Our Father

“Five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers,” the priest said to the woman sitting in the confession booth. He knew it was Helen Goodsby by the sound of her voice. She and her husband had attended Sunday Mass only three days ago. He had looked at the husband and wondered whether he knew his wife was sleeping with her twenty-two-year-old philosophy student.

“Have you considered telling the truth?” the priest inquired of the next person in his booth. Questions, he found, were often more compelling than advice. And a small part of him enjoyed watching conscience work. The teenage boy on the other side of the wooden divide said he simply could not tell the truth. The other boy in his class had already taken the fall for the cheating scandal. And now, it was too late to speak up.

“Do you feel remorse?” the priest asked gently as he listened to the last confession of the day. The old woman on the other side wept. She had been holding onto this secret for so long, she told him. She had stored it up inside and never let it out, even when she should have. And what great relief she felt now as she passed that burden onto him.

As the woman left, exhaustion fell upon the priest. He sat in the silence of the empty church and began to pray, as was his routine after every confessional session. He prayed for Helen, for the boy, for the old woman, and lastly, for himself. That he may have had an impact on these people. That he may have led them to do the right thing. That they may go and sin no more. When he finished, he began to stand. But then, the door on the other side of the confessional opened.

Someone sat down across from the priest. He could not see them through the wooden slats built into the small structure. That was the point. So, he sat down again, his body heavy against the wooden bench. The priest then waited for the familiar words he had been listening to all day. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The words did not come. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. The priest cleared his throat. Nothing. He tugged at his collar. It was hot in this small space.

“What brings you here today?” the priest asked. Maybe it was the penitent's first time. Maybe they did not know the right words. Or maybe they were afraid of what was to come.

“Sin,” the penitent replied. The voice was steady, certain, thick with conviction. It was one the priest did not recognize.

“Then you are in the right place,” the priest said. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

Again, silence enveloped the booth. A long time then, the priest presumed. He decided to try a simpler question.

“Have you practiced the sacrament of confession before?” the priest asked.

“Have you?” the stranger replied.

How odd, the priest thought. Although not entirely unusual. People often felt uncomfortable in their first confession. The anticipation of exposing one's deepest sins to a stranger, much less the priest they saw every Sunday, could be quite unsettling. Perhaps the gentleman on the other side could use reassurance.

“I have,” the priest said. “All priests do. There is a freedom in allowing yourself to speak your sins out loud. To give them to God and ask for forgiveness. To be absolved of your sins, so you may move forward in grace.”

“And what have you confessed?”

The question made the priest pause. This was not how this went. This was no ordained man, as far as he knew. He was not the one here to be absolved.

“Why do you ask?” the priest carefully replied. He felt a sort of uneasiness. But he ignored the feeling, instead focusing on how to redirect the confused man in the booth.

“Because a sinner cannot be cleansed by the unclean,” the stranger stated. “And I see stains on you.”

The priest’s heart quickened.

“There are stains on all of us. We are all sinners in need of forgiveness. I cannot claim that I am perfect. But I have been cleansed by the grace of God. And you can be too. What is weighing on you?” The priest hoped the question would prompt an answer. A direction.

“The sin of another,” the stranger replied.

“Did this sin hurt you?” the priest asked.

“It hurt many. Many who are not here to speak for themselves. So, I came on their behalf.”

“And what do they have to say?”

“They want to know why you did not speak.”

It was so hot in this small booth. Too small, he realized. And despite his efforts, he remembered. His mouth went dry. It was his turn to respond with silence.

“Why did you not speak?” the stranger asked. It was not a whisper. It was a command.

The stranger could not know, the priest thought. No one knew. That was the tragedy of it all.

“What do you mean?” The priest attempted to remain calm. The man was mistaken. He did not know what the priest knew. What had been haunting him for the past fifteen years.

“I am not here for a game of guesses. I am here to discuss that night. You know what I speak of.”

The priest felt beads of sweat drip down his collar, seeping into the fabric.

“I’m afraid I do not know.” The priest tried again to deter the stranger. “Is there something you need to confess?”

“December 29th, 2002.” He paused. “He smelled like burnt wood that day.”

The priest went still. Went silent. No, no, the man could not know.

“That was the first night he spoke to you, was it not?”

The stranger knew. The time had come, then. Maybe this was his reckoning, the priest thought. Maybe this was no mere mortal sitting in his booth.

“So, I ask again. Why did you not speak?”

“I could not speak. You must know that. I was bound by the sacramental seal.” Desperation edged into the priest’s voice. He suddenly needed this stranger to understand. To know he would have spoken if he could. That silence was not an act of his will, but the imprisonment of his duty.

“And you forgave him,” the stranger said. His voice was still so steady. There was no accusation in it, just certainty.

“No, there was no absolution that night.” The priest spoke in a whisper now. “I know the sound of true repentance. That man was not sorry for what he had done.”

The priest knew in his heart the man would do it again. And he had believed there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“What did you give him, if not forgiveness?”

The priest felt something break in his chest. The question was painful. Something he himself had not dared to ask. He had the answers he had told himself all these years. The counsel he imparted, the scripture he quoted, even the plea that had escaped him at the end. But he knew the truth.

“I gave him my silence. I gave him a sanctuary.” The priest’s voice cracked on the last word. Because the man who had visited him fifteen years ago had not come only once. He confessed again and again and again. And each time the horrific sin burned the priest’s ears, infested the priest’s mind, and broke his weary heart.

“You gave him more than silence. You gave him your ear. But who can listen to the dead he left in his wake?” the stranger asked.

The question broke the priest because now he knew. The man had never come for forgiveness. He had come to be known. To relive what he had done. The priest sobbed.

“I tried to stop him. I tried, I tried,” the priest’s words came between his cries. “Believe me, please believe me.”

“But you did not stop him. Did you?”

“Oh, forgive me. Forgive me, Father,” the priest wailed to his Lord. To the stranger in the confessional who knew too much.

But forgiveness did not come. Only silence answered his petition. And suddenly it felt cold in the booth.

The priest looked up between his tears and waited. But there were no more questions to ask. No more truths for the stranger to unveil. The priest could not take it.

“Who are you?”

There was no reply.

“Tell me why you have come! Tell me how you know these things!”

Still, no answer.

The priest did not think as he stood. Did not think of the violation he was about to commit. He walked out of the booth and ripped open the door to the other side.  

There was no one there. Only the smell of burnt wood. And so the priest fell to his knees. And wept.