The Darker Side

'It's no different than anything else. If there was no Internet, there'd be less pornography and child exploitation. But what about all the good done because the Internet exists? Commerce, free flow of information, breaking down culture barriers and xenophobia because people can talk to each other across the world? Anything can be used for good or evil. That includes the church and interpretations of the Bible.'

'Talk to me about confession, Father. Tell me what it means to you.'

His eyes find Jesus again. 'In my opinion, holy confession is the most important service the church can offer. The real reason that monster's words are going to hit home to people is not because they're particularly revolutionary, but because the fact is, most of us walk around with secrets that eat away at us every minute of every day. I have had confessors sob with relief after confessing just a minor misdeed.'

'Most of these people did some really awful things. What about that?'

'I've heard some terrible things in my time, yes, it's true. Terrible things. And there have been those who weren't particularly repentant. But the vast majority struggle under the burden of the bad things they've done. Most people judge themselves much harder than you or I would. Hearing confession hasn't jaded me, it's had the opposite effect. I truly believe in the basic decency of humanity.'

'That's a tough sell with me, Father,' I say.

'Amen,' Alan mutters.

He smiles. 'That's understandable. You spend your time with men and women who sin without remorse-- worse, with enjoyment. I promise you, the more common example of man is the mother who has to be coaxed into forgiving herself because she got tired and raised her voice at her child. We're flawed, not evil.'

'Do you hear about everything?' I ask.

'Most things. People hold things back sometimes. Taking confession isn't a rote activity. It's an art form. You have to build trust in your parishioners. They have to know you won't treat them differently after you hear about their sexual peccadilloes or petty crimes, or worse.'

'There have to have been times you've heard something really bad. Murder or child molestation. How do you treat that person the same afterward?'

He shrugs. It's not a 'who knows' kind of shrug. It's a motion that says, 'I have no other answer than the one you're about to hear.'

'It's my sacred duty.'

'Must be tough sometimes.'

'There have been moments,' he allows.

'How do you deal with it when you hear about something hap pening right now?' Alan asks. 'A father who's molesting his kids, for example. Or a guy who confesses that he has HIV from sleeping with hookers but continues to sleep with his wife?'

'I pray, Agent Washington. I pray for strength. I pray that the act of confession itself will prevent that person from continuing to sin. Yes, it's tough. But if I break the seal of confession because of the sins of one man or woman, I make myself unavailable to the hundreds of decent people who need me as Father Confessor. Should I make hundreds pay for the sins of one?'

'That's it? No exceptions?'

'I am allowed to urge penitents to turn themselves in to the police if it's a criminal matter, and I can even withhold absolution if they refuse, but I can't break the seal of confession.'

Alan shakes his head. 'I don't envy you your job, Father, especially since I can see that you're a thinker. Must keep you awake at nights.'

Father Yates smiles. 'Some survive on the strength of faith. Some survive intellectually, their thoughts guided by scripture. I fall somewhere in between. I have crises, all priests do. Nuns for that matter. Mother Teresa struggled with personal darkness and doubts about God for most of her life.'

'Have you seen real change in people?' I ask.

'Of course. Not always, but enough to keep me happy.'

'What's the common thread? For those who change?'

He considers my question. 'Contrition. True contrition. It's one thing to confess to a sin. True contrition, in my opinion, requires change as a basic component. If you are contrite, you change. If you are not, you won't.'

'Was Rosemary contrite?'

'I believe so, yes.'

The glimmering in my mind is getting stronger. There's some thing here, in what we're talking about. It's not just a flicker at the corner of my eye anymore; it's an itch I can't reach.

'Can I see the inside of your confessional, Father?'

He pauses for some time, studying me. I don't feel uncomfortable or violated by his scrutiny. There's too much kindness there. He stands up. 'Follow me.'

'I'll wait here,' Alan calls after me. 'Maybe do a little praying about getting enough sleep tonight.'

I give him a halfhearted wave as I follow Father Yates toward the confessional booth. Two things are happening at the same time here; the thing I'm trying to see is getting clearer, stronger, brighter, and the voice in my head, the one that makes my stomach do loop-deloops, is back. I feel a cold, greasy sweat break out on my forehead.

'Let's give you the full experience,' Father Yates says as we approach the confessional booth. 'I'll take up my normal position and you take the place of the penitent.'

'Sure,' I say, but I can hardly hear my own voice. Too many bat wings flapping around in my head.

I open the door and enter. There's little light here. The booth is small and sparse, made of dark, poorly stained wood. A kneeler is set on the floor below the lattice screen that divides priest and penitent. I close the door and stare down at the kneeler.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I think. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

This time the voice speaks out loud: See me.

I kneel in an instant. For some reason, this makes the voice go silent.

Father Yates slides the window open.

'Smaller than I remember,' I say.

'I take it you were much younger the last time you confessed,' he replies, amused.

'Well, let's see . . . bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been--

hmmm--about twenty-seven years since my last confession.'

'I see. Do you have anything to confess, my child?'

I freeze. I feel something rising inside me. It's angry and ugly and bitter.

'Is that what you were thinking when you were looking at me back there, Father? That you'd get me in here and I'd spill my guts and find my faith again?'

'Just the spill your guts part,' he says, calm. 'I think it's a little too soon for the last.'

'Screw you.'

He sighs. 'Agent Barrett, you are here, I am here, and inside these small walls, you're safe. You can rage in here, you can weep in here, you can tell me anything, and it remains between you, me, and Christ. Something is troubling you, I can tell. Why not talk about it?'

'The last guy I told all my secrets to tried to kill me, Father.' I'm surprised at how cold my voice sounds.

'Yes, I read about that. I can understand your misgivings. Perhaps if you can't extend your faith to God, you can extend it to me? I've never broken a confidence.'

'I believe you,' I allow.

I do. I can't deny that with this environment comes a yearning. It's deep and piercing and the fact of that is the cause of a lot of my anger. See me, the voice had said. The problem was not that I couldn't see what it was asking. The problem was that I could never stop seeing it. The need to tell someone my secret, finally, to get it off my chest, the possibility that it would bring me some peace-- God or no God--

promises a relief so strong that I can feel it crawling across my skin like an army of ants.

I breathe in and out, fast. My heart is racing. My hands are clenched together, more in desperation than supplication.

'I don't know if I believe in God anymore, Father,' I whisper. 'Is it right to confess if I'm so unsure He even