Tommy and I

In the 1960's, I went to confession at Saint Joe's Catholic Church in Libertyville, Illinois.

Ours was a typical post-war Catholic family: nine kids - five boys and four girls, bouncing off each other 24/7. We all went to the same mass every Sunday and ate a whole pew.

At the age of seven, my religious training kicked in. Now, I was expected to drink the Kool-Aid. That spring, I received my first communion. The church wanted me, a seven-year-old, to accept that Christ died on the cross for my sins. I'm seven; what the hell have I done wrong, and how did torturing this guy fix anything? To cap it off, communion involved eating the world's worst cracker that was somehow Jesus' body and drinking watered-down wine that was his blood. Also, we all drank from the same cup, which was disgusting.

To make matters worse, you went to your first confession the day before your first communion. Here's what that was about. Catholics believe that everyone is born with a soul. At birth, original sin tarnished your soul. Then you did some bad stuff on your own and added more dirt to your soul. At seven, the church expected you to know about sin. We memorized the Ten Commandments. I understood most of them, but it's hard to explain coveting your neighbor's wife to a seven-year-old me (more on this later). Eventually, I wondered why it wasn't a sin to covet your neighbor's husband. Oh, and you could not covet your neighbor's slaves or cattle, damn.

Confession was the only way to spiff up your soul and get rid of those goddamn sins (by writing "goddamn sins," I just committed a sin - goddamn it). To confess, you went into a closet at the back of the church, knelt, and told a priest what you had been up to. He then told the appropriate penance by saying some number of Hail Marys and a couple of Our Fathers for good measure. The last words from the priest were, "Now let's make a good Act of Contrition." While you struggled to remember the prayers' words, the priest made hand signals. He mumbled, presumably updating your file in Heaven.

In summary, the church manipulated us with guilt – guilt – guilt. That included all of us seven-year-old f'ups.

For the next few years, I went to confession once a month. The church wanted to keep track of how I was sinning away. Sister Clarisine (rhymes with kerosene) taught me to keep my soul in good shape because my time in purgatory was based on the unforgivable sins messing up Tommie at my death. Purgatory was the place you went before Heaven unless you were Mary, Christ's mom. She had a get-out-of-jail-free card and went directly to Heaven (it pays to have connections). In purgatory, any unforgiven sins are removed from your soul. Fire was somehow part of the program.

I kept on going to confession to keep Tommy looking good in case I got hit by a train on a Tuesday morning.

Years later, I asked a couple of siblings about their confession stories.

Betsy confessed to Father Lawry (who was mostly deaf) that she had told three lies. Father Lawry shouted back at her, "STOLE THREE PIES!" Everyone in church knew that Betsy was a pastry thief. If she stole pies, were cakes safe? What about doughnuts?

Margret's tale involved stealing a candy bar from Woolworth's Five and Dime. Were all my sisters stealing sweets? The priest went over the top with her penance. He said she had to return to the store, tell the manager what she had done, and pay for the candy bar. Margret did just that. She was one good Catholic.

Pete told of a sin he couldn't confess. A neighbor's mom was showing the kids a dime store turtle. She bent down, and Pete caught a glimpse down her blouse. He was embarrassed and looked away. No harm, no foul. Then Pete looked down her blouse with sinful intent; he was doing some coveting. Pete said,

"You might make up and confess a sin in lieu of a sin you really committed if the sin was too big to confess. Coveting your neighbor's wife as I had, for example. I couldn't tell the priest I'd peeked down the neighbor lady's blouse. No boy in his right mind could do that. So, I would substitute a more childlike sin. Stealing a cookie was always good."

Once again, stealing carbs - his soul carried that coveting smudge and the stain of plenty more un-confessed sins to his grave.

When I was around ten, I skipped confession for a couple of months. Tommy was a little grimy. On the first warm and sunny Saturday that spring, before joining a pick-up baseball game in front of the church, I decided to run in and say a quick confession. Like a moron, I went to Father Lawry. He had the shortest line, and I was in a hurry. I started the confession with, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession." Then all hell broke loose. He shouts, "THREE MONTHS!" and proceeds to trash me, my parents, and everyone I have ever loved. Everyone in church knew I was headed for prison and then eternal damnation; at least I wasn't a lying pie or candy bar or cookie thief like Betsy, Margret, and Pete.

Father Lawry ruined a perfect day; I felt like a turd. He also lost my soul in the bargain. I was through with confession and the church from then on.

If I go to confession tomorrow, it will start this way: "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 56 years since my last confession."

Tommy looks awful these days.