I was doing pretty good—
maybe
even better than a lot of Catholics—
with
my two or three times a year!
But
over the 19 years since I heard that talk,
I’ve
taken the rector’s advice to heart
and
increased the frequency with which I approach
the
Sacrament of Penance.
For
most of my priesthood, I’ve gone every two or three weeks.
Case
closed. Or so I thought…
While
on my annual retreat just a couple of weeks ago,
I
made an appointment to confess to one of the monks.
And
as I prepared for the sacrament during the week,
I
was struck by something like never before:
the
quantity—the how often—of my confessions
might
be in a pretty good place,
but
what about their quality?
The
best way to explain is by giving of example.
Have
you ever been pulled over for speeding?
You
know the feeling:
that
feeling of getting caught; that feeling of being in trouble.
And
hot on the heels of that anxious feeling is the thought,
“How
can get myself out of this mess?”
My
reflection on retreat made me begin to realize
that
that’s how I often approached confession:
as
a way of getting out of trouble
with
the Great State Trooper in the Sky.
It
wouldn’t be such a bad way to think of it
if
I were still in the second grade preparing for First Communion…
but
it’s not exactly the most mature approach
for
me to take as an adult and a priest.
What’s
been becoming clearer to me
is
that my approach to confession
needs
to be less about obeying regulations—
or
even working the system—
and
more about healing and building a real and personal relationship.
Think
about the person who knows you best and loves you most:
your
spouse, your mother, your son, your dearest friend.
Think
about what it’s like when you’ve hurt or disappointed them.
Sure,
it’s hard to stand before them and apologize—
hard,
but absolutely essential if the relationship’s going to endure.
Yet,
once you’ve said, “I’m sorry,”
and
once you hear, “Of course I forgive you, because I love you,”
isn’t
the bond between you generally a bit stronger than before?
Wouldn’t
you say that’s a much better quality of confession?
As
you can see in your bulletin, one week from Monday
we’llbe offering confessions all day long—for 16 hours straight—
just
as we did during Lent.
On
that day, the children of our parish
preparing
for their First Holy Communion
will
receive the Sacrament of Penance for the first time.
It’s
a great way to kick off the coming Jubilee Year of Mercy
declared
by Pope Francis.
It’s
also the perfect way to enter into Advent.
Advent,
we all know well, is a season to prepare for Christmas,
which
comes predictably each December
as
we recall the Lord’s first coming in humility—
a
babe lying in a manger.
But
Advent is also a season of preparation for Christ’s return—
his
second coming, in glory and power on the clouds;
of
that, we know not the day nor the hour.
As
an English poet once wisely asked,
“What
do I profit if Jesus is born in thousands of cribs all over the world
but
is not born in my heart?”
(Alexander Pope).
At
the start of her new year,
the
Church focuses our attention on the “last things.”
Even
here at the beginning,
we
must always be looking ahead to the end—to the very end:
the
end of time, or at least the end of our time.
We
mustn’t fail to live fully in this present moment,
but
we do so with a view to where our present is ultimately taking us.
Of
course, that’s precisely what confession does for us, too.
Just
days before his own death,
we
hear Jesus tell us that a day is coming
when
sun, moon, and stars will be shaken,
but
we should not be.
Nations will be in dismay, the seas will be churning,
Nations will be in dismay, the seas will be churning,
and
people will die of fright,
but
we should stand up straight and raise our heads.
The
coming of the end—whether of my life or of the whole world—
is
indeed a time to be feared
if
my concern is simply whether I can get out of trouble.
But
that’s not the case at all if I’ve been working steadily
on
a relationship with the Lord Jesus;
instead,
I can anticipate that moment with great hope,
for
it will mean my redemption is near at hand.
I
read a book on prayer during my retreat
in
which the author quotes St. Ignatius of Loyola
who
once suggested that, before beginning to pray,
one
should stand for the length of time it takes to say an Our Father,
considering
how God is looking down on him right then.
It’s
actually quite a transformative thing to do—you should try it!
It
affects not only that moment of prayer,
but
what you say and do throughout the day,
how
you come to Mass or go to confession,
if
you can stay conscious that the Lord is looking down on you—
not
broadly watching the world to catch wrongdoers,
but
personally gazing upon you with the most perfect love.
“Pray,”
Jesus tells us, “that you have the strength…
to
stand before the Son of Man.”
At
the end, everyone must stand
before
the Judge of the living and the dead.
But
we stand before him even now.
So
stand before the Lord this Advent,
stand
before him in confession,
and let the Lord look upon you with great love.
and let the Lord look upon you with great love.
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