Corpus

Today is the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ. It is this (liturgical) weekend 2 years ago that I, for the first time in roughly 15 years, returned fully to the Church through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and in that regard it is the anniversary of a watershed moment in my life.

The events leading up to my reversion, so to speak, forced me to mature emotionally and spiritually in an unreasonably short period of time. It was “sink or swim” in that moment. Thankfully, because of conversations with a good friend, I had begun talking and thinking about my faith more. I had started praying and reading scripture daily. I had placed my hope and trust in Christ, and thank God I did. As I left work that particular Friday, I knew I had a big step in front of me — the final leap of faith I needed to make.

I hadn’t gone to Confession since I was in high school. In fact, it may have been before my Confirmation that I had made my last Confession. In that regard, as a full-fledged member of the body of Christ, I had almost certainly spent nearly all of my time separated from it.

Like most parishes now, the one I was familiar with (though not my own and certainly not the closest) had Reconciliation for an hour or so before the Saturday evening anticipatory Mass for Sunday. I spent most of the day Saturday dreading it. Having never been at this parish, I wasn’t even sure where the confessional was! I knew basically what I should do when I got in there, but I was nervous because of the length of time I’d been away and the nature of what I needed to confess. No murders, to be sure, but lots of other things that certainly deserved damnation, or at least a severe penance. This was no “Say 3 Our Fathers and 3 Hail Marys … now say an Act of Contrition”-type situation!

I walk into the empty church and find a pew. This parish has a huge, beautifully-sculpted wooden crucifix that hangs from the ceiling. I knelt and stared at the crucifix, losing concentration only to get my bearings regarding my ultimate goal — reconciliation. The priest, a very kind, middle-aged Ugandan man, emerged from the confessional, apparently sensing no line, and prepared the sanctuary a bit for Mass. I was petrified. I didn’t want to walk up to him and ask him to hear my confession for fear of losing my anonymity, but I also didn’t want to miss my chance if he had already given up on anyone coming for that day.

For what felt like an eternity, I sat (im)patiently as Father thumbed through the lectionary at the ambo. He eventually returned to the confessional, and a few minutes later, I joined him. I couldn’t tell for sure, since there was a screen, but in my mind’s eye he sat there mouth agape from the time I said, “it has been 15 years since my last confession.” I spilled my guts. Everything flowed out rather easily once I got going. The one benefit of my situation was that it wasn’t really all that hard to examine my conscience. Pretty much, oh, everything from the past 15 years needed to be confessed. The Ten Commandments had been treated like a to-do list, and now I was checking them off.

Father was incredibly gracious. He thanked me for returning to the Church, spoke a bit about God’s unending mercy, and gave me my penance — to read and reflect on Luke 15. Those three parables in Luke 15 are the go-to examples of God’s mercy. And like the father in the story of the prodigal son, Father was elated that I had come back. I was home. I began to tear up, but kept it mostly together as I said the Act of Contrition, chewing on every word as it came out.

The tangible effects were apparent the moment I walked out of the church. It became easier to smile. I felt at home in the church once more, not like an outsider. A calm came over me that I hadn’t felt for a very long time.

The spiritual effects came a little more slowly, or maybe in just a different way. In a lot of ways, I’m still feeling them. I try to take advantage of the sacrament whenever I can, but never less than once every 2–3 weeks, whether I “need” it or not. The truth is, we all need it, and need it always. Every so often I’ll be at a parish where the line for the confessional is at least as long as the line for communion, and it makes me happy. Those people, my brothers and sisters in Christ, fellow members of the body of Christ, see in the sacrament what I do. Through the priest, God is extending His mercy to us in a real, physical way. God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His son has reconciled the world to Himself — and I get to experience it firsthand.