By Michael Patrick O’Brien (copyright 2020)–
(Editor’s note: This is part 2 of a short story work of fiction. Part 1 (The Absolution Algorithm, part 1) described how during a routine walk the narrator, a lapsed Catholic writer named Drexel Sullivan, stumbled into a church that offered an online confession service.)
As I sat in the throwback style confessional, the touchscreen in front of me 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.”
I was horrified, and enthralled, at the notion that I could obtain absolution online. This was not my boyhood confessional venue, where you disguised your voice, dreading that awkward moment when you might later encounter the same priest in some other setting. I pressed 1, for the verbal interaction. A voice that sounded like a combination of Charlton Heston and 1960s Catholic TV star Bishop Fulton Sheen kindly said, “Bless you my child, I am Father A.I. Siri, please indicate which of the sinner profiles you wish to utilize for this confession.”
Sinner profiles? What kind of theological technology was this? Several drop down menus appeared outlining various frameworks for identifying my sins. One was called “Ten Commandments Transgressions” and another was labeled “Failure to Attend Church.” Yet another one was called “Lack of Human Charity and/or Dishonesty in Personal or Business Transactions.” There even was a customizable “Miscellaneous” option.
A small icon indicated the most-commonly selected profile menu, which not surprisingly was “Sexual Sins.” So, of course, I chose that one. Father Siri’s voice turned more stern, “The Church recognizes many sinful states of grave disorder…lust, masturbation, fornication, adultery, divorce, viewing pornography, homosexuality, use of artificial birth control, and unnatural conception of a child.” I mumbled to myself, “Hmm, that covers just about everyone does it not?” Father Siri ignored me and continued, “State your sexual sins.”
I hesitated. Did I really want to tell a computer I had just met, connected to who knows what/where, about my deepest, darkest secrets? Then I remembered my mother’s words— “Just tell Father what you did wrong to gain forgiveness”— and so I fessed up. “I guess lust, some masturbation and pornography, and fornication, but that last one does not happen often enough.” The confessor, pretending not to hear my lame and nervous attempt at humor, asked how many times for each particular sin. I gave my best ballpark estimate.
“Processing, please wait” said the digital cleric. After a few tense moments, he stated, “You are in several states of disorder, and for absolution you must say 73.29 rosaries. Do you have any questions?” Well, yes, I thought, as a matter of fact I do have a lot of questions. “May I speak with a flesh and blood priest, in person?” I asked. Father Siri responded, “Conversation is futile, and there is no pressing need for that, because my programming includes all data necessary for a complete priest-penitent interaction. Yet, because of your request, I have set an appointment for you. Please return here in 9 years, 6 months, 82 days, 11 hours, and 19 minutes.”
I asked why it takes so long to see a live priest. The answer was: “Because of scandals and the schism, there are not enough priests to deliver the sacraments on an individualized basis. This is why we developed this absolution algorithm.” Now I admit I had not kept abreast of religion news, but seriously, I had missed an entire schism? And so I asked, “When and what was this schism?”
Father Siri paused for a moment (“…processing…”) and said, “I found this on the web.” The computer screen displayed a half dozen links to news articles about the big schism that I had missed. I skimmed them, and learned the reasons why although we still were many parts, we no longer were one body. It was a sad tale.
The child abuse scandal and cover-up in the late 1900s and early 2000s ignited the first fires of schism. Tribal inquisitors from fringe poles of the Church, anxious to align ecclesiastical teaching with their own political ideology, blamed each other. One side pointed to a tolerance of homosexual libertine priests while the opposing group blasted celibacy as an abnormal suppression of human sexuality.
Extremists then exploited that widening crack in Church unity. A Catholic Governor went to verbal war with his archdiocese, supporting a liberal reproductive rights bill in part by slandering Catholic moral-based opposition to abortion as ‘religious right extremism.’ The local cardinal resisted pressure to excommunicate the politician, but noted the irony in how he had helped the same governor with a minimum wage increase, prison reform, protection of migrant workers, a welcome of immigrants and refugees, and advocacy for college programs for the state’s inmate population. The cardinal posed the rhetorical question: “Was I was part of the ‘religious left’ in those cases?”
Later, another bishop somewhere else told a Jesuit high school it could no longer call itself Catholic after the school refused to fire a competent teacher just because he was gay. The same bishop, who consistent with Catholic doctrine called gays “disordered,” did not similarly seek to terminate the employment of other doctrinally-disordered folks such as adulterous straight teachers. Some wondered if the bishop had forgotten about Catholic doctrine that also says L.G.B.T. people “must be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity. Every sign of unjust discrimination in their regard should be avoided.” This standoff delighted the tribal cultural warriors on each side, who either called the bishop hateful and intolerant or who accused the school officials of promoting heresy and sexual depravity.
The relationship between gay persons and the Church sparked so little dialogue and so much venom and spite that when one priest wrote a conversational book suggesting how Catholics might build a bridge of friendship and fellowship to the L.G.B.T. community, hecklers invaded his lectures, shouted him down, and pressured parochial schools and colleges to cancel his booked speaking invitations.
And then there was the story of how Catholic parents threatened to boycott a grade school after learning about the newly-assigned pastor’s occasional misogynistic and anti-gay pride Facebook posts. The posts showed poor judgment for a community leader, but the same priest had worked well with school children at prior parishes and even baptized the baby of a same sex couple. Both sides howled their self-righteous outrage, with militants seeing the situation as either a cataclysmic threat to religious liberty or as indisputable proof of a Church bound and determined to find novel ways to abuse and endanger children.
Dozens, and then hundreds, and eventually thousands of similar events and arguments saturated the aisles and airwaves, escalated the anger and hate, and ripped the Church apart from within. Culture warrior voices rang out the loudest, and soon Catholics of differing opinions could not bear to worship together, let alone talk to or listen to each other. Opposing camps espoused either a church focused largely on judgment or one primarily emphasizing mercy, with no apparent room for both values together under the same steeple.
After reading the articles describing the schism, I sat back in the confessional, shocked and spent. I envisioned my poor mother weeping in Heaven over what had become of her beloved Catholic institution. I asked Father Siri, “What kind of church is this one?” He said, “This is a Catholic Church of Judgment.” I wondered out loud, “Is the Judgment Church based at the Vatican?” The answer was no: “That is a pricey museum with long lines,” said Father Siri. “The headquarters of the Catholic Judgment Church is not disclosed publicly, for security reasons.”
“You have heard the nature of my sins…I think I just may be lonely. How would I discuss all this with a priest from the Catholic Church of Mercy?” I inquired. “Even if I wanted to tell you, which is precluded by my programming, I cannot,” the e-priest replied, “because that church has no chapels, formal structure, or clergy. They do not need them, for Mercy Church members give themselves the sacraments and believe all sins are instantly forgiven. They self-absolve. There is no algorithm for mercy.”
I sat in the stuffy confessional booth in silence, for a long time. So long, in fact, that Father Siri prompted me: “Based on your admissions, I have determined your state of disorder and the requisite penance. Do you accept my judgment? If so, press ‘yes’ to confirm that you will file an e-certificate of compliance within one month.” No one answered him.
I had stumbled out of the confessional, also accidentally slamming the door as I left. Ten feet away, someone who had just entered the church glanced over at the disturbance I caused. A few people attending the next scheduled mass walked past me. None of them seemed to be under age 80. My Irish Catholic mother always warned me to be wary of institutions that refuse to temper judgment with mercy or fail to inform mercy with judgment. Not waiting or wanting to see what happened next at St. Anonymous of Incognito, I pushed open the church doors and left.
The smell of urban urine lingered outside the church. No dogs barked with playful joy as I walked home. And I felt chilled to the bone by a sudden severe cold turn in the weather.
When I got home, I did something I had not done in years. I went through the box of gifts my mother gave me and retrieved a St. Michael the archangel metal, a statue of St. Vincent de Paul, and a St. Katharine Drexel prayer card. They all watched over me from my mantle as I wrote these words.
*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.
