Dear Robyn and Skippy, here’s my story;
When I was about 7, I walked down the street to the church in North Conway, New Hampshire on a Saturday afternoon to do the weekly confession. That was so I could get that flavorless, white wafer the next day.
There I am, in the confessional, with the priest on the other side and the semi-opaque screen between us. He asks me to tell him my sins since my last confession, which was one week earlier. Usually, I had something to confess. Eg, I took a cookie before dinner when my mother had told me not to, etc.
Well, for a change, I had no sins to confess. I was certain about that. So I told the Father that I had no sins to confess. He said that I could relax, that I can feel free to confess my sins without getting in trouble. I said again that I had no sins for the last week. He then gave me extra encouragement and repeated that it’s best to confess, that there would be only forgiveness, not trouble. At that point I thought that this isn’t going to end until I give him at least one good, juicy sin. So, I told him I had lied to my mother.
But, I really had not lied to my mother. So, I lied to a priest. In the confessional. Maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t met the pope.