Mother’s Day came and went with phone calls from my kids and grandkids. Two days earlier, my daughter gave me two presents from her and her sister: swimming goggles by Speedo (to protect my eyes from chlorine) and a fabulous mixer called Magic Bullet. More about that another time.
Sunday morning I walked to the Big Sky Chapel (which is shared by several denominations) for eight o’clock Mass, in memory of my mother, who long ago went to her just reward. I admit that I miss Mass more often than I attend and that I’ve also gone to a few Christian Science services and the occasional Buddhist retreat. I see no conflict there, though Mom might if she were still with us.
The Catholic church, in what I see as a misguided effort to modernize or, like TV programmers, to appeal to the young demographic, has done away with just about everything I once loved about going to church. The sacred music I sang with the choir, the original Latin translation, the mystical rituals, lighting candles, the Stations of the Cross, saying the rosary, and, of course, the act of confessing my transgressions.
Well, confession isn’t what it once was. I used to creep into this darkened closet, kneel down and, when the little window slid open, say to the shadowed priest in hushed tones, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” When I was very little, I didn’t have much to say, other than I missed Mass one Sunday or I ate meat on Friday, or I told a lie. Sometimes, I think I made stuff up just to keep the priest from nodding off. Then he would ask me if I was sorry and tell me to say three Our Fathers and 10 Hail Marys. And he always asked if I firmly intended not to commit these sins again. That’s dicey because, of course, I was going to do those things again. If there was a horse show, I’d miss Mass (Sunday morning was the only option in those days), and I was given to telling tall tales, nothing malicious, just the sort of stories that made me feel more important. I doubt I ever fooled anyone, particularly not Mom, who was always onto me. I think she knew someday I’d be a writer.
Anyway, I read this week about another unwelcome change, or addition, to the way modern churches offer the sacraments. Confession may now be made online to any of at least four Web sites with catchy names like grouphug.us and ivescrewedup.com. Even I could not make this up.
It should be noted that these Web sites are the brainchildren of Protestant churches with strange names like the Flamingo Road Church in Cooper City, Fla. An evangelical church, LifeChurch.tv, also in Florida, started the confessional site mysecret.tv last year.
The pastor says more than 6,000 people have posted confessions and millions have logged on to read them. Voyeurism is alive and well in Florida. Sinners are assured their confessions are anonymous and the site is secure, but who knows. Would the Patriot Act allow Secret Service agents to monitor these sites or force pastors to divulge perceived threats to national security?
The Roman Catholic Church, to its credit, rejects the idea of confessing online. God’s representative, an ordained priest, is required to absolve sinners and issue appropriate penance. And priests are sworn to uphold the sanctity and secrecy of the confessional. But, just like journalists, priests can be jailed for refusing to reveal their sources or what is told to them by penitents.
Still, in the rush to appeal to a young computer-literate generation of meager attention span, all churches seem to miss the point about sacred rites handed down over centuries in all cultures. The real value of performing these rituals is the connection to one’s ancestors. Genuflecting, dipping a finger in holy water to make the sign of the cross, going to confession, receiving communion all strengthen the bonds between children, parents and grandparents. When I pass through my fingers the rose quartz beads of Mom’s rosary it’s as much in memory of her as it is a supplication to the Mother of God. Then, too, I might be found sitting on what the kids call my Buddha cushion in quiet meditation, trying to tame my mind. The practice also lowers my blood pressure and gives me patience with the prevailing idiocy of the day. I think Mom would see the wisdom in that.
In the days of the Latin Mass, there was something quite wonderful about being able to walk into a church anywhere in the world and find the same service, the same music, the same connection to all those who came before us.
I miss that. Almost as much as I miss Mom.