Do you remember your first confession? For most of us, we were second graders excitedly awaiting First Holy Communion, and a few days before the long-awaited day, were brought to the parish church for our First Confession. We had memorized “Bless me, Father…” and repeated it to Sister over and again. We were encouraged to be honest about our sins. We were assured that there was nothing to fear about going behind that curtain. And then we were all lined up in church – and there was no turning back.

As one of the over 100 second graders in Blessed Sacrament School, Staten Island, marched over to the parish church that day, I remember the principal, Sister Agatha, determining which groups went to each confessional, in those days staffed by the four archdiocesan priests who served our parish. We all hoped to be assigned to Father Collins – the nice guy who came to games, walked the streets of the parish, and knew our names.

There was a moment of terror when some of us were sent to Father Walsh’s confessional. He was the no-nonsense guy. There was the moment of “why me?” – but in those days you never questioned Sister. The last thing Sister said as she held open the curtain to the darkened confessional was “And don’t touch the hearing aid!” Remember the old-fashioned telephone earpiece that some confessionals had to assist the people who could not hear well? Of course, I lucked out with being sent into that confessional! It was only years later as a teacher myself that I realized Sister Agatha in her wisdom sent the kids she thought could be trusted into the confessional with the hearing aid.

Although the initial reaction of all of us sent to the certain scolding by Father Walsh was nothing short of sheer terror, there was a sense that somehow it might not be all that bad. The five of us in the class with red hair always remembered that Father Walsh would say: “When I was your age, I had red hair. I know, we get blamed for everything.” As hard as it was to believe that Father Walsh might ever have been a kid, we somehow knew he understood – maybe.

So, there I was – kneeling in the darkness – over and again repeating what I had to say until I realized that the boy on the other end of the confessional was screaming his sins at Father Walsh. Sister said it was a sin to listen to any else’s confession, so it soon became a good idea to distract myself by investigating the hearing aid. Sure! It could not be wrong. After all, I was not disobeying Sister; I was avoiding a sin!

And just as that freckled hand was reaching up to lift the receiver off the hook, the little door slid open, a faint ray of light came through surrounding Father Walsh’s head, and the first thing I heard was: “Don’t you dare touch that hearing aid!”

The Sacrament of Reconciliation – Confession – Penance – whatever you want to call it, is really a hearing aid. It is the gift of being able to listen into who we are in our relationship with God as we live that relationship with Him, others, our world, and ourselves. God loves us so much that He not only forgives us – He wants to forgive us. When we hurt someone, especially someone whom we love, there’s nothing worse than “the silent treatment.” We know we’ve done wrong. We try to explain it away, wish it away, excuse it from having happened. And we ache to be forgiven. Thankfully, God never gives “the silent treatment.” He reaches out His hand, not to beat us up, but to build us up, so that, through His grace, we can go beyond our mistakes and sinfulness, and live the gift of Baptism as we should.

But forgiveness can only happen if we are willing to be forgiven. And that’s the tough part.

To want to be forgiven means we must first admit that we’re not always right, that all too often we do what we know is wrong, and even more often choose to turn a deaf ear to the call to do what we know is right. And that’s when we need the hearing aid.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation allows God’s voice to be heard calling us beyond our mistakes and omissions to reach out and grasp His forgiving hand which pulls us up from our selfishness and self-centeredness. In the words of absolution, we hear that we are forgiven – and as human beings we need to hear that. Unless you hear someone say: “I forgive you” you’re never sure. In the words of Jesus, spoken by the absolution given by the priest, you and I hear that much-needed blessed assurance that we are forgiven – God pulls us up, dusts us off and says: “Let’s try together to get better next time.”

Our penance isn’t a payback that somehow God wants or needs before He forgives us. Our penance is the way we make real our recognition that we have sinned, our desire to be forgiven, and our gratitude that God always forgives. Here again, Sister knew best. Sister Regis in the fourth grade (the best teacher of all the many dedicated teachers I was blessed to know in my life) told us: “Your penance is how you write a thank you note to God for being forgiven.”

And that priest who gives voice to Jesus’ forgiveness, he’s a sinner too – who himself goes to confession. Like the once red headed Father Walsh, he knows and understands how tough it is sometimes. A good confessor is first a frequent and good penitent. So if you’ve ever been yelled at, belittled, or demeaned by a priest who did not speak with the kindness of Jesus – I apologize for him. He was wrong. But don’t let his humanity keep you from the experience of divine forgiveness.

We should take advantage of the blessing of confession once per month. Regular participation in the sacrament enables us to clarify who we are as made in the image of God and called to reflect His image in all that we do. Like the 10,000 steps per day to stay healthy, regular confession keeps us in step with Jesus as He walks with us.

Monday, December 19, is Advent Reconciliation Monday. So, ask yourself: “Do I remember my first confession?” Even better: “Do I remember my last confession?” It doesn’t matter if it’s been a long time, it’s a gift to go to confession for Christmas.

With apologies to Sister Agatha and Father Walsh: Go ahead, reach out, and grab the hearing aid.