The Mercy of God

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The Tuesday after Pentecost found me entering the Cathedral of the Madeleine, headed for the confessional. It had only been a couple of weeks since my previous trip, but I’d done something more grievous than usual. Not a mortal sin by any standard, but worse than my usual transgressions. I doubt I will ever be a saint, but I do try at the very least to be considerate of other people, and in that I’d failed miserably. Hence my presence in the cathedral that day.

The Blessed Sacrament was exposed on the altar when I entered; the cathedral has Adoration each weekday for the hour during which confessions are heard.

I love the cathedral at that time of day. Sunlight, muted and multi-hued, streams through the stained glass windows to the west. It is cool and quiet, almost like a forest grove. Those people who are present speak in whispers, if they speak at all, and move quietly. Women who wear high heels tend to tiptoe so their heels don’t hit the floor, each footfall echoing in the reverent hush. Even amid the colorful, life-sized murals, the golden monstrance standing alone on the marble altar draws the gaze.

I entered in a spirit of repentance, but no sooner had I knelt in the pew than I was filled with a quiet joy, the kind one feels at night after a fulfilling day.

“This is wrong,” I said to myself. “I’m here to pray for forgiveness. I need to feel sorrow for my sins.”

But, kneeling there, I could not mourn. I was in the presence of a loving, forgiving God who seemed to have me in his embrace. I felt like the prodigal son, trying to tell his father he had sinned and was no longer worthy to be called a son, but the father ignored his words and instead celebrated the return of his child.

“But I didn’t sin that badly,” I told God. “Yes, I veered off the straight and narrow path, but it’s not like I’ve been squandering money on riotous living.”

God, however, wasn’t listening to my excuses, so I went into the confessional to tell them to the priest. I explained that although I meant to feel contrite, my only emotion was joy, which I thought was wrong because I hadn’t yet confessed my sins and received absolution.

The priest nodded slowly. “God will be present, but you have to let him in,” he said.

So I made my confession, was absolved of my sins, and went to sit in the presence of the Lord and reflect on the priest’s words. Our faith teaches us that Christ offers peace that surpasses all understanding, and Jesus told the apostles to keep the Father’s commandments “so that my joy might be in you and your joy might be complete.”

I had broken a couple of those commandments, yet by returning to the Father I was given peace and joy. I’d like to say those gifts continue, but despite all my improvement efforts I’m still impatient, prone to gossip and more proud than I’d like to admit. I see in myself an unfortunate resemblance  to the self-righteous man in the parable of the Pharisee and the publican. In one sense I don’t think I’m better than anyone else, but if we’re going to compare sins, mine aren’t nearly as bad as that person over there.

Or are they?

In one of his presentations during the “Uniquely Luke” parish mission offered last week at the Cathedral of the Madeleine, Dominican Father Bart Hutcherson noted that, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus calls us to be the best we possibly can be. He tells us not to merely avoid sinning, but to actively love our neighbors, do good to those who hate us, bless those who curse us, pray for those who mistreat us. If we do this, and stop judging, stop condemning, and start forgiving and giving, we will be given gifts, “a good measure, packed together, shaken down and overflowing.”

If the joy I felt that day as I approached Confession is any indication of those gifts, I’m willing to work even harder to stay on the straight and narrow path.

Marie Mischel is editor of the Intermountain Catholic. Reach her at marie@icatholic.org.