“There was nothing to leave.”
Koesler knew many former nuns. Most were leading well adjusted, productive lives. Many were married. If anything, this one did not appear to be all that well adjusted. Something was troubling her. What?
“How have you done since leaving?” he asked.
“Materially? Quite well.”
“Oh?”
“I’m in estate planning.”
Appropriate. The way she came across, she did not appear to be the type who would work well person to person. Better that she juggle figures than do counseling.
“I have no financial worries, ” she continued. “I’ve got a comfortable apartment at 1300 Lafayette.”
Thirteen hundred Lafayette, among one of the pricier high rises on the edge of downtown, was within walking distance of St. Joe’s. Koesler knew it well. “I’ve rung some doorbells there,” he said, “But I haven’t run into you.”
“You probably called during the day. I’m seldom home until late in the evening. But I’ve heard of you. I’ve attended Sunday Mass here over the past couple of months. You seem down to earth. So I decided to try confession.”
“You’re familiar with the new form? What we call the Sacrament of Reconciliation?”
She smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. “I saw the signs outside the confessional: private confession on the other side, face-to-face here. I chose this. Yes, of course I’m familiar with it. Vatican II happened some twenty-five years ago. I left the convent only six years ago. Actually, this is one of the very few changes that I came to like. I always thought the screens, the sliding panels, the anonymity was silly.”
“That brings up a question: The Council, indeed, took place in the early sixties. What took you so long to leave?”
She seemed overcome by the memory of all those years. “I had a commitment. I was determined to fulfill it. As it turned out, I should have left years earlier. By the time I was forced to decide, there was nothing left. I was skating on water. All the reasons I had chosen Catholicism over the other religions disappeared after that Council. I just wouldn’t let myself believe it. I kept telling myself the changes were God’s will-that, in time, things would work out. I was wrong. And, in my mistake, I wasted some twenty years of my life-twenty very precious years.” She seemed drained.
So that was it. The lady was bitter. Well, in a way, she deserved to be resentful. On the other hand, the wasted time was her own responsibility. No one had barred the convent door, imprisoning her. Although in her circumstances a decision to leave or stay had to be painful, nonetheless it remained her decision to make.
“Isn’t it a bit overdrawn, ” he suggested, “to say that your time in religious life was a complete waste? I’m sure you accomplished lots of things you can be justly proud of. You don’t seem the type who would just vegetate all those years-or stand in some corner and pout.”
She sat up straight, head erect. “Oh, yes, I accomplished some things. I signed up to teach, and I taught. That’s not the point. The point is I wasted my life. The life I should have lived. The things I should have done … they’re gone. They will never come back.”
Koesler reckoned that nothing would be accomplished by trying to find a silver lining in the seemingly impenetrable cloud she had made of her years as a nun. Not now in any case.
He led her through a confession that revealed little beyond her having been a careless Catholic-missing Sunday Mass, neglecting any sort of purposeful spiritual life, and the like. For a penance, he urged her to try to set aside a regular time to read and meditate on the Bible. She expressed sorrow for sin. He absolved her and, seemingly somewhat mellowed, she left.
Strange: consecutive penitents, women of approximately the same age, yet how different from each other. They were almost the embodiment of the present delicate state of the Church, the disparate byproducts of that Second Vatican Council.
For some Catholics, the Council had not come anywhere near to achieving what it had set out to do. Penitent “A” would be one product of that.
For others, the Council had virtually destroyed the Church they loved. Penitent “B” fell into that category. For the rest-the passive majority? — something had happened, they knew not what. But give them a relatively quiet Sunday liturgy without too many demands made of them, and they would go along with most of this foolishness- even the handshake of peace.
Koesler’s mental ramblings were cut short by the sound of someone entering the opposite confessional, the one labeled “private confessions.”
Actually, the “private confessions” confessional essentially was no different from the ones Catholics had been used to for centuries. Equipped with a kneeler and an armrest fixed to the wall facing the priest, the cubicle had a rectangular opening fitted with a curtain and/or screen and a sliding panel that could be opened and closed by the priest. The purpose of this arrangement was to offer anonymity to the penitent, who waited, in the dark-there was no light fixture-for the priest to open the panel, at which point the penitent was instructed to speak in whispers. Thus unseen and speaking only in a whisper, the penitent’s anonymity was virtually guaranteed. Almost all Catholic churches were now well equipped with the “face-to-face” setup as well as some form of the earlier confidential facility.
In Old St. Joe’s, one of the former private cubicles had been remodeled and outfitted with the penitent’s chair, the table holding the Bible, a candle, and, in this case, the execrable plant.
Koesler could hear the unseen penitent’s fumbling footsteps as he felt his way in the dark before dropping to his knees on the low step. Without bothering to turn his head toward the curtain and screen that separated him from the penitent, Koesler slid open the panel.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the whisper. “My last confession was about a month ago.”
Seems like old times-the whispered voice, the monthly confession.
“I was angry at work a few times. And a couple of times I blew up at my secretary. But she is incompetent. Only I can’t fire her. And … here’s the one that’s got me puzzled: My wife says I’m creating a wrong attitude in my son … giving him a false set of values.”
“Oh?”
“See, one day last week, my son’s school showed a movie on Nelson Mandela. The kids who went to the movie were supposed to donate a dollar. The proceeds were to go to the Afro-American Museum. I made sure he had the dollar before I left for work. So when he got home from school, my wife asked him about the movie. He told her that the projector broke down in the middle of the first reel. And, he said, they didn’t even give his dollar back. Then my wife bawled him out for being so stingy. She told him how the dollar went to a good cause and he shouldn’t even think about getting it back.
“But I didn’t know about any of this. So when I got home from work, I asked him how the movie was. And he told me how the projector broke down so he didn’t get to see the movie. And then I asked him if they gave him his dollar back.”
Father Koesler’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Gently, he sided with the man’s wife, while sympathizing with the penitent’s initial reaction to the contribution with no dividend. After issuing a penance, as the penitent recited the prayer of contrition, Koesler absolved him.
After a few moments, Koesler heard the front door of the church clang shut. Which meant that the man who’d just confessed had departed, or that a new penitent had arrived-or both. From inside the confessional, there was no way the priest could tell.
Koesler leaned back in his chair and again became lost in thought. His memory stretched back into the days before the Council.
Twenty-five or thirty or more years ago, Saturday afternoons usually found an unending line of kids streaming in and out of the confessional. All said virtually the same thing: They “just obeyed” their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, baby-sitters, garbage collectors-casual strangers, for that matter. Not only were they habitually disobedient, they also committed “adultry” before they knew what it was or what it involved.
Then there was always the kid whose previous confession had been just last week, but in that time, he’d missed Sunday Mass four times.
Don’t ask! Interrupt the little ones in their by-rote recitations of memorized sins, and the computers in their little heads would shortcircuit, reducing them to impenetrable silence. Then how to get them to finish the list and
