A Confession

If I were a Catholic, a good one,

I’d probably stumble up the steps into a church

all Pius, and make my way forward to the confessional,

the priest hidden behind a door unseen, “Bless me, Father,

for I have sinned,” nobody the wiser for this act of contrition;

sin absolved. But I’m not a Catholic, good or otherwise,

brought up in a Baptist church where our sins were publicly

confessed to much weeping and wailing, a chorus of the righteous

“amening” and “praise be to Jesus-ing” us forward, youthful sinners,

our guilt thus discovered, public confession the only penance asked

for our transgressions, yet welcomed back into the fold, we awaited,

still, the wrath of God to strike us down, a sickness upon us,

a loss of something valuable, that new baseball glove I wanted

sold before I could buy it, fearing the worst of punishments ahead,

even safely enfolded by our confession seriously made.

So now I must confess, here in print, eternal words, for posterity,

the sin I’ve harbored these long years, a sin secreted away

since I was 10, a sin stashed among the other sins unconfessed,

the lies told, the unkind thoughts and words yelled, safely,

across the playground to the bullies who made me cry, public

humiliation by tears shed in fear and shame, perhaps a curse word

or two, maybe even my unconfessed greed and envy, and the immoral

thoughts of a curious teen approaching manhood and confused,

the stashed magazines, or the stolen comic book taken on a dare.

But at 10, as was the custom in our Baptist Church, the age of change

and transition, we confessed our sins and accepted God and Jesus

and the Holy Ghost and prepared ourselves to be baptized, taking

the plunge and washing ourselves clean of our sins, our evil

and wicked lives replaced by the Holy Spirit, a big change ahead,

a change, at 10, I had a hard time understanding, this sin and a Holy Ghost,

having been told of the evil of ghostly appearances, this symbolic gesture, despite

my awards and pins for Sunday School attendance, volumes of memorized Bible verses,

mission trips out into our little town, for this was what Jesus expected of us;

it wasn’t the godless of Africa, but I was only 10, and trying hard to be a good kid.

So I took the classes to make sure I was ready and understood the seriousness

of baptism, the act and the symbolism, the expectation and the change, Pastor

Wakeman faithful to his calling, a greater sin to take this too lightly, this open

confession of our sins and receiving the blessing of the Holy Spirit like a dove

descending, a light shining down upon me from Heaven, the Heavenly chorus

of angels singing, rejoicing in my decision, my return to the fold into the open

arms of God, so on a Sunday evening in a long white gown I stepped publicly

into the baptismal tank, said I did and I would, and was quickly pushed backwards

into the water, before, perhaps, I could change my mind, and was raised up,

sputtering and wet;

                                 but I felt nothing, no different than before, no beam of light

streaming, no Dove descending, sitting on my shoulder like I’d seen in all the pictures.

I felt nothing, wondering if I dared confess this, too, the only Baptist kid baptized

and feeling nothing, perhaps unaccepted by the heavens, the angels in shock –

it’s not easy when you’re 10 and the expectation wasn’t met. But I acted Holy

enough and let what I felt lie there with the rest of the unconfessed, unforgiven sins.

I was 10, and this is my confession, seriously made, penance perhaps long since paid.