One of my colleagues has recently rediscovered his Roman Catholic roots and, knowing that I play off the left foot, has taken to engaging me in conversation about matters papal. Our conversation strayed onto the question of confession. For those of you who are not regular attenders at the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church I should, perhaps, explain. Confession (or Penance) is a sacrament. You go to see the priest, tell him specifically what you have done wrong; promise (to try) not to do it again; and ask for forgiveness. Acting as a sort of local agent for the Almighty the priest “absolves” you, conferring on you God’s forgiveness and “cleansing” you of your sin. You then say some prayers go off and return to the habitual path of evil.
Like little spin doctors, as we were growing up we learned to identify our sins in misleadingly non-specific terms and, indeed, to try to get the more embarrassing ones included in the little rubric you say at the end “for these and the sins I cannot remember, I am truly sorry”. One’s memory would cruelly (and tactically) fade when it came to the subject of impure thoughts etc.
My friend’s reminisences lead him to challenge me: “I bet that when you were a kid you never told your priest about your wanking”. In fact he was wrong: I had.
My priest was saintly. He was born into a rich local family with a mill in Dedham. Too sickly for school he had spent his childhood years in Switzerland where the air was supposedly better for him. He passed the days contemplating the mountain views and thinking about matters divine. Eventually, he had been drawn to the Catholic Church and ultimately to the priesthood. He was a gentle and contemplative man who I never saw angered, irritated or impatient. I was an altar boy and smart alec who pestered him with questions about “indulgences”. He would take my questions enormously seriously, research them and come back with books and tracts and pamphlets in the hope of satisfying me.
One day in a fit of enthusiasm I decided that, for once, I would be entirely blunt in confession and tell him everything. It was time to be honest. Under ordinary circumstances providing a saintly 70 year old man with details of my self-abuse would have been a daunting prospect. However, there was a ready answer. You may have seen a confessional booth. They are like photo-booths dispensing forgiveness instead of photos that make you look like Jimmy Nail. When you go inside they are dark. The priest sits at right angles to you so that he does not look at you. In any event, between your face and his gaze is a wire mesh that reduces features to a welcome fuzzy indistinction. In short,  the secret of your identity is protected.
Assured of anonymity I unburdened myself in hair-raising detail. When I eventually concluded the catalogue of my depravity there was a long pause and a shallow intake of breath. My priest nodded a couple of times and then began:
“Well Moobs …”
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