Some time ago I wrote about not being religious. To explain it in just two words, I couldn’t accept why reading some books was a sin. Being punished because of the books I was caught reading is still a bitter memory. John Steinbeck, for instance, a dangerous author! This appetence to read and consequent punishments happened ages 13 and 14.
Before that I was profoundly religious. Everything that I wrote until 12 shows a deep religiousness. And because of that I recently asked myself if it was only the books. Of course not! Reading my diary I found another reason making me rethink religion: confession!
From 11 to 12, now and then, it’s there: I was afraid of confession. I ran away from the confessionary! And why was that? Even today it’s not difficult for me to evoke the shadowy, silent chapel where I had to knee facing the little holes on those wood boxes. I knew that on the other side was a very old priest, 70 or more (he looked to me like 250 years old), insinuating questions. A tone I don’t like or want to remember. Eventually babbling.
“Did you behave today?” (Behave? How could I not behave if I wasn’t alone for a second?)
“How many times you had shameful thoughts today?” (What the heck of a question was that? My constant thought was missing my father and mother!)
I don’t think I could take it the third time. It was really disgusting and disturbing. Planting sins where they don’t belong doesn’t look to me like a good policy. Pushing people into talking about things they don’t want to talk either.
I am not sure how is confession today, but I sincerely hope that priests just lend their ears to people who want to talk about whatever they feel like talking.
(I know Catholic priests are under scrutiny, maybe because things didn’t change that much. They are accused of this and that. Here I accuse too. But at the same time I know for sure that Catholics don’t have the exclusivity of perverts. Somehow I know this is not about religion too. It’s just twisted minds.)