The Importance of Confession

Recently I began a novel (let’s see if I finish it!) entitled, “ The Red Horse ,” by Eugenio Corti. Originally written in Italian, the story begins shortly before World War II and carries the reader through the war itself and then, its aftermath. In one scene, in the first fifty pages, a woman is home alone and the mailman arrives with a message informing her that her son must report for military service. Her mind begins to flitter from one place to another, upset that no one else in the family is there with her when she receives this awful news. Then, she recalls memories of her son from infancy until the present. Overcome with emotion and anguish, she feels as though she were suffocating. The author continues, “Her eyes sought the image of our Lady on the wall: a popular picture in which blue predominated, the color of a sky. The beloved face of the Mother of God, and even that color was powerful enough to calm her a bit. Lucia then began to move her lips, to pray, blaming herself for not having done it before. From whom would come comfort but from him who could ask us for anything and instead asks us above all for love, pity, and compassion for our fellow creatures? That he existed was shown no less by the Church than by her own experience. We are not alone: there really is someone who cares for us and our beloved, and at times, in the most decisive moments, we feel his intervention, a reality that comes to be perceived with great clarity, even if later it is difficult to explain it to others with words. But not always is there this intervention, only at times . . . She focused her attention on a postcard stuck into a corner of the picture. It showed our Lady with the dead Christ on her knees, a reproduction of a marble sculpture. The text said it was in St. Peter’s in Rome, and it was from Rome that Giusina had received the postcard, sent by her sister Candida during a memorable pilgrimage a few years before. The image reminded the mother with terror that when the supernatural mingles with human things the outcome may be painful all the same, since they killed the adored Son of our Lady herself.” In those few lines, the author doesn’t attempt to “do away” with the mystery of suffering by providing a fantastical assurance that, “Now everything will be fine.” He doesn’t provide an escape route for the reader. Instead, he describes the mystery and places us in the middle of it. In the midst of suffering, we can turn in prayer to the Mother of God. We can have confidence that the Lord is with us, that he cares for us, and loves us. We have all experienced, at one time or another, His intervention; an intervention that we have absolute certitude about, but for which we lack the capacity to adequately describe to others. And yet, there are times when we feel He did not intervene in the manner we would have wanted. This also is true. And, it is true that He Himself suffered and died in the most horrific manner. Sometimes, especially when confronted by tragedy, suffering, and evil, we desire exacting answers. What should I do now? Why me? Why them? Will this person be okay? Will I live? How will I get through this? What we want–what we often demand–is an unambiguous solution that resolves everything. The truest answer, however, is to live in the mystery itself. It is to meditate upon true things, even though no one of those things provides an immediate and definitive resolution to the questions of the heart. No logical syllogism or catchy phrase will suffice to quell the storm. Although there is always suffering present, these past days I have heard so many parishioners share with me various trials and tribulations that weigh heavily upon them. These are only the ones I am told about. There must be a great deal more. For those of you who are heavily burdened, I want to assure you that there is One who loves you, cares for you, and is close to you. You are not alone. You are at the foot of the Cross and it is precisely in this place that the Blessed Virgin and her Son embrace you. Your Brother in Christ, Fr. David Barnes

Last Sunday before watching the World Cup Final, I was in my office working on the schedules for September. Both events reminded me that summer is quickly … nah, I don’t even want to say it! But, it is. I read an essay the other day in which the author spoke of our tendency to think of the Church only in terms of our present moment. She then used this turn of phrase that really struck me: “We are not the tree; we are only the foliage of a single summer.” The phrase itself is a bit of a two-edged sword. On the one hand, it reminds us of the brevity of our own life and time. In this way, it contains a bit of a provocation to take our life with seriousness of purpose, to not waste our time, to seize the day, and to respond to the call of Christ with an immediate fervor. Summer is short, so we should thrive while we are able. On the other hand, the phrase places before us a reminder that we ought not be continuously tossed about by the vicissitudes of life. The words of that author provide to us a way of living that possesses an assuring confidence and serenity. We recall that we are but one foliage in the long history of the Church. Sometimes as I walk around our church and property, I try to pray for the various names that are engraved upon statues, windows, and other places. Many of these names are from the foliages of long ago summers. Each of those summers undoubtedly had days of dazzling sunlight, but they also had their share of rain. It was in this commixture that growth occurred. These inscribed names serve as signs to us to live life with a certain sobriety and serenity. We should all do our part in the time that we are given and take our life seriously. We must put all of our energy into seeking out holiness. At the same time, we should not be unduly panicked or unduly distressed by the passing afflictions of this life. Each of us should strive, while we are still in summer, by the grace of Christ, to be a foliage that renders glory to God. At the same time, when we are tempted to become discouraged because this particular place and moment in time does not conform to my vision of “the ways things should be,” we can find serenity in the knowledge that Christ and His Church are the Tree, and we are but one foliage of a single summer. Your Brother in Christ, Fr. David Barnes

Last week after one of the Masses, a parishioner of ours was speaking to me about her husband who, because of health issues, is no longer able to live at home. In the course of our conversation, she grabbed my hand and said, “Father, please pray for his roommate. We really don’t know him, but he has a lot of medical issues and really needs prayers.” The words rolled off her tongue with such naturality and ease, as if they were the most normal thing in the world to say. I was deeply moved. Here, while she and her own family were undergoing their own suffering, there was room in her heart for the suffering of another. She didn’t ask for prayers for anything specific for the roommate. She simply asked me to pray for him. She trusts that prayer will—somehow in the Mysterious Providence of God—help him. From where does such serene confidence arise? It arises from a long life of Faith which is firstly a gift bestowed by God Himself. Nurtured by her parents, nourished by a Sacramental life, and exercised through prayer and a life of charity, the Faith is not something layered upon top of her regular life. For her, Faith has infused every aspect of her life so that nothing is left untouched by it. It was evident in that encounter that I was witnessing a Faith that is simple. By “simple,” I mean, “pure,” like the way a father or mother looks upon their infant with a love that is simple, without condition, without caveats. I mean that at the very core of the heart is a simple, unshakable confidence in God. The mustard seed has almost contradictory qualities. It is prolific and bursting with newness. At the same time, planted in the solitude of the earth, it is hidden, quiet, and unnoticed. Its humble size indicates a certain fragility, and yet it is resilient, potent, and unyielding. Sometimes in the life of the Church (and in our own spiritual lives), I think, we are overly concerned about what is above the ground—what is visible, verifiable, and capable of calculation at this very second. We want to produce a mustard tree, but without reference to the mustard seed. We want quick solutions to our temporary problems, but not something that is long-lasting, durable, and which provides a stable and enduring shelter. The Kingdom of Heaven, however, is not a quick-fix solution to our problems. It is not something meant simply to make us feel better. It is something so much more than that. It is something sublime and humble, something pure and hardy. It is something trustworthy that grows steadily and relentlessly. It becomes a place where others can come to dwell and find safety and refuge. Last week while I spoke to that woman, I knew I was standing before a mustard tree, someone who brings into the world something beautiful, true, and good. But none of us can make ourselves into that tree. It is a fool’s errand to try. It all begins and is sustained by what was planted by Another. Christ is the seed that was planted into the ground and who—by His Resurrection—has burst forth a new life into the world. The Church and each of its members is invited to exercise a serene confidence in Christ. In doing so, we become—like the woman I mentioned above—a place for others to find shelter and their own serene confidence in Christ. Your Brother in Christ, Fr. David Barnes

This past Tuesday the Gospel of the day was one we heard recently on a Sunday. In part, it read, “At the sight of the crowds, his heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd” (Mt 9:36). It is true that on that day, Jesus saw the crowds who were in that particular place and His Heart was moved for them. But, it is also true that on that day, Jesus saw the crowds of all places and times. He saw me on that day. He saw you. And, His Heart was moved. The human heart desires to be seen and to be known. At the same time, we are fearful of being thoroughly known. In fact, we even attempt to hide ourselves even from our very selves! There are things we would rather not look at, acknowledge, or provide any attention. Left, however, unattended, these weeds tend to strangle life within us. Think of the person whose life is given over to some particular vice, whether it be to gambling, online shopping, pornography, a substance like drugs or alcohol, or intemperance in food. The risks increase, the debts grow, and the self-loathing and anxieties increase. To alleviate the anxiety, the person repeats the behavior that, in turn, only increases the risks, the debts, the self-loathing, and the anxieties. It becomes a vicious cycle. We can say something similar about other vices. How many people are filled with anger, resentments, and bitterness against others even while they acknowledge that these things are poisoning themselves? Instead of dealing with these things, they deprive themselves of interior peace in order to stoke the interior fires of bitterness. There are many things in each of us that we would rather not acknowledge. This is what frightens us a bit, I think, about opening ourselves up to the Lord. There is something about his penetrating gaze that frightens us because we know that He sees it all. He saw the crowds that day. He didn’t see them in a cursory manner. He saw them. He saw them, truly. He saw us. He sees us. He sees it all. He knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows us simply. He sees our virtues and our vices. He sees our hopes and disappointments. He sees our successes and our failures. He sees our joys and our sorrows. He sees our sins. He sees those aspects of ourselves that we would like to hide. And so, like Adam and Eve, after the Fall, we tend to want to hide from the Lord. But, his gaze falls upon us. This would, in fact, be utterly terrifying, except that St. Matthew tells us that “At the sight of the crowds”– at the sight of us–“His heart was moved with pity for them.” This, in a sense, is the shockingly good news of the Gospel. There is One who knows everything about us, and this penetrating gaze does not stir him towards repulsion, resignation, or abandonment. Instead, His Heart is moved with pity. He wants to shepherd the sheep who are troubled and who have no one to care for them. His gaze is not one of disdain or indifference. His gaze is one of mercy. When we visit the Lord in the Eucharist, we encounter that gaze upon us in a particularly penetrating way. From the tabernacle, Jesus looks upon us whole and entire. Nothing escapes His notice. Yet, to our amazement, nothing also escapes His love. Most days, both the upstairs church and the lower church are open for prayer during large parts of the day. There is a deeply Catholic custom of, “paying a visit.” It simply means to stop by and be with the Lord for a few moments. It doesn’t have to be long. I encourage you to consider cultivating a habit of “paying a visit” now and again, either to our church or to another. Just come in and remember that Jesus is looking at you. He is seeing you completely and totally. Nothing is hidden from His eyes. What He sees moves Him. You are looking at Him and He is looking at you. And, He loves you. Your Brother in Christ, Fr. David Barnes

The other evening I was sitting out on the front porch of the rectory and Lich, our seminarian from Vietnam joined me. Out of the blue, he asked me, “Do you look at the moon?” I wasn’t exactly certain what he was asking and thought maybe something got lost in the translation. He went on to say how when he was little, the village where he grew up had no television, no internet, no smartphones etc. So, after they’d go to the village church for evening prayers, he and the other children would just sit on the church steps and look at the moon. He was laughing and saying, “There was nothing else to do!” He said as he got a bit older, one home got a black and white television set so instead of looking at the moon, after prayers, they’d go to the front of their home and watch their television through the window. It reminded me of something my mother has long recounted. When she was a little girl, living in a triple-decker in Boston, her aunt and uncle bought a small television set. At one point they brought her Nana (who was born in rural Italy in 1884) up to see it. They turned it on and Nana said, “Questa è la fine del mundo.” “This is the end of the world.” In a sense, Nana was a bit of a prophet! Technology itself is a tribute to the human person’s ingenuity and provides extraordinary benefits to us. I am glad I am typing this letter to you on my computer rather than handwriting it. (You should be glad too as my penmanship teacher, Sr. Conan, would attest.) The extraordinary advances in medical, transportation, and communication technologies–to name a few–-make our lives so much better. Technologies, however, develop so rapidly that it is difficult for us to learn how to use them. By that, I mean, that it is difficult for us to learn how to use them in a way that is healthy for us. So absorbed are we in the latest technologies that we can forget that right over our head is . . . the moon. We can forget that right in the same room as us is another person; a husband, a wife, a child, a father, a mother, a friend. All of us should exercise a certain dominion over the technologies in our life. We used to sit on the porch, look at the moon, and converse because there was nothing else to do. Was life worse then? During the past couple of weeks it has been great fun watching the World Cup. Because of technology, we are able to see peoples from all over the planet, play, spectate, and meet one another. It’s been great fun in the rectory where the priests and seminarians have watched a lot of matches together. This shows that technology also has the capacity–when we choose to–to bring people together. This weekend we commemorate the Fourth of July, the 250th anniversary of our Nation’s founding. On the day when we recall the beginning of a revolution that changed the world, altered history, and gave birth to an extraordinary country, most will have celebrated by doing something rather boring. They will have put some hamburgers and hot dogs on a grill, put out potato salad, played some games, perhaps watched a World Cup match, and looked up at the sky to see fireworks. And they will love it! Chances are, anybody who does spend the day like that will be thinking, “We should do this more often.” Don’t forget that we can do it more often. We can actively opt for that simpler way of life that we occasionally catch glimpses of and that stir within our souls a memory of what can easily slip away from us. On Sunday mornings, for example, when I see parents bringing their children to Mass, I catch a glimpse of that simpler way of life. When I see these families arriving for Mass, something in my heart leaps because I know I am witnessing something that is true, good, and beautiful. Is Mass always an exhilarating, action-packed adventure that is fun for kids from ages one to ninety-nine? No, it’s not. Is sitting down at a family dinner necessarily more thrilling and exciting than a video game? No. Does spending time in prayer each day provide that immediate “thrill” and the immediate gratification that can come from online gambling, pornography, and video games? No. And yet, within each of us is the inexhaustible desire to look up, to look up together. Within us is a desire to look up together and to discover, not the moon, but rather the Face of the One who looks down upon us with Love. This path does not string us along with a never-ending series of dopamine blips that leaves us emptier than before. This path is one that carries us along together. It helps us to live a more human existence, an existence that corresponds to that desire of our heart to live life as the adventure it truly is. It is an adventure marked by child-like wonder. Jesus himself teaches us, “Unless you turn and become like little children, you will not enter the Kingdom of God” (Mt:18:3). We used to look up because, “There was nothing else to do.” Now, we have to choose to do it. “If then you were raised with Christ, seek what is above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Think of what is above, not of what is on earth” Col 3:1-2). None of us will ever say at the end of our life, “I wish I spent more time in my life staring at my phone.” Look up. In Christ, Fr. David Barnes