bearing blog

Sightseers.

A little background, first.

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One of the things I took away from my in-depth reading of Introduction to the Devout Life was the importance of making a distinction between sins and weaknesses.    I wrote here:

 Sin and weakness are distinct problems, and so Francis means to give distinct advice about them.  

Perhaps five hundred years ago people made more careful distinctions among the categories of sin, temptations to sin, and weakness. They are not the same. A sin is a specific act; a temptation to sin is an internal or external urge toward a specific act; weakness is, I would venture, a tendency to be assuaged by and easily overcome by temptations of a particular sort. The more I read this book, the more I come to believe that our attempts to reform ourselves are seriously muddied by treating weakness as sin and sin as weakness.

For example, lots of people write about their weaknesses (vanity, laziness, impatience, selfishness, gluttonous tendencies) with a distinct tone of guilt. But guilt or compunction is entirely inappropriate towards weaknesses. It's appropriate towards sin, towards sins -- towards instances when our weaknesses made it easier for us to be overcome by temptation, and so we committed sins against charity or whatever.

I wrote more specifically about the distinction between gluttony-the-weakness and gluttony-the-sin in the comments here.  I wrote some here about the replacement of the weakness of gluttony with the weakness of vanity.  And, pointedly, I came away from Francis's writings with the distinct impression that, in the confessional, confessing weaknesses as if they were sins is to accuse yourself of generalities, almost as good as making no confession at all.  

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That's one of the most fruitful ideas that I inferred from Francis's work:  that guilt or compunction is inappropriate response toward your own weakness.  (Just as condemnation would be an inappropriate response to someone else's).  Since I took that in and understood it, the sacrament of confession has been wonderfully simplified for me and -- I believe -- more honest.  

It is so, so easy to hide behind a screen euphemisms and generalities.  If you forbid yourself from confessing weaknesses, you are left only with your sins.    Not:  I was impatient with my children, but this:  I struck one child in anger and yelled hurtful things to another.  Not:  I keep getting distracted in prayer,  but this: I deliberately passed up opportunities to pray when my mind was clearer.  Not:  I am still struggling with gluttony,  but this:  I ate the last of the cookies, the ones that were supposed to be saved for the kids' tea time, and lied about it later.

You see how that works.

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During Lent I finally found a good time and place to go to confession frequently, and I've been returning monthly ever since.    And I have been marveling at the quiet but forceful effects of confessing regularly.

It works, I now see, because I found a time and place that's convenient to my schedule, not necessarily to my tastes.  I make my confession on a kneeler before a screen, in a "reconciliation room," off a small, modern chapel, deep within a large, old church near my home.  For privacy's sake, the sign requests penitents to refrain from occupying the small modern chapel; we wait in line in the hall outside, and after absolution we may go upstairs to the vast, high-ceilinged church.  This is what I do, partly because of the sign, and partly because the vast, high-ceilinged church is to my taste.  I kneel in a rear pew and say my penance, taking in the view, of the marble crucifix, the glittering tabernacle, the domed altar canopy, Mary's stone mantle spread over all.

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This church is large, old, beautiful, and important.  And so, among the booklets of prayer devotions and flyers for crisis pregnancy centers, its keepers stock on the tables behind the rear pew many helpful information sheets detailing the history of the building, and also brochures explaining the points along the self-guided tour.  Sightseers take the brochure with them and make their own stations, audibly appreciating the quality of the historic art.  Today there are several different small groups milling about the church as I say my Our Fathers and my Hail Mary and my Act of Contrition.   A woman walks up to a stone confessional, unhesitatingly swings open the wooden door and peeks inside -- it's empty, I'm glad she chose that one, instead of the one on the other side of the church that I happen to know is used for storing cleaning supplies -- before she turns and moves on to look at something else.   The sightseers do not disturb me -- they are probably checking out the church before they leave to get ready for the lovely wedding that will surely take place here in a few hours.  I say a prayer for the unknown couple, that they will be and remain in God's friendship.  

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I do, however, feel a stab of selfish desire to be sightseen, even though I do not appear in the self-guided tour.  I have a dollar in my pocket, that today no panhandler asked me for; I get up and carry it to the corner where only two or three of the votives are yet lit.

 Here we have the high altar, 24 feet square.  And here we have the bronze doors, added in 1955.  And here, before the chapel of the Immaculate Conception, we have a woman on her knees in tears.  

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The statue in the chapel of the Immaculate Conception is tall -- life-sized, or larger, I don't remember.  The statue is unpained stone, pale, perhaps faintly rosy.  Pale Mary crushes the pale serpent's head, and she wears a crown of pale flowers.  I have taken my sins to confession and received absolution for them; but the weaknesses remain, they ought not be confessed, and they cannot be absolved.  Only burned away.    Still, here is a place, it occurs to me, where I can ask for help with them, beg prayers -- that God will -- what?  Break, blow, burn, and make me new.   O Lovely.  O Beautiful.  O Immaculata.  Here is beauty, bare and silent stone.   

The Immaculate Conception receives all graces.

One of these days I will remember to bring tissues.  

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The sightseers are still here, watching with interest as some staff member  fiddles with the candles on the wide bronze chandelier, which has been lowered by a pulley to within reach of a ladder.  I leave my one-dollar votive flickering before the Immaculate Conception and cross the aisle.  The striking of my heeled sandals echo in the hollow space as I cross to the chapel that is its left-hand mirror image, before which many more candles glow.  

Which is it?  Ah yes:  the Virgin of Guadalupe.  I kneel before the mosaic, which is a very recent addition to this church, but a faithful representation of the image, and a beloved one, to judge from the candles.  

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I feel emptied out from my time before the chapel on the other side.  I can find nothing more to say to the Virgin or to ask from her.  I study the glittering chips that make up the picture.  I open my eyes and study the picture.  This Virgin is colorful, even gaudy.   This Virgin, it seems, answers back.  

Her hair, her skin, her clothes are a message.  You know the story, don't you? Her dark skin and black hair reveal her as a mother of the Americas.  Her clothes reveal the Savior.   The jewelry at her throat bears a cross.  The arrangement of the floral pattern on her dress means she, a woman, is the mother of God.  The black belt announces that she is pregnant.  Her mantle is the color worn by queens. It is strewn with stars.

The Virgin of Guadalupe answers all vanities.

One of these days I will remember to bring tissues.

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I came to the church as an adult, not a child -- well, really, somewhere in between.  Catholicism remains for me strange and exotic even at the same time as it is my home.   I have never really been able to tell the difference between what is for all the natives, what is for the sightseers, and what is just for me.

Perhaps there is no difference.

First Holy Communion. The second one, I mean. For me.

Kneelers on rehearsal day.

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Practicing the procession.

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He made it to the correct pew.  I guess he's ready.

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Enjoying the bubble wrap that his present from Mark was wrapped in

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Is it time to leave for church yet?

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The cherry tree cooperated for the day.

 

Even the first-communicant is pressed into service, taking a picture of his godparents and their children:

 

The redhead is my godson.  The two boys were baptized on the same day:

 

 

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Awful cute, aren't they?

These chairs will soon be full of first-communicants.

 

We love to watch girls in pretty dresses around here.

 

Party time.  Who needs a cake when you can have first dibs on an entire assortment of donuts from the GOOD grocery store?

 

I may have missed the shot of him receiving first Communion, but at least I got this one:

How to read Introduction to the Devout Life: a wrap-up post.

Over the last eight months, I've been blogging my way through St. Francis de Sales's Introduction to the Devout Life. The book charmed me almost immediately with its familiar, modern voice (at least in Father Michael Day's translation). Too, the advice was so much more practical than what you find in a lot of spiritual works: St. Francis explicitly writes for people, especially women, who live and work and carry out many duties in the world and yet long for greater devotion.   Also appealing: the book promises to be a really basic manual of devotion, the kind of thing that gets a beginner started without overwhelming her, or that helps clear away the unhelpful, faith-choking accumulation of "doing too much" and lays it bare to the soil, making room for a fresher, vigorous prayer life to begin to thrive. 

As I went along, I discovered that it's not a ready-made modern-style self-help book; that is, you can't expect to pick it up for the first time, open it to page one, and immediately begin following its instructions. Not until I had read most of the way through it, and grasped its overall structure, did I really understand how to use the book.

Once I figured these out, though, I found that I really could "use" it the way some people use a breviary or a copy of Magnificat or a well-worn book of prayers. I found that I was always carrying my (fortunately small-sized) copy around in my bag, not because I thought I should but because I felt I might want it! 

So, even though I've already laboriously blogged that first trip through the book, I want to share some suggestions in two or three posts -- so that others might be able to pick the book up and immediately begin to use it. Maybe I can save some people some time.

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The first thing to understand about ITTDL is the five-part structure.  Besides an Author's Preface, which is worth reading as it explains his purpose, these are the distinct sections:


(1) Part one is a sort of invitation to a conversion experience. It consists of step-by-step instructions, with encouragement from St. Francis, describing how the reader, "Philothea," can advance from a simple desire for devotion to a strong resolution that she will embrace the devout life.

The desire is the pre-requisite, but St. Francis assumes that it must be there or else "Philothea" would not have picked up the book.

In this section, St. Francis walks the reader through the steps of purging mortal sin out of her life and making confession. This, he explains,  is a duty, and God gives us no impossible duties, so we can have confidence that it is attainable.  Next, in the same section, St. Francis tells the reader how to rid herself of attachment to mortal sin:  in order to do this, he explains, the reader must become aware of the attachments to sin and then become contrite.

To this end, St. Francis provides a set of daily meditations, culminating in the sought-for resolution. Over the course of the spiritual exercises, the reader stirs up in herself the fortitude to actively seek what she already weakly desires.

(2) Part two is an instruction manual on how to pray, worship, and receive the sacraments. A key thing to understand: Most people will have to use and refer to some of the advice in part two at the same time as they follow the instructions in part one. "If you are not yet accustomed to meditation read what is said about it in part two," writes Francis, looking ahead, when he outlines the spiritual exercises of part one.

In a subsequent post, I'll recommend bookmarking chapters in both parts and referring back and forth as necessary while working through the conversion to the embrace of the devout life.

Having made the resolution -- having finished reading Part 1 -- the reader can then study once again the chapters of part two, incorporating some more of its suggestions into daily prayer and worship. Once it has all been internalized, the reader can refer to its sections again and again for
guidance, perhaps opening the book at the start of morning and evening prayers or before going to confession to read St. Francis's words.  Bookmarks are useful here!  And if the reader finds she has to stop here for a while, working on part two while she builds the habits of devout daily prayer and of devout reception of sacraments, she can.  Not until her habits are taking root need she move on to part three.

(3) Part three takes the how-to even farther:  it explains how to practice individual virtues. Many virtues are described here, but at the same time Francis urges us to work on only one or a few virtues at a time, whatever needs strengthening in us the most. Probably each "Philothea" should begin by reading over all of the chapters, not yet following any of the instructions contained within, considering each virtue in turn. 

Although of course a modern Philothea could read the chapters in the order that St. Francis presented them, I have suggested an alternative sequence in which to read the chapters of Part Three, one that organizes them according to three themes:

• discerning which virtues to work on,
• practicing individual virtues in everyday life, and
• remaining devout in dealings with society.

After she has considered each of the virtues, which at one chapter a day should take more than two weeks, she can choose one or two virtues for her own intensive spiritual work (following principles which are explained in this part of the book) and then go back to the relevant chapters in part three, following the recommendations closely for as long as is necessary. 

(4) Part four is the "troubleshooting guide," or "snares of the enemy,"  which explains what Philothea can do when she encounters certain stumbling blocks.   By the time Philothea gets to part four, of course,  her practice of prayer and the sacraments will have matured, and she will have chosen a virtue or two to especially develop in herself.   Each daily reading from part 4 is a description of some problem she might encounter -- such as friends trying to undermine her efforts, or overconfidence that she can resist temptations.  After Philothea has read through each of these, she can consider whether she is having difficulty with any of these and, if so, follow the advice.  If not, she can at least take note of the possible stumbling blocks she might encounter in the future, and remember to turn to this section in her time of need.

(5) Part five is an "annual review," which St. Francis recommends undergoing every year around the time of the Feast of the Lord's Baptism.  In it, St. Francis walks Philothea through a set of spiritual exercises that makes a sort of mini-retreat, culminating in renewal of the resolution arrived at in Part 1.  Francis encourages the reader to examine herself closely, to give thanks for all signs of progress however tiny, and frankly acknowledge where she has impeded her progress through willfulness or sloth.  Then she is to re-commit herself to the resolution she made at the beginning of her journey with St. Francis's method.

This section should bring the reader back to the middle sections of book at least once a year for a few weeks, and be an occasion to refresh her memory of all the good advice in the book.  She can check the "troubleshooting guide" (part 4) to see if it has any special help for her current difficulties; she can consider whether to continue developing the same virtue (as in part 3) or whether to turn her attention to another one that is lacking in her; and she can evaluate her practice of prayer and the sacraments (in the light of part 2).

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So you see, understanding how the WHOLE book is put together suggests a way to use it -- a way that is much more than just starting at page one and continuing through to the end; neither following every direction in the book, nor reading it passively without getting past, "Yeah, I should try some of this." 

See why I've been carrying it around with me for more than a year?

 

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UPDATE:  Just a reminder that Jennifer Fulwiler of Conversion Diary has adopted St. Francis de Sales as her patron saint for 2011 and is also doing a series of posts on Introduction to the Devout Life.  Here's a recent post.

My quote of the day.

From norabmore:

"I wonder if a priest can tell if perfectly nice little girls have older brothers by the little sisters’ first confessions."

Ha ha.  Our 7-y-o boy just made his first confession this past weekend, so timely...

 

Erin Manning on headcoverings for Mass.

I pretty much agree with Erin Manning's take on chapel veils/mantillas/headscarves and the like at Mass.

To begin with, though, let's look at this recent comment from Father Z.'s poll/post:

"Why does the head covering always have to be a 19th-century mediterranean mantilla – or whatever it is? You might as well wear an ancient Athenian helmet. What’s the idea here? Cover the hair? Cover the top of the head? Look almost like a (habited) nun while retaining enough distinction to show you’re not? Would a zaccheto do? Would a chador be too much?

"Which of the Easter bonnets in the movie Easter Parade would suffice?" 

I have often wondered about that, too...

A traditionalist website to which I will not link (a policy of mine) asserts that Christian women have practiced "veiling" for two thousand years; this "veiling" took place when women entered a church or were in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. I tend to smile, a little, at such statements--because there is such a false impression given by them. We see, in our mind's eye, a simple European peasant girl, passing by a church on a weekday; she pauses, makes the sign of the cross, carefully drapes a large and elegant lace veil over her head, and enters to make a visit to the Blessed Sacrament...

But a quick visit to the paintings of someone like Jean Francois Millet shows us what that peasant girl would more likely be wearing--a simple twist of some rough fabric, which she wore all the time to cover her head, not just when she happened to pass a church. Some nicer fabric, or an actual hat, might repose in her closet for Sunday; but lace, in the days before machine-made lace, was impossibly expensive and not likely to belong to most Catholic women.

In fact, a single lace mantilla in Madrid in the year 1830 could cost today's American equivalent of six hundred to two thousand dollars. Middle-class women scrimped and saved to afford mantillas with lace borders, while poorer women made do with fabric mantillas in the best fabric they could afford.

Did they do this to honor the Lord? Well, according to a book written in that time, in Madrid in 1830 women in the middle and lower classes still wore their mantillas as their "everyday" head coverings. Only the wealthiest women--the ones with the fanciest veils--started saving their mantillas for church and wearing the newer (and even more costly!) European hats to the theater and other social venues.

How it is that the mantilla, a particularly Spanish form of head covering, became the preferred head covering of traditional women in America in the twenty-first century is truly puzzling. 

By all means, cover your hair if you want to, or don't if you don't want to.  There are good arguments both for and against.  But I'm with the other Erin in wondering -- why mantillas?  I mean, they are beautiful, but really, a bandanna would also do the trick, and if I decided to cover my hair for Mass, that's probably the route I'd take.   Or some kind of wicking performance fabric, more likely.

And then, the judgment I'd probably receive would be "Huh, guess she didn't have time to wash her hair this morning." 

Introduction to the Devout Life: Introduction and structure of part five.

For other posts in this series about St. Francis de Sales's most well-known work, follow this link to the index, also available in the right sidebar.

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I let a lot of time go by since I finished writing about part four.  Never fear:  I will pretend that I did it on purpose, because part five is dedicated to "Renewal and Preservation of Devotion."

From the introduction, chapter 1 of part five:

The following spiritual exercises are designed to renew and confirm our resolution to embrace the devout life.  The first thing is to be convinced of their importance.

That's St. Francis, beginning at the beginning.  I like how he doesn't assume that we know already that devotion needs renewal.  Even though we have made it almost all the way through his book, he doesn't assume that we're going to take his word for anything.  

...We only too easily fall away from our high purposes unless we often renew our good resolutions, like birds who fall to the ground unless they use their wings to maintain themselves in flight.  

We must ... renew time and time again our resolutions to serve God lest we fall back, not only to our former state but to a state worse than the first, for this is what always happens when we fall back in the spiritual life.

I'd like to point out here that St. Francis is not proposing we use the spiritual exercises of Chapter Five when we find that we have fallen back, but rather "lest we fall back" -- they are preventative medicine.  Note the reference to birds.  The "renewal" of which Francis speaks here is a constant renewal, not an occasional one.

Here's the first question I have.   All along in the middle three parts of the book, Francis has been recommending spiritual exercises to be practiced regularly -- so what's going to be different about these?  Do we renew our devotion at longer intervals, or in response to certain symptoms of beginning to fall away, or what?  I don't know yet -- as I progress through this chapter, and maybe after I finish reading it, I'll try to tie it all together into a unified sort of a "program."

Francis draws an analogy -- quite a modern one from his early-1600's perspective, I should point out -- to annually "stripping" a clock:

No matter how good a clock may be it must be wound up repeatedly and overhauled every year for cleaning, for repairing parts that have become defective, and replacing those that are worn out.  Our heart must be, as it were, wound up twice a day by morning and evening prayers and often examined, re-adjusted, and corrected; it should be stripped at least once a year so that all its desires and inclinations may be examined in detail and any defects remedied.

The difference here between the annual review and the more quotidian adjustments:  Winding a clock and correcting the time it shows are performed easily through mechanisms built into the exterior of the clock -- you attach the provided key and turn it, you reach up and nudge the hands forward or back a little bit.   When you "strip" the clock, you're opening it up and taking it all apart and testing each component for worthiness, as well as cleaning all the gunk out of the hidden corners.  

Francis continues the clock analogy:

A watchmaker uses fine oil to preserve the mechanism from rust and make it run more smoothly; we should do the same with our heart, after having overhauled it, by means of confession and Holy Communion...

And then he points to the example of the early Christians to suggest a point in the liturgical year where we might conveniently perform this annual overhaul:

St. Gregory Nazianzen* tells us that the early Christians used diligently to renew their baptismal promise on the anniversary of our Lord's baptism; let us gladly follow their example...

The "anniversary of our Lord's baptism" is the solemnity that we celebrate on the Sunday after January 6, Epiphany.  So it's coming up on 1/9/11.  That gives me a handy deadline for getting through enough of this chapter to allow myself or anyone else to prepare for renewal, no?

So, let's take a look at what's coming up in this part, so we can grasp the overall structure.  

I.  Chapter 2, "The Value of Your Resolution:"  "Make two or three meditations" on the six points listed in the chapter.

II.  Beginning with Chapter 3, "Examination of Conscience:"  Three separate examinations.  "Examine at one time... your conduct towards God, at another your duty to yourself and the state of your inclination, at another your conduct towards your neighbor."  Specific advice is given for each of these in Chapters 4-6.  ADDED:  But see below:  Francis offers a shorter form of the examination.

III.  Chapter 7, "An Examination of Your General Dispositions:"  Now Francis turns away from the examination of sins and considers a more thorough self-examinations of the passions and inclinations that sway us:  love, hatred, desire, fear, hope, sadness, joy.   We are to take measure of these in ourselves.  

UPDATE.  Having looked this over again, I think I got that wrong.  Actually, this is an alternative form of the examination of sins described in detail in II, above.  If the examination of sins is "too laborious" or otherwise inappropriate -- maybe you're not much of a sinner, or maybe you have trouble recalling specific sins --  Francis prescribes a thorough examination of "dispositions" instead, that is, of the passions and inclinations that sway us:  love, hatred, desire, fear, hope, sadness, joy.  If we do not perform the detailed examination in II, then we are to take measure of these in ourselves.

(And while we're at it, let's praise St. Francis for making such a crisp distinction between sins and inclinations.  The trendy therapy-style attitude toward church makes us really sloppy about this, and it tricks us into confessing things that are not sins and leaving the real sins unconfessed.)

IV.  Chapter 8, "Spiritual Acts in Conclusion:"  A very specific, seven-step meditation.

V.  Beginning with Chapter 9, "Considerations on Renewing your Resolution."  Five daily meditations in some detail, given in Chapters 10-14.

VI.  Chapter 15, "General Considerations in Conclusion."  A complicated chapter consisting of advice to meditate further, to make plans for spiritual practices in the upcoming year, to beg God for help, and finally to make confession and Holy Communion.  Chapter 16 is a reminder to stay tranquil when passing from these prayers and sacraments back to daily life.

We're not done yet, but let's pause to look over all that.  I count fourteen or fifteen meditations in all, plus going to confession at the end.  I guess Francis must mean for us to BEGIN these meditations on the Feast of the Lord's Baptism, because it's going to take us about two weeks at minimum to get through it, and if we tried to end on the Lord's Baptism we'd be stretching back into the Christmas season, which is not the time for that sort of thing.  Yeesh!  By the time we're done with this it'll be almost Lent.

(Actually, that's not true, at least not this year.  Ash Wednesday isn't till March 9.   Plenty of time to do all this and still be ordinary for a few weeks before Lent.)

Chapter 17 and Chapter 18 are the last two chapters in part five, and they form a sort of conclusion to the whole book rather than a conclusion to Part Five.  Ch. 17 is "An Answer to Two Objections" and Chapter 18 is "Final Advice."  I  will treat this pair later, along with the "Author's Preface" with which they form a pair of suitable "bookends" for the work as a whole.

So, that's what's coming up.  In the next post we'll get into Chapter 2.  I'll try to finish part 5 before the ninth of January.

 

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*St. Gregory "The Theologian" lived from 329 to around 390 in the East.   

Introduction to the Devout Life: St. Francis de Sales on Confession.

Really good stuff, continuing the theme of specific and practical advice, especially looking forward to actually reforming oneself.

Be sincerely sorry for the sins you confess, however slight, firmly resolving to avoid them in future.  Those who make a habit of confessing their venial sins without thought of amendment remain under the weight of them all their life to the detriment of their spiritual advancement.... it is an abuse to confess any kind of sin, mortal or venial, unless you will to be freed from it, for that is the very purpose of confession.

Here's a real kicker:

Avoid vague accusations such as 'I have not loved God as much as I ought'; 'I have not prayed enough'; 'I have been lacking in reverence in receiving the sacraments', and so on; for such accusations convey nothing to your confessor as to the state of your soul; there is no saint in heaven and no one on earth who could not say exactly the same.

Ouch!  Accusing oneself of generalities is really about as good as making no confession at all.  It's like coming to confession and saying "I'm a sinner."  Which, since we all are, is like saying you don't commit any sins worth mentioning.

Consider the particular reason you have for making such accusations and then accuse yourself simply and openly of the actual fault, for example:  you accuse yourself of not loving your neighbor enough, perhaps because you saw a poor person in great need and you did not help or console him when you could easily have done so.  Say, then:  'Having seen a poor man in need I did not help him as I might have done through negligence', or hardness of heart, or contempt, or whatever you know the real reason to have been.  In the same way, do not accuse yourself of lack of devotion in prayer but simply of the fault which led to this, namely that you had distractions through your own fault, or that you did not choose a suitable place or time, and so on. 

Can you see how following Francis's advice would help you not only to make a good confession, but would help your confessor to understand your problems and recommend a remedy, and also to help you see what practical steps you could take to reform yourself?

Do not be content with confessing the mere facts of your venial sins but also the motive for which they were committed, for example, do not just say that you have told a harmless lie but that you did so to put yourself in a good light, to make an excuse for yourself, from obstinacy or just for fun.  If you cheated in some game, say why:  perhaps from a desire to win, and so on.... If you have given way to anger, for example, say why....

By accusing yourself in this way, you not only make known your sins but also your evil inclinations, customs, and habits, and the very roots of your sin, enabling your confessor to understand your heart better and apply the best remedies.

Very, very good advice.  I am seeing in here also a theme of distinguishing sins from mere imperfections, both of which can be remedied by the sacraments and by personal effort, but toward which our attitudes should be very different.

What Confirmation isn't.

Great post on Confirmation at And Sometimes Tea.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to come to the end of these surprises:  "What do you mean the way we do it here in the U. S. isn't the way it's supposed to be done?"  Although I knew the Eastern rites did it differently, so this just makes it all make sense.

Confirmation is not a sacrament of maturity; it's meant for children.  Confirmation is not becoming an adult in the church, either.  It is not a sacrament where one claims or affirms the faith for himself, and it is not the sacrament that completes Christian initiation.

Read and find out what it is.

Sacramental Prep.

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about Oscar's impending first Confession. Well, it's all over now.  Margaret in Minnesota's daughter "Cate" was in his class at our parish.  She writes about the program here.  She captured Oscar in a photo of kids waiting in line for the confessional; in the photo at the bottom, he's the kid in the middle in the blue shirt.

(In other words, I'm letting her blog for me.  Busy day!)

Alone.

Last night Oscar and his fellow second-graders lined up to be interviewed for First Confession.  (Margaret posted about the same event here.)    He did fine, passed the "test," and he is cleared to confess next week.

His dad had practiced the interview with him for three evenings straight, and he knew the answers back and forth.  Still, yesterday morning he came downstairs, head rumpled from sleep, and crawled into my lap, folding those long legs up and curling into a ball.  "I'm scared," he told me.  "I don't want to be interviewed.  I don't want to go to Confession."

These are the times when I have no prepared scripts.  I was never a seven-year-old preparing for First Sacraments.  I went through RCIA (and a feel-good version of it, I might add).  I held him, glad that the other children were still asleep.   I thought about telling him that I am sometimes scared to go to Confession too.  I decided not to, at least not until I understood his feelings a little bit more.  Maybe they are entirely different from mine, maybe I shouldn't impose my own experience on his.  "What about it scares you?"

"I don't know."

"Let's go through it step by step and you tell me which part is scary."  One of the questions they had to learn is about the steps to making a confession, so I began with the first step.  "First you're supposed to 'go into the confessional and kneel.'  Think about going into the confessional.  Does that worry you all by itself?  If I said to you, 'Oh Oscar, I left my purse in the confessional, can you go and get it,' would that be scary to do?"

He smiled, averting his eyes.  "Noooooo."

"OK, so going into the confessional isn't scary by itself.  How about kneeling?  Are you afraid to kneel?  Maybe you think it will hurt your knees."

He smiled again.  "Nooooo."

"The next part is to wait until Father is done with the person on the other side of the confessional.  You wait until he opens up the little door and you can hear him.  Are you afraid about waiting?"

And then he surprised me by saying "Yes." 

"It's the waiting that scares you?"

"Yes."

I questioned him carefully.  To my surprise he didn't seem to be afraid of Father, afraid of confessing, afraid of what Father would say to him, or afraid of the penance.  Any or all of those would have been my guess.  I had expected that.  I knew what I could say about any of those things.  But no... it was the waiting.

"Tell me what scares you about the wait."

He was very, very quiet and then told me:  "Because I'll feel very alone in there."

He nestled his face into my neck and I squeezed him a little more tightly, thankful that I had resisted the impulse to make this conversation about what I do with my confessional hangups.  The solitude and privacy of the confessional, to me, is a refuge. 

I tried:  "There's a crucifix inside the confessional booth.  While you are waiting, you can look at it and pray and remember that Jesus is with you.  Do you think that might help?"

I could tell he was considering that possibility carefully.  "No," he said at last.  "A crucifix won't help me be not lonely."

"I can understand that."  Worth a try.  Another few minutes passed and I rocked him gently.  Then I said, "It's okay to be scared about waiting.  Lots of people are."  Some more time went by.  "When you're scared about waiting, you could remember the story about when Jesus was scared and sad.  You know -- in the garden."

He nodded.  "But it won't help me be not lonely."

"No," I said.  "It won't help you be not lonely."  More time. "But it might help you all the same."

He stayed there for a while and I listened to his breathing, thinking of all the things I might add, rejecting them one by one.  Any more from me would be too much.  In the end this is something he does on his own.  In the end he has to go into the confessional and kneel; to look around at the close, acoustically lined walls, at the blind and closed grille, at the painted plastic crucifix gazing mutely down;  to hear the muffling whir of the fan; to wait for the grille to open and the sound of a human voice.  We prepare them, we set it all up.  We tell them what we expect them to do.  We throw a lot at them and we hope that some of this sticks.  That it sticks in the heart and not in the craw.  I never felt the peculiar impotence of this knowledge as much as I do this week leading up to First Penance.  In the end they do it on their own.