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There's been lots of talk lately about the sacrament of confession, brought on by the new iPhone app, called, alarmingly, "Secret." Don't get me wrong: I applaud this move; it's in line with what my superiors, usually so slow to move, are encouraging.

I hope to heaven it leads to big numbers in the booth—costs less than $2, and I'd be willing to shower money all over my congregation if it boosted confession-attendance, especially among the young, who have about dropped out altogether. You have no idea how tiring it is to hear the same old folks droning on about "forgetting to pray" or some such. I get the feeling they make things up so they can visit, which would be touching, were it not so annoying. Why have the young disappeared? I think it's because their lives are so tame they cannot meet expectations they imagine we have, regard sin as something far beyond their reach. Maybe the new apps will get them thinking about transgression in more vivid ways, more accessible venues, thus restoring commotion to the confessional. (I made that up.)

But it's not the typhoons of imbecility unleashed by Apple and their Vatican-approved app that bothers me. I need to temper myself here, as the chafing of ignorance galls me sore. I'm a patient man, tolerant by nature and trade, but think about it: every moron, even the non-Catholic variety, supposes he knows exactly what is involved in the sacrament of confession, knows how it works, why it is sanctified, what rules obtain, and why we do it in the first place. You ask the average bozo on the street how confession works and the last thing you'll get back is, "I have no idea, NOT BEING A PRIEST."

What you'll hear is inaccurate blather, splattered forth in a knowing tone, such things as:

—confession is meant to allow for the forgiveness of sins by way of expiation;

—confession allows the priest to give you advice;

—confession allows the priest to assign penance;

—confession forces the priest to categorize offenses: venal and mortal and those not worth mentioning;

—confession is conducted in secrecy and the information obtained thereby is confidential.

Not accurate, any of it.

My Bishop, and he ought to know, told me directly that confession has no fixed status in church practice, none. It came into being in the 12th century or thereabouts, not as a requirement, he said, but as an optional practice for use where the need arose, if it ever did. When used—he has no objection to its use—confession is to be designed and employed at the discretion of individual priests. He has been insistent on only one point: nobody, absolutely nobody, should get the idea that by confessing he is off the hook and protected from the righteous scorn which must attach itself to heinous acts or from the shame which God intended to follow directly on particularly disgusting deeds or desires. How can that scorn and shame be assured except through something very like publicity? But what's the word of the Bishop compared to the opinions of a layman, who has spent not ten thoughtful minutes in his sin-soaked life?

I expect to be told that I shouldn't use the male pronoun exclusively. I'll hear that from the same cretins who know all about confession. Well, I use male pronouns exclusively because it's males I am talking about. You won't find women guilty of this worst of sins, pretending to know things they don't and lecturing you on them.

I agree with those who say women should take their rightful place in the priesthood. So does Bishop, let me know in confidence that the Pope's just waiting for the right time to kick that baby into the agenda and ram it through the convocation, right past those reactionary Italian cardinals.

Women would do a lot to enliven things, bring the church into the 21st century, as I told Bishop. "Into the 15th century," he quipped. Bishop is a real cut-up. I happen to know he has an eye for the ladies, a sharp aesthetic sense necessary for one involved in the living human community. This is what most people don't understand about the relationships which develop between us and altar boys. It's merely a question of answering to the call of beauty, that and the natural pedagogical needs of youth. But trying to explain that to your average layman is like telling a funny joke to a feminist.

I choose the example of altar boys because it has arisen in several retreats I've attended recently, where priests from different diocese have discussed frankly the misunderstandings they've run into. Fr. John McClellan and Fr. Dominic Robestelli found the police so obtuse that even Bishop could offer no protection from impertinent questions. Things got to such a point that Bishop was forced to transfer them out of parish duties and into teaching—civics and human sexuality, supplemented by some gym classes over at Our Lady of the Springs Middle School. Anyhow, here's the truth about the confessional world. I speak of the practices of priests not brainwashed by the right-wing European crowd, whose procedures have so little truly Roman foundation that I'd call them down-right Protestant, were that not a little unfair to Protestants. Really, when you get to know Protestants, you come to see that some of them have a pretty good line on sin, arrived at accidentally and not through centuries of rigorous thought, but pretty good all the same.

Confession is intended to sort through all the mean and low, but forgettable, things we have done, discarding the pointless (sending them to the "Out Box"), separating the disgusting from the useful, finding ways to promote the latter and publicize the former. I've explained all this earlier. With the Lord's help and the sanction of my own particular confidante, Bishop, this essay is offered as my humble contribution to a greater understanding of Our Holy Catholic Church and its sacraments.

First off, though, let me clear up some ridiculous misunderstandings spread through the internet. It's not that I am a foe of modern technology, understand, but all you have to do is Google "Guide to Confessions" and up springs a parade of over-zealous and confusing lists of "sins," enough to scare off even the most devout from our little booth. For instance, "The National Catholic Register" stretches all the Commandments past snapping. Here are just a few examples:

The first commandment, having no other Gods and so forth and clearly meant to keep us from bowing down to Baal and other improbable things, the "Register" says covers "other gods" in your life, such as people, money, and security. Whooie.

Honor thy father and mother (a shaky idea in the first place) includes the injunction to "care for aged and infirm relatives." For my part, aged and infirm second cousins can care for themselves.

Thous shalt not kill means, somehow, being "angry or resentful," which is simply ridiculous.

Get this: the adultery injunction asks if one has "been careful to dress modestly." I leave it to any woman born after 1915 to respond to that one.

Desiring one's neighbors wife includes "flirting, being superficial." "Being superficial?" Are these bozos telling me the only way I can escape the Sixth Circle is to look deeply in my neighbor's wife's eyes, speak with true sincerity?

Finally, the best, Thou Shall not steal includes not only "wasting time at work, school, and home" but trying to haggle with "creditors, insurance companies, and big corporations." Sure.

Good thing nobody (not in my parish) reads this stuff, as there wouldn't be hours enough in the day. . . . Bad enough I have a few Bible readers (a practice I, with the Bishop's sanction discourage). Sam and Hetta Billinsgley and Saul and Mary Porter are, all four of them, hooked on Leviticus and are constantly bringing up laughable nonsense: Eating fat, marrying one's deceased wife's sister, wearing polyester. Just out of curiosity, I looked at Leviticus, and it's all there, every absurd "transgression." We need a Council to dump that book altogether. Makes me long for the days when people confessed to gluttony or usury.

So, now to realities, what people are actually doing.

—Mary Alice Martin is guilty of allowing Robert Jones to play with her breasts out in back of the Von's. Mary Alice Martin was advised not to tell her husband and try to avoid a repeat.

—Robert Jones is guilty of fondling the breasts of Mary Alice Martin and also of Jessica Martin at several different locales. Yes, Jessica Martin is Mary Alice's sister. Robert Martin was advised to stop playing with fire.

—Billy Tenwood, age 13, confesses each week to masturbating up to fifteen times per day. He was treated with kindness, told that God understands. Despite this, Billy Tenwood returns week after week with the same report. He was told priests have bonafide sins to hear about. Next week, there he by Jesus was again, talking about pounding his pud. He was reassigned to the counsel of Fr. Dominic Robestelli.

—Simon Thurston confessed to having doubts about the makeup of the Holy Trinity. He was advised to get a life.

—Paula Johnson confessed to having murderous thoughts and impulses. This was uncommonly interesting, so she was urged to identify the target of her homicidal urges. At first she refused, but when told God would be angry unless she fingered the potential victim, she caved in and said it was her mother. She went on to speak of Mother in terms that did not make homicide seem entirely unwarranted. Still, there must be limits, so she was given a heavy penance of mumblings and told to try and change her ways. I think she has left the church. Bill over at First Presbyterian told me she'd become a Methodist. Like they'll be able to handle her.

—The entire eleventh grade at St. Aloyisius confessed to cheating on the SAT exams. They were admonished for violating the Honor Code, which forbids good Catholics from ratting on one another.

—Gladys Doyle confessed to draining her swimming pool and neglecting to tell the neighbor children, who consequently were injured, some seriously, when diving onto the concrete eight feet beneath. When asked whether she had intended these consequences, she said she really didn't know. She was asked whether she could tell the difference between a priest and a psychoanalyst. Could she tell the difference between a sin and a wholly involuntary release of unconscious impulses? Could she tell the difference between her ass and her elbow? When she stopped blubbing, she was told to regard it as an accident and forget it.

—Michael O'Brien confessed to setting his sister's dolly, her bed, and her foot (the sister's) on fire. No action taken.

—Missy O'Brien confessed to telling on her brother, Michael. She was whipped and given thirty Hail Mary's.

—Fr. John Simon McConaghy—yes, priests confess to other priests—said he had lustful thoughts for the following: the organist, the choir director, the large lady who kneels carelessly in the front row at early mass, the altar boy named Timmy, the postman, and his confessor. He was told, hell, we're all human.

Which about does it. You take my point.

If not, five Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers.

Please return and bring some friends with you. They don't have to be Catholic.

© 2016 James Kincaid