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The Experiment
It felt like an experiment. During religious instruction, the last lesson to be exact; one of the nuns had
explained to us that after confirmation, the parish priest was not obliged to give absolution in every
instance. As members of the adult community of God, the sole responsibility of sin now rested on our
shoulders. As I sat there in class, I knew, I just knew, that I was to be one of the chosen few. I knew I was
part of an experiment. Little did I realize, however, it would be connected to a greater experiment.
The Report
Sometime afterwards, in a church I will call, the marble see, I was refused absolution from the confessor. One might think that I had committed some terrible monstrous crime against the church, but I had not. I you see, had missed mass for four straight Sunday's in a row; a crime to be abhorred. Considered a venial sin, I was required by law to report it, even though I myself had no reason to call it sin. Had I gone against my own heart, then sin to me would have been in that lie.
The Obstinate Child
Being a stubborn and obstinate child, when it came time for the parish priest to give me absolution, he had
asked me the biggest question of my life, (or so it now seems). "Are you sorry for your sins?" he
commanded. And my answer then, as it is now: "No, no I am not." "Well then," he insisted, "if you are not sorry for your sins, then how am I to give you absolution?" --- Phase one of the experiment was complete.
Home Away From Home
I just couldn't get myself to admit to this fellow that the reason I had not attended church was because I
was lonely and depressed. As I reminisced about my old neighborhood and friends, I subconsciously
missed my old hospitable church, Father Heart and our weekly ritual walk to the Italian bakery and home
again with half the goods eaten. Then again, how could I admit even this, when at the time, I myself had
no idea what was behind these rather emotional sensations. They were beyond word or reason. It would
have been beneath my dignity to insult this fellow by telling the truth, (had I known the truth, at the time). I
do not like your marble filled church of stone, for it is cold and empty to me, I would have said. I had
missed the security of a cozy but warm church. It was home away from home.
Branded
Needless to say, I was terribly hurt---No, not hurt, but in terrible, traumatic, emotional pain; and yet, I could
not understand why. What I did understand was this. My new church had let me down, my church had
condemned me; my church told me, that unless I told its' lie, I could never receive the sacred host. Guilt
mechanisms began to play havoc with my mind. Was I really a sinner? I questioned. Anyone raised in the
fifties and sixties will understand that we were brought up with the notion that you just did not go against
any adult authority. I was no different. As I walked out of that confessional, I somehow felt branded; as if
everyone could see what had just taken place. I was now a member of a lost tribe; a black sheep, so to
speak---a wanderer from the fold. Needless to say, I was uncomfortable and ill at ease. Church became,
in that moment, a very unwelcomed place; and the priesthood, became, not an extension of God, but
mere mortals; individuals who were prone to be wrong and in error as easily as the rest of us.
Refused Absolution
Refused absolution, an incident that would propel me, from what started out as a state of religious trauma,
into one, which would lead me into a state of immense inner spiritual self reliance. For this, I am grateful,
to a priest, whose name has always remained unknown.
That priest, you see, was to represent all of the inner questions I had so lazily left up to him. This minor
event, (and I do say minor, because in earthly time, it lasted for no more than fifteen minutes); was to
become the fountainhead, the driving force, that compelling metaphysical desire, that would ask: WHO AM
I? Or rather in my case, I began by asking: Who is he, anyway? Who is he, that I need him to talk to my
God? It was then, that I fully accepted the responsibility of addressing my own God most directly; without
priest, without wood, brick or marble walls. My body had become my holy temple, and my mind had
become the vehicle that would lead me to commune with God. I had taken responsibility for my life. ---Phase two of the experiment was complete.
Homemade Eucharist
Funny, isn't it, how the psychology of youth will implant on your sensory and memory banks, what was to
me a family day. All of these seemingly nonsensical things were all wrapped up with mother's Sunday
meal, when we were all together as a family unit. Needless to say, Sunday at mom's place never ceased
to exist. Neither did the aroma of freshly baked bread, which had become homemade, instead. After being
served, it became my habit to reshape it until it was flattened. I would then carefully eat while rotating it
around until I was left with a quarter size piece---the last bit being the best. With a little childhood
imagination and the closing of the eyes, real bread became holy Eucharist; and I the officiant. Church had
come home! --- And on that day, phase three was made complete because I had found my God in the eyes of my mother.
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