My confession is that I stopped going to confession as soon as I was able to break free.
It was my mom who kept me tethered to it, long after I had already realized that I felt invaded and ridiculous telling my secrets to some person that I didn't really know, (although I knew them.) Especially when the "sins" grew a little more intense—not that I rob banks or anything.
I even understood the weight of the act of one person sharing something with another—the power of it—but still . . .
It was the "line of authority" my mom would say. This came to crystallize the entire conundrum I grew to have with the cult that I was raised in. I told her of an idea that struck and stayed with me since I was a kid sitting in study group listening devoutly. What if "Receive ye the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them;" was meant for all of us? What a wonderful, powerful thing—it seemed to me. It was the beginning of the change.
"No sweetheart, you're wrong," my mom whispered in reply.
I have always respected anyone seeking spirituality, but all religions are like cults to me; the ones called religions have been around long enough to switch names. I told my mom that once and she nearly blew a fuse.
The whole thing made me sad because the funny thing was, I liked going to church with her. Somewhere there in the middle of the process, I felt the beauty of the people together, reaching out to God.
After many pitched battles, I finally told her that for me, the only One that I really needed to confess to—already knows.
There was a long silence. Although I was unaware of it until later, the battle had subsided. But of course she still feels the same. And so do I.
And on Sundays I come over to her house and we go to church, and I'm wearing my pretty but plain blue print dress; she loves that.
And I love her.
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