To Sin Upon a Star

The carbonated silence filled my ears as the incense simultaneously attacked my nose to alert me of my surroundings. Yet, I kept my eyes closed since I found the fizzing of the air to be at the perfect frequency to meditate. Plus, Cathedrals are always dark, empty, and gloomy on Saturday mornings, with only a few candles shining bright enough for you to see the statue of Jesus Christ starting deep into your soul. Being cognizant of this, I sat in the row perpendicular to the statue so that I was not interrogated by Christ’s all-knowing eyes when I opened my eyes. Unfortunately, despite my efforts, the Holy Spirit finds a way to whisper in your ear, ‘Please repent,’ often followed by an overwhelming chill.

This is what confession is to me: the process of confronting god. Not talking to a man about clergy shit.

Last night, my father told me to start being a man. He was mad that I forgot to take the trash, although I was working on studying for the SATs. Although he always had my best interest in mind, he never understood the trivial things (at least what he deemed to be insignificant), like school or exams. To him, life was about discipline and hard work. No true man should be prioritizing exams because exams don’t teach you about the real world. Yet, despite knowing his social doctrine, I stood my ground and attempted to reason with him.

“As I said, I’m sorry, but I needed to study,” I asserted to him. Admittingly, I should’ve shut up and listened since I saw his face go from mild frustration to rage.

“You don’t need to do shit. You’re a man! Studying isn’t going to do shit for you. You like to stay in your room staring at the computer, doing ‘homework’ and ‘reading.’ Well, let me tell you something: life doesn’t care if you have an exam. What it cares about is if you fulfill your obligations as a man.”, he responded aggressively.

“Dad, if I don’t study, how do you expect me to get into a good university.”

“Fuck that. I didn’t go to college. That shit means nothing.”

I wasn’t hurt by the fact that he said my aspirations were meaningless; I was hurt because he couldn’t see that this was important to me. Yet, this was the constant battle between me and my father: he saw life in his way, and my way was redundant and naive. Normally, I was not phased by this, but for some reason, what he said hurt more than normal.
“Be a fucking man!” he ended the conversation. So I quietly took out the garbage can and went outside to transport the heavy bag full of rotten fruit and food to the dumpster.

The sky was beautiful that night. The stars were bright and heavy, as if they were trying to communicate with you. They always came to comfort me at night after a hard night with my father. They were there for me when he told me I was a disappointment. They were there for me when he told me I’d never amount to anything. They were there for me when he asked if he should drop me off somewhere and find another son. They were there for me when he said I should die. It was so comforting that I promised myself if I were to die, it would be while looking at them. I knew that if I held my breath just long enough, everything would just fade away. The urge to sin is stronger some days than others. Yet, I would ask myself the question: why should I sin upon the stars?

Hence, I found myself at a cathedral on Saturday morning with my eyes closed, my posture congruent to the shape of the pew, and waiting for the priest to call me in for confession. The urges have been coming in more frequently than usual, and I don’t think it's normal for a 16-year-old to be tempted to do something that could potentially hurt the people who care about him.

Suddenly, the meditative fizzing was interrupted by a creaking door and the quiet footsteps of what I presume to be a newly forgiven sinner. I open my eyes to see a door left ajar as if it was gently inventing me to come in. Naturally, I use my peripherals to see if anyone else is coming, and when the coast is clear, I begin to make my way into the room.

When I entered the room, the smell of incense was stronger than while waiting by the altar, and the moment the priest heard my footsteps, he began the process.

“Hello,” he said softly and gently, expecting someone to be on the other end of the confession booth. I don’t like sitting behind a screen, so I work my way around and greet him face-to-face. He smiled.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four months since my last confession,” I said as I sat down before him.

“What would you like to ask for forgiveness today?” he said.

“Well,”. I immediately get nervous and begin to regret coming to confession. “I’ve been having bad thoughts lately.”

“What kind of thoughts? Acts of impurity? Violence?”

“I’ve been feeling really lonely lately.” I find it hard to express my feelings out loud since this has been the first time I’ve confessed my thoughts to anyone. “I’ve been having thoughts of ending my life. I feel as though my time is near.”

“Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I just want you to know that God is always walking with you. And the fact that you chose to come here today and confess shows that you love god, and he loves you.” He takes a small beat to think. “But where God is, Satan follows, and those with the biggest hearts are the ones he likes to tempt.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“But God is always holding your hand,” the priest finishes.