Thomas Merton makes his First Confession and Communion . . .
After that, I went into the confessional, where one of the other assistants was waiting for me. I knelt in the shadows. Through the dark, close-meshed wire of the grille between us, I saw Father McGough, his head bowed, and resting on his hand, inclining his ear towards me. “Poor man,” I thought. He seemed very young and he had always looked so innocent to me that I wondered how he was going to identify and understand the things I was about to tell him.
But one by one, that is, species by species, as best I could, I tore out all those sins by their roots, like teeth. Some of them were hard, but I did it quickly, doing the best I could to approximate the number of times all these things had happened—there was no counting them, only guessing.
I did not have any time to feel how relieved I was when I came stumbling out, as I had to go down to the front of the church where Father Moore would see me and come out to begin his—and my—Mass. But ever since that day, I have loved confessionals.
Now he was at the altar, in his white vestments, opening the book. I was kneeling right at the altar rail. The bright sanctuary was all mine. I could hear the murmur of the priest’s voice, and the responses of the server, and it did not matter that I had no one to look at, so that I could tell when to stand up and kneel down again, for I was still not very sure of these ordinary ceremonies. But when the little bells were rung I knew what was happening. And I saw the raised Host—the silence and simplicity with which Christ once again triumphed, raised up, drawing all things to Himself —drawing me to Himself.
Presently the priest’s voice was louder, saying the Pater Noster. Then, soon, the server was running through the Confiteor in a rapid murmur. That was for me. Father Moore turned around and made a big cross in absolution, and held up the little Host.
“Behold the Lamb of God: behold Him Who taketh away the sins of the world.”
And my First Communion began to come towards me, down the steps. I was the only one at the altar rail. Heaven was entirely mine—that Heaven in which sharing makes no division or diminution. But this solitariness was a kind of reminder of the singleness with which this Christ, hidden in the small Host, was giving Himself for me, and to me, and, with Himself, the entire Godhead and Trinity—a great new increase of the power and grasp of their indwelling that had begun only a few minutes before at the font.
I left the altar rail and went back to the pew where the others were kneeling like four shadows, four unrealities, and I hid my face in my hands.
In the Temple of God that I had just become, the One Eternal and Pure Sacrifice was offered up to the God dwelling in me: the sacrifice of God to God, and me sacrificed together with God, incorporated in His Incarnation. Christ born in me, a new Bethlehem, and sacrificed in me, His new Calvary, and risen in me: offering me to the Father, in Himself, asking the Father, my Father and His, to receive me into His infinite and special love—not the love He has for all things that exist—for mere existence is a token of God’s love, but the love of those creatures who are drawn to Him in and with the power of His own love for Himself.
For now I had entered into the everlasting movement of that gravitation which is the very life and spirit of God: God’s own gravitation towards the depths of His own infinite nature, His goodness without end. And God, that center Who is everywhere, and whose circumference is nowhere, finding me, through incorporation with Christ, incorporated into this immense and tremendous gravitational movement which is love, which is the Holy Spirit, loved me.
And He called out to me from His own immense depths.
Merton feels unburdened after confessing his sins, tearing them out of his mouth like teeth, as he says. I, myself, have not gone to Confession in a very long time. Out of all the sacraments in the Catholic Church, Confession is the one that makes me feel the most uncomfortable. I suppose it has something to do with voicing all of your deepest failings to another person. That's never easy, whether you're speaking with a priest or psychologist or best friend. In my experience, the process is very much like root canal. Painful while it is happening, but, ultimately, cleansing. A huge relief.
So, it's late. I just hosted a program for the library a little while ago. I'm tired, Really tired. Tomorrow, I return to a more normal existence of work and home, instead of working at home. And I have a confession to make: I'm a little anxious about coming out of quarantine.
There has been something very comforting about being at home this past month while the COVID numbers skyrocketed. I didn't have to attend any gatherings of church services, walk through stores filled with Christmas shoppers. No, the nurse from the Health Department instructed me to quarantine. And that is exactly what I did.
Now, however, I find myself a little panicky about reentering the world fulltime. I'm sure, after an hour or so, this feeling will abate. But, today, as I sat with my puppy on my couch, working, I realized how much I am going to miss having her by my side all day. The times when she jumps into my lap and forces me to take a break, falling asleep in my arms. Being there when my son wakes up. Forcing him to do his homework. I enjoyed this time of forced isolation. It fed my inner introvert, and my inner control freak.
Yet, I also enjoy people a great deal. That's why I'm a teacher. Why I arrange poetry readings and theatrical performances and concerts and lectures for a library. It's also why I'm a poet. There's this mistaken impression that all poets want to sit in attic studies, scribbling away in journals, while the rest of the world goes about its business. We can thank the Emily Dickinson mythos for that stereotype. In reality, poets want to be read and heard. We sound our barbaric yawps over the roofs of the world. Audience is an important part of the poetic equation.
So, here I sit at midnight, anticipating AND dreading tomorrow. Introvert and extrovert. Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman. This is my confession.
Now, Saint Marty will say his five "Our Fathers" and four "Hail Marys" and head off to bed.
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