Daily Archives: 2013/01/10

Before becoming a hermit, I think that the Lord wanted to show me a few things around this world of His. He prepared me for moving around later in life at breakneck speed by having me thrown around various schools both public ☆ and parochial ✟ in my childhood. Let’s see:

I only mention all that since it was precisely for this number of schools early on in life that I was later labeled a troublemaker by the rector of a certain seminary over in Rome. He said that it is not possible to go to so many different schools in childhood without it being my fault, and that this looks very bad on my record. I love that. I’m a troublemaker and I don’t even have to try!

I can’t brag about trouble making in this case, however, since it was all beyond my control. Besides local politics, what with my father being a public figure, church politics, what with our being members of a parish with a school, the new bussing politics, which needed some support for a snazzy new school, changing residency locations some twenty two miles away, and just plain changing schools for the reason that grade schools are not junior high schools, which, in turn, are not high schools, which, of themselves, are not prep schools. Mind you, I don’t think I would have gone to any prep school if it had not also ended up being my local parish high school after relocating to the forests of North central Minnesota.

This was not the last time I was to have the moniker of troublemaker thrown at me by various ecclesiastics right through the decades of my priesthood, and for the same reason: frequent change of assignments, they said, meant that it was necessarily my fault that there was a move, which necessarily had to be for negative reasons. This judgment prescinded explicitly from actual circumstances. That I was not infrequently moved about as a troubleshooter made no difference. Perhaps troubleshooting is understood as troublemaking for those who are politically correct unto the lowest common denominator of horror. That’s not to say, of course, that I didn’t actually make trouble by simply staying the course when certain others wished me to reject the doctrine and morality, the law and liturgy of Holy Mother Church.

Such accusations of troublemaking make me want to scream out that I am guilty of so very much more, for – don’t you know? – I have crucified the Son of the Living God because of my many sins. Accuse me of that!

* * *

Back to our story: I had now just turned eight years old, and was finishing out second grade. It was the Spring of 1968, meaning that it was before the publication of Humanae vitae, the Encyclical Letter of Pope Paul VI on morality, human life, marriage, pro-creation, and the evils of contraception and abortion.

We were preparing as best we could for first Confession just before receiving first Holy Communion. For this year I was signed up at our parish’s Catholic grade school named after Saint Paul, just like the parish church. Perhaps our Monsignor had said that it would be easier for me to receive these sacraments if I were to be a regular student at the school.

Being at Saint Paul’s was hardly different from being at Wilson School. Recess on the playground at the Catholic school made for just as much an urban jungle as did the playground of the public school.

The only thing different, surprisingly, was that the religion textbook for the religion course of the Catholic school was not as good as the little catechism I had been using the previous year for the weekly Wednesday evening C.C.D. lessons. In fact, it was so dumbed down that I had to hunt for my sister’s old mid-level Baltimore Catechism, which had all the prayers and explanations of the sacraments of Penance and Holy Communion in the back, not to mention the sections in the text of the catechism, which thoroughly explained those sacraments. I studied these on my own, memorizing, and memorizing still more. I surprised myself that I could be so studious.

Mind you, it wasn’t just memorizing. I remember in particular what I can only call an event. I was unduly upset for a reprimand I had received from my mom downstairs in the laundry room, she having been worried for my safety in that I had built a fort underneath the basement steps with the heavy boxes and trunks of stored items. In those moments of being upset, as I was making my way up the stairs to go outside, it all came to me in a flash. I froze halfway up the steps, like Socrates, but not for the fits of pique he would have for not understanding something, for I was instead immobilized because I felt it to be a great privilege to be before the glory of the truth. I comprehended what I had been studying in a blaze of light, each piece of information in view of all the others. But this wasn’t merely my first experience with what it means to think, to be academic, to study. That, too. But this was especially about standing humbly before Him who is truth. There I stood, half gripping, half draped over the banister of that rickety basement staircase, for minutes on end, in dread awe.

Standing there, I made a review of all that I knew. I could recite all the prayers of the rosary, including the Credo, just in case any of these were to be given as a penance, as well as the act of contrition. I knew just how to go to Confession when it was my turn to kneel down in the Confessional boxes we had at that time: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession. These are my sins…” The priest, I knew, couldn’t ever tell anyone the sins I confessed. The Seal of Confession had to be respected. I was quite proud – silly me – that I could recite the grades of sin and their differences, and the essentials needed for an integral and valid Confession. Best of all, however, was realizing that this was all so very personal, a meeting in friendship with the very Son of God.

In the classroom, on the day itself, we received some last minute encouragement and instructions from the Benedictine nun who was teaching us, and then we walked two by two in long lines over to the church. We had already had a practice session in the church itself the day before, just the basics about where to sit, line up, and how to go back to our pews. We went into church, wet our fingers with some holy water, and made the Sign of the Cross as we genuflected to the Blessed Sacrament in the Sanctuary of the Church, scooting, then, along the length of the pews until we filled them one by one.

I was nervous, going over my confession in my head, trying to remember what I had memorized and practiced so often. I soon let myself be distracted by watching the other kids who were lining up as we waited. Some had poker faces, but most others looked sad, which is a good thing for repentance. In seeing that, I figured I wasn’t very repentant. After all, I was being so very distracted. The class clown, while trying to look cheery, as usual, instead betrayed some real fear. I understood right then just how superficial clowning can be. I felt sorry for him. I wished he could calm down, that he could understand.

I wasn’t paying attention to those who were coming out of the Confessional and going back to their pews, but other kids were saying things like “Oooo, look at him! He’s happy!” “Look at her smile!” “He was afraid before, but look at him now!” I looked, and they were right. All the faces of those leaving the Confessional were radiant, but I wasn’t completely convinced. Could it be that they were just happy it was over? I was immediately determined to turn my first Confession into an experiment. My plan was to note how I myself felt as I was going into the Confessional, and then to note how I felt coming out.

Soon it was the turn for everyone in my pew to line up. We all stood up, some genuflecting in our places, some not. We didn’t know what to do with the Confessional being in back of the Church and the Tabernacle being in front, with us circling round the side of the Church. We hadn’t practiced this part.

So far, my plan was working. I noticed what I felt like before going in. How could I not? I was nervous, going before the Tribunal of God’s mercy, God, who showed me that He loved me some six years previously in that very church just a few pew’s away. Would I get it all wrong? Would I make a fool of myself before the priest? God already knew how needy I was, but loved me anyway. But I wanted Him to be proud of me giving Him my sins, a brilliant Catholic paradox.

It was a miracle in itself that I didn’t trip over myself going into the penitent’s side of the Confessional. A couple of boys did, so nervous were they. I hadn’t been paying attention at all to the logistics of who went in to what side of where the priest was. I didn’t realize that there was a penitent on either side, but that only one would confess at a time. When one was confessing, the priest would slide the little door of the screen open, so that he could hear the confession of sins being made, while the other little sliding door for the screen for the second penitent stayed closed, so that, while this second one was waiting to confess, he couldn’t hear the first person’s confession. I knew none of this.

Pulling the weighted red-velvet curtain aside, I went in. The curtain fell back into place. There was no one there. No priest. And it was dark! I looked around. Nothing. Surely this isn’t where I was supposed to be! My eyes adjusted to the bit of light coming in from under the velvet curtain, and I realized there was a kneeler, and some kind of screen, and a crucifix. Where was the priest? He had to be there somewhere! I then did what I always did when looking for something. I climbed the walls. As soon as I was basically scaling the ceiling of the Confessional, already making my confession – not knowing what else to do – the priest slid the little door open and I realized just how very foolish I can be before the majestic Tribunal of God’s Mercy. I dropped down quickly, scaring the priest, and got right down to business.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession. These are my sins…” When all was said and done and the little door for the screen slid shut, I thought that it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was all pretty cool. It wasn’t just that I had a sense of accomplishment. I was really taken by the magnificent friendship of God. I went back to my pew, genuflecting before hopping on to the bench and then going down on my knees to pray my penance.

But I couldn’t pray. The other kids in the pew behind me were poking me and saying, “Look at his face! Look at his face!” talking about me. I then remembered my plan to take note of how I felt after confession. Oh my! Only then did I realize that I was absolutely radiating joy. I could not for the life of me not smile. I tried. My smile went from ear to ear. I hadn’t noticed it until then, so intent was I in finishing what I was doing with the Lord. But now I did notice. I was so happy, so very happy. Now I was convinced. Confession was the best thing ever. I planned to go regularly, and did.

I was the happiest little boy on the planet. But that would not last. It would not be long before I would receive my first Holy Communion. This was to be a most catastrophic event. I would be the most unhappy little boy on the face of the earth, truly.

It would be events such as that which would have me thrown back into public schools the very next year. Very dark times were coming upon the Church. No one, whether in previous years or in the years to come, would ever have the experience I was to have, for it was unique to 1968. It was to mark me deeply. I was surely to become a troublemaker for wanting respect for our Lord, and not just because I was being moved from school to school.

Click on the “continue reading” button to glance over the questions and answers for the mid-level Baltimore Catechism of the time… ☞ Continue reading →