By Michael Patrick O’Brien (copyright 2020)–
(Editor’s note: This is a short story work of fiction.)
My dear departed mother probably is sad that my daily routine omits the regular beloved motions and devotions that marked her life as a Catholic. I am an honest and decent person, but pay scant attention to most things religious. I have no rosary, do not pray, and cannot recall the last time I stepped foot inside a church. Well, that is not completely true. I do remember the last time I was in a church. It was when I first heard about the absolution algorithm.
I am Drexel Sullivan, an educated single male subsisting, just barely, as a free-lance writer in a large American city. I am no longer young, but do not feel middle-aged or old yet, and so I live somewhere in between. My devout Irish Catholic mother christened me after her favorite old-time hometown Philadelphia saint who was doctrinaire yet unorthodox at the same time, back when the Church seemed to more gracefully manage to be both. My namesake, St. Katharine Drexel, was a late nineteenth century heiress who dedicated her wealth and life to radical social change and justice, but spent her final years in solitude secluded in a traditional convent while wearing the full-blown head to floor length black habit of a nun.
Once I asked mother why she chose that name for me. She said St. Katharine Drexel blended the best qualities of her two other favorite Catholic saints. “Which ones?” I asked. She answered, “St. Michael, the warrior archangel who helps us aspire to the righteousness and perfection of Heaven, and St. Vincent de Paul, who compassionately ministers to us in the messy, broken, imperfect reality in which we actually live.” To help me understand even better, she showed me the classic movie It’s a Wonderful Life, where an angel named Clarence is trying to help George Bailey, a human in financial trouble:
George: I know one way you can help me. You don’t happen to have 8,000 bucks on you?
Clarence: No, we don’t use money in Heaven.
George: Well, it comes in real handy down here, bub!”
Drexel is a tough Catholic name to live up to, and I often do not. One time, however, several decades into the twenty-first century, I tried. The weather at that time of year was fickle, unwilling to conform to any specific seasonal stereotype. I never knew if it would be cold or warm outside. When one day shaped up as rather temperate, I finished my writing chores and went outside for a walk. The city streets were abandoned and quiet, except for the barked invitations to play issued by a small enthusiastic dog who seemed to like my scent.
I wandered, found an unfamiliar street, turned a corner, and stood face to facade with what looked like a Catholic Church. There was no sign naming the edifice, and so I just called the place “Saint Anonymous of Incognito.” The entrance was not welcoming but still beckoned me, and I decided to step inside.
I mounted the worn but sturdy marble steps, where the strong smell of recently-applied urban urine assaulted me. I moved away, towards and then alongside a rusting black wrought iron hand rail. On the top step, I reached for the heavy bronze doors leading to the church vestibule. As I opened one, my nose gratefully acknowledged the aromatic transition from urine to incense, burning wax candles, and dusty tomes.
The church interior was a classic blend of forbidding stone and dark unrelenting wood, relieved by occasional bursts of colored glass windows that, despite my hopeful inspection, also conveyed stern sobriety. The building was hushed and mostly empty, except for a few old souls supplicating on bended knees in aching old wooden pews that creaked and groaned at the slightest hint of movement.
A loud crash broke the silence. Someone had left the traditional wooden confessional booth off to my left rather emphatically, letting the door slam shut. The noise drew my glance to a sign posted by the confessional— “Penance from 3 to 5 pm with Father A.I. Siri.” I flashed back to fond memories of Saturday afternoon confessions with the gregarious old Italian priest who served my boyhood Catholic school and congregation. Mother would urge me into the booth, saying, “Tell Father what you did, and he will tell you how to get forgiveness.”
Curious about Father Siri and hoping, just in case she was watching, to give my mother in Heaven a bit of joy, I stepped into the booth, closed the door, and sat down. The tiny cubicle featured a small seat and kneeler padded with red velvet that probably once was plush, but now was threadbare, matted down by the weary weight of millions of confessed sins. In front of me I saw the traditional red drape, designed to encourage troubled souls like mine to speak anonymously but candidly with the man behind the curtain.
I spoke the words that for almost forever had initiated Catholic confession, “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession.” I expected to hear back a gentle tenor or baritone priest in the adjoining room, but instead the only sound was a soft whir as the curtains parted and revealed a computer monitor. The touchscreen came to life and flashed this message, “Welcome to online confession. Please press 1 for a simulated sacred confessor voice, or press 2 for a penitential rite keyboard.”
(To be continued…)
*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is writing a book about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah.
