Two days ago I was fortunate enough to go to a regional Reconciliation Service for Confession. We had a few hundred people show up, and seven priests. I found myself in what I call a Wal-Mart situation. You know, where you choose a line and every other line moves at a faster rate.
In front of me was a guy we'll call J. He's eighteen and had to make it to a play for class that was in twenty minutes and the door would be locked as it started. So I prodded him to ask the four middle aged women before us if he could go before them, and eventually he agreed to ask as I stressed to him how much they'd be willing to let an eighteen year old who wanted to receive the sacrament in front of them if it was a matter of him getting it or not. They gladly did, and at that moment I felt a great deal more peaceful about waiting in the line.
When it was my turn, it was a kindly old priest whose name I did not know. It was one of the best Confessions of my life and one of the most epic penances to be certain. But I realized later that I didn't even know his name. When I mentioned how strange it was to have confessed to someone I didn't even know the name of, my friend S who is joining the Franciscans this Fall pointed out gently, "That's the beauty of the Sacraments, we don't need to know the priest for them to have efficacy. God takes care of that part."
Put in that light, it seems all the better.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment