It’s a Sin
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’m here doing confession and admitting this right now because, well, I clearly don’t have much time left. I’ll be honest because that’s the point of all this, right? So, I may as well start with the big stuff. I don’t understand what qualifies as right and wrong sometimes. I mean, I know what they mean. I know what they are in terms of broad strokes. Do this, don’t do that, this is good, that is bad. I get all that.
What I don’t understand is the nuances that people implement and how and why they just expect you to not only honor them but follow their rules without question. Like, as an example, say that a teacher swears in class but gets mad at you for doing the same. I don’t understand why. Why is it different when the teacher does it versus when the student does it? It’s the same action being done, just by different people. Where is the standard being applied?
Here’s another one that is more pertinent, I suppose. Why is it okay for parishioners to enter the church at any time and sit and pray but it is not okay for me to come in here and sit down? What makes them so different from me? Is it because I have blood on me? I can see how that would be a problem from a hygienic sense, but I’m fundamentally the same as all of them.
So why did you get upset? Why did you insist that I leave immediately? Why did you deny me sanctuary? Isn’t this a place that is welcome for everyone to enter? I’d say it’s hypocrisy, but it seems worse than that to me. It’s like you stared at me and decided that I wasn’t worth being in here for some reason. It’s insulting, is what it is, and that’s why you’re there and I’m here right now.
Don’t sound so hurt. Well, maybe you can’t help it. I should understand that. I shouldn’t be bitter or angry. After all, forgiveness goes both ways, right? And I know you forgive me because you have to. That’s your job. That’s what you do. So, I’ll forgive you too.
I guess my point, Father, is that I have problems accepting that rules are different for everyone, even in the same situations. Something about that seems fundamentally wrong. I’m no worse than anyone else, right? I mean, I don’t cheat on my wife. I mean, I wouldn’t if I had one. But you get it. I’m the same as anyone that enters these booths.
So, here’s my confession. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry for hitting you. I’m sorry for making you not be alive anymore. I’m sorry for the police banging down the doors of your beautiful church. I’m sorry for the bank I robbed and people I hurt.
But I am not sorry for being me. I am proud of that, Father.
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Here is where I''ll post random stories that aren't, as of yet, in a larger book. Call it a free ride into the mouth of madness, yo.