Good for the Soul

I think maybe what separates out my very best friends is whether I've ever had to cough up a confession in front of them. In my experience, confession isn't really about naming what I've done, or even about "humbly taking responsibility for my sins." What feels like an event, what's more than just passing information back and forth, is when you speak out loud something you're barely able to admit to yourself. Because even though some part of you knows it's wrong and untrue, some other part of you hasn't quite managed to stop believing it in secret.

I tend to think that everyone has these things, little fears they have and lies they believe, and the integrity and trustworthiness of people depends largely on how capable they are of digging such things out, and how inclined, when they become apparent. You don't have to go looking for them in yourself, but sometimes--BAM!--you hit them like rocks in the soil you're plowing. And then you either act unreliably and veer off course, or you pick up the rock, toss it out, and say, "Whew--glad that's gone."

I admire the Catholic perseverance in the art of confession--it's still built into their practice as well as their theology--but I don't like the idea of the little booth. I think part of the experience has to be living surrounded by people whose confessions you've heard and who have heard yours, and who expect to hear a lot more. I have had plenty to confess, but also lots of excellent confessors--among them Arthur, Clare, Deborah, Heidi, Jennifers C and P, Jodi, Julie, Katie, and my mom (the order there is alphabetical, for the one who will want to know).

All of these people are nonjudgmental, forgiving, and discreet. Their love is not utterly unconditional maybe (in a good way), but they've seen enough--of me, the world, themselves--not to be shaken by my sin du jour or the lie I've just disovered lurking within. It feels really good to have these friends in my world. At a Bible study two weeks ago, where I'm a new member, I said something about my long history of anxiety, and someone said, "We just don't see it!" It was almost disappointing. While it's flattering to think that one's neuroses are invisible to the naked eye, it's incomparably nice to be known. And loved anyway.