vestibule? It’ll give you the times when we hear confessions at St. Joe’s.”
She smiled. “I’ll do that.”
He blessed her and she left.
It seemed to Father Koesler that he’d been engaged in this sort of activity-demythologizing Church teaching- for an awfully long time now. Since shortly after he’d been ordained thirty-eight years ago.
Then, as now, the most frequent misunderstanding was over birth control. Just before Koesler had been ordained, Pope Pius XII had, in effect, blessed the rhythm method of family planning. Now it seemed archaic. But at the time it was a monumental relief for Catholics, who, until then, had had no acceptable recourse but abstinence.
In his early days of hearing confessions, Koesler had been surprised by the number of penitents who told him that some previous priest had given “permission” to use the rhythm method for a specific number of months. Would Koesler grant an extension?
At that point Koesler had felt forced to explain that it was not the priest’s place to treat rhythm as a privilege to be granted, withheld or measured. If advice was sought, priests could advise, but they had no business beyond offering their opinion. And then only if the opinion was requested.
Once again, it was a matter of the individual’s conscience being the final authority. And it was the individual’s responsibility to shape that conscience.
No one had followed the previous penitent into the confessional. No surprise there. In the “good old days, ” as the woman had put it, in most parishes there was seldom an interval between penitents. People who confessed once or twice a year did so at Christmas and Easter, and were customarily scolded for not coming more often. It had been, as the woman said, a monthly experience for most, though more often for some.
Slowly-after the Second Vatican Council in the early sixties-things changed. Perhaps the most radical change, as far as confession was concerned, was a transition in the concept of sin. Particularly in the Catholic concept of mortal sin. Upon disturbing reflection, it made little sense to many that God would vacillate between sending one to heaven or hell dependent on a single event-missing Mass of a Sunday, eating a pork chop on Friday.
With one thing and another, the “good old days” seemed gone forever.
It was difficult, from the confines of the confessional, to determine whether or not there was anyone else in the church. “Old St. Joseph’s,” as it was called more often than not, truly was an elderly edifice. Established in 1856, it had now been declared a historic landmark. In addition to an abundance of Gothic arches, it was overflowing with pictures, windows, and statues depicting God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph of course, and lots of other saints. Over the years in the archdiocese of Detroit, eleven other churches had been dedicated to St. Joseph. But “Old St. Joe’s” in downtown Detroit had been the first.
Once it had been a thriving parish with an adjacent Catholic high school for boys, run by the Christian Brothers. But with the shift in population to the suburbs, St. Joe’s had become merely a historical as well as an architectural curiosity. Then, with the erection of a series of nearby high-rise apartments and condominiums, “Old St. Joe’s” had the potential for a new life.
Father Koesler, after a lengthy pastorate in a suburban parish, had been pastor of St. Joe’s just a little more than a year now. And, due in large part to his diligent work, there had been a significant comeback. At least Sunday Mass attendance was healthy and growing.
Koesler’s satisfying thoughts about his flourishing flock were interrupted by a woman who entered the confessional and seated herself across from him.
Her appearance was in stark contrast to that of the previous woman. Koesler could not help notice the difference. He knew neither, but this woman was at least vaguely familiar. If he was not mistaken, she had been attending Mass at St. Joe’s for the past few months.
But the extreme contrast! What a coincidence that they had appeared, one after the other, on this leisurely Saturday afternoon.
Woman “A” had been dressed appropriately for just what she claimed she had been doing-shopping at the Eastern Market. She had worn faded jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt several sizes too large, and no makeup.
Woman “B” wore a well-fitted business suit that accentuated her attractive matronly figure. Her hair looked as if it had been “done” recently. Her makeup had been carefully, artfully applied. But her lips, unlike those of Woman “A,” were thin, tight, and disapproving.
Koesler waited a moment, then offered, “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you, ” she responded.
Well, at least she was familiar with the updated formula. At this point either the priest or the penitent might have suggested a relevant Scripture reading. But she said nothing, so, in the tentative circumstances, he thought it better not to delay getting to the heart of the matter.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said, after a moment. “My last confession was six years ago.”
“You recall that it was six years?”
“Yes.”
Odd that without hesitation she could pinpoint her last previous confession at six years. Not “about” six years, “approximately” six years, six years “more or less,” but “six years” exactly. “Was there something special that happened in your life when you made your last confession?”
She almost smiled. “I left the convent.”
Surprised, Koesler asked, “Did you leave the Church too then?”
“No, no, not that … at least I kept coming to Sunday Mass pretty faithfully. But-”
“Did you go to confession regularly while you were a nun?”
She shrugged. “I suppose that was the problem.” She thought for a moment. “No, maybe it was more the symptom.”
Koesler’s look was a question.
“I was a convert in my teens …” She hesitated. “Do you have time for this?”
He nodded. “I’m in no hurry.”
She shifted in the chair and looked away. She was remembering. “My parents had no religion, so they gave me none. Sometime during high school, I felt I was just drifting, especially compared with some of my classmates who had … faith. Who were committed to one or another religion. I became interested in Catholicism … probably because a close friend was Catholic.”
Koesler almost smiled as he recalled the old story of the Catholic girl who wanted her fiance to convert to her religion. To please her, he started taking instructions-and ended up going to the seminary and becoming a priest. Had this woman’s “close friend” been a young man who, wanting to marry her, had gotten her interested in his Catholic religion only to lose out when, tragically for him, she entered the convent and became a nun? Koesler didn’t interrupt. It was her story.
“Anyway, I found just about everything I seemed to need in Catholicism. So, as I’ve already mentioned, I entered the convent. I became a nun.
“You asked if I went to confession regularly when I was a nun.” Her smile was bitter. “Every week-to a priest whom we called our regular confessor.”
“And, ” Koesler completed her thought, “four times a year to one who was called your ‘extraordinary’ confessor.”
She glanced at him. “That’s right.”
Early in his priesthood, Koesler had been assigned as a regular confessor for a group of almost thirty nuns. Thirty nuns confessing every week! In their sinless lives these women had not prepared lesson plans, failed in promptitude, and committed similar crimes. Why a regular confessor? Who knew? There was even a regulation that, for a valid confession, a screen was required to separate the confessor and the penitent nun. Prompting the story of the nun who wanted to go to confession to her pastor in the rectory where there was no established confessional. So the priest held up a fly swatter between them.
“Then, ” Koesler said, “there came a time when there were no more regular or extraordinary confessors.”
She nodded. “Then, ” she added, “there came a time when the ‘community’ disappeared. So many of my Sisters left. So few women were entering. So many nuns decided to get into apostolates that had nothing to do with the purpose of our order.” She shook her head, “There was nothing left.”
“So you left religious life.”
