Thinking Outside the Box: The New iPhone App for Catholic Confession

Unlike many Catholics, I actually go to confession.

I was curious, therefore, to check out the iPhone App for Roman Catholic Confession, which, the Holy See and its designers remind us, is no substitute for spilling one's Catholic guts in a dark box like the ones we see on Law and Order

I began by logging in as myself and found sins a married woman might commit, organized by means of the Decalogue.  The use of contraception and supporting abortion are, for example, listed under "Thou Shall Not Kill." (Supporting Capital Punishment is not included.)

I quickly discovered that even a faithful spouse can easily rack up quite a list of sins under the heading of adultery. Dressing like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8 and having a crush on James Franco are construed as quasi-adulterous. One of my favorite sins (and one I, intentionally, commit daily) is the failure to "control" my "imagination."  How much less attractive the Holy Father's own dwelling would be had Michelangelo been more obedient in this!

When I logged in as "Father Mike" I learned that priests' transgressions were organized differently those of lay people, not around the commandments but around disposition and duties relative to religious vocation.

Certainly envying the following sin on the checklist for priests and members of religious orders would qualify as "coveting my neighbor's goods":  "Have I overworked, not taking time for exercise, relaxation, prayer and reading?"

Huh? Why isn't that one on my married woman's list?

I was surprised to find the sin of overworking on "Sister Teresa's" (I couldn’t decide between that and Sister Bertrille.) transgression inventory because any nun I know would scoff at a notion so inane. Nuns work incessantly, tirelessly, for almost no pay, and can no more afford vacations than they can iPhones! 

Nuns and priests, like other adults, have a list of sexual sins to ponder and tick off: intercourse, sexual feelings, sexual touching, lustful kissing. The modesty requirement isn't spelled out in the same way for nun as for a "lay" (so to speak) woman, but it is reasonable to infer that nuns are expected not to dress like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8. 

When I logged in as a single woman ("Hildegarde"), I noted that sins of carnality were almost identical to those applying to married women and men: impure thoughts, failure to dress modestly, homosexual activity, sexual thoughts, masturbation.

Masturbation remains a sin for everyone. Even single men like "James Franco" (I know he's not Catholic, but given his role in my own degradation, this alias for a single, male sinner made sense) is prohibited from masturbating. Men are called to dress modestly (like those in Butterfield 8) and are subject to all physiolically feasible sexual regulations that apply to women.

I was glad to see that respecting the poor and prohibitions against brutality had found their way in to the app, but dismayed to see that the making of war, capital punishment, child abuse, bigotry, waste, sins ecological, usury and greed are not explicitly noted.

A few years ago I attended a communal Advent Penance Service, at the end of which I wound up confessing to a visiting priest whose English was poor. He "absolved" me of my sins without understanding anything I'd said, and assigned me the kind of penance he thought best befit an aging ingénue dressed like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8: "Go to mass regularly. Every Sunday," he said.

A few days later, I talked about this with another priest, a friend, who found my penance amusing. (I attend daily mass often and never miss a Sunday.) "You're at mass more often than he is!" I cracked wise about the blandness of my transgressions and the squandered opportunity: "I could have told him anything! Just think of all the grave sins I could have committed and been absolved for!" 

Catholics are divided on the nature of absolution. More conservative Catholics argue that a priest does the absolving.  Others insist that absolution comes from God and that the presence of a middle man is “pro forma.” Others, of course, deem these distinctions only unicorn-worshippers could care to quibble over.  There tends to be consensus that God has the last word on all things sacramental.

About seven years ago I went to confession for the first time in 33 years (Holy numerology being in effect.) I warned the priest ahead of time not to expect anything "mortal." Father could not possibly have been surprised to see me pull out the pocket-size notebook that contained a list of my sins; he knew me I was a writer.

I knew him too, well enough to recognize that beneath that man-of-the-cloth poker face of solemnity, my priest was pushing away the urge to roll his eyes sardonically while chuckling in amusement as,  itemized list in hand, I began to confess in the manner I'd learned at the age of 7:

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 33 years since my last confession."

He smiled reverently, suppressing an all-out guffaw. 

"What?" I asked, "People don't do the 'Bless me Father' thing anymore?"

"Some do," he said, in guru voice. (Translation: "Sure, they do. If they're freakin' 96 YEARS OLD!")

We sat en face (No need to tick reading this off on your list; it's French, for "face -to-face.") but as I started, a partition descended between us, a screen woven of convention and faith, as palpable as it was invisible. It lent a strangely comforting formality and provided clear but perforated line of demarcation. 

Detachment and intimacy intertwine when two confessors engage. This dramatic, situational, fleeting conjoining can be transformative and beautiful. As a poet, I love how the word "confessor" expresses this potential.

Even as a child I thought attempts to render "confession" easier seemed silly. I remember overhearing Irish Catholic ladies at the kitchen table talking about confession.  One could off to the "next parish over" in order to confess anonymously. My own mother once queried me on why I would confess my sins to a priest I knew when I lived in "the borough of churches," in close proximity to many Catholic churches. 

Reading an introduction to Buddhism about 10 years ago catalyzed my interest in confession. Those new to Buddhist practice are often urged to seek a teacher.  I saw confession as both a sacrament and a form of attending a teacher. I craved grace, a dialogue about sin with a priest whose path I knew something about, and the holy wallop I suspected the combination of the two could deliver.

It bears the Nihil Obstat imprimatur -- there are no doctrinal surprises in the iPhone Confession app, which is neither godawful nor good, but I came away from test-driving the app thinking it one of many such props, designed to make a Church ruled by medieval minds and frigid hearts seem a little more “user-friendly “and a tad less backward. 

Unlike many Catholics, I  go to confession.


I was curious, therefore, to check out the iPhone app for Roman Catholic Confession, which, the Holy See and its designers remind us, must not be viewed as a substitute for spilling one's Catholic guts in a dark box like the one we see on Law and Order.


I spent a few minutes using the application yesterday. I began by logging in as myself and found sins a married woman (like me) might commit organized by means of the Decalogue. Sins like supporting the use of contraception are itemized under the "Thou Shall Not Kill" commandment. (It's interesting to note that supporting Capital Punishment is not included.)


I quickly discovered that even a faithful spouse can easily rack up quite a list of sins under the heading of adultery. Dressing like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8 and having a crush on James Franco are construed as quasi-adulterous. One of my favorite sins (and the one I, intentionally, on a daily basis) is the failure to "control" one's "imagination."  How much less attractive the Holy Father's own dwelling would be had Michelangelo been more obedient in this!


When I logged in as "Father Mike," I learned that priests' transgressions were organized differently than were those of lay people, not around the Commandments but around disposition and duties relative to religious vocation.


Certainly envying the following sin on the checklist for priests and members of religious orders would qualify as "coveting my neighbor's goods":  "Have I overworked, not taking time for exercise, relaxation, prayer and reading?"


Huh? Why isn't that one on my married woman's list?


I was surprised to find the sin of overworking on "Sister Teresa's" (the name I used when checking in as a nun) transgression inventory because any nun I know would scoff at a notion so inane. Nuns work incessantly, tirelessly, for almost no pay, and can no more afford vacations than they can iPhones!


Nuns and priests have a list of sexual sins to ponder and tick off: intercourse, sexual feelings, sexual touching, lustful kissing. The modesty requirement isn't spelled out in the same way for nun as for a "lay" (so to speak) woman, but it is reasonable to assume that nuns are called to avoid dressing like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8.


When I logged in as a single woman ("Hildegarde"), I noted that sins of carnality for were almost identical to those applying to married women and men: impure thoughts, failure to dress modestly, homosexual activity, sexual thoughts, masturbation --


Masturbation remains a sin for everyone. Even single men like "James Franco" (I know he's not Catholic, but given his role in my own degradation, choosing to use his name to represent the fictional, hypothetical single, male sinner somehow makes sense.) is prohibited from masturbating. He too is called to dress modestly (like the men in Butterfield 8) and is subject to all of the sexual regulations that apply to women. Though a man cannot have an abortion, he sins under the "Thou Shall Not Kill" commandment if he supports abortion in any way.


I was glad to see that respecting the poor and prohibitions against brutality had found their way in to the confession app, but dismayed to see the following transgressions under-represented: the making of war, capital punishment, child abuse, bigotry, waste, sins ecological, usury and greed.


A few years ago I attended a communal Advent Penance Service at the end of which people queue up and confess (to the next available priest) preparatory to Christmas.  I wound up with a visiting priest whose English was poor. He "absolved" me of my sins without understanding anything I'd said and assigned me the kind of penance he thought might best improve an aging ingénue dressed like Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8: "Go to mass regularly. Every Sunday," he said.


A few days later, I talked about this with another priest, a friend, who found my penance amusing. "You're at mass more often than he is!" I cracked wise about my the blandness of my transgressions and the squandered opportunity -- "I could have told him anything! Just think of all the grave sins I could have committed and been absolved for!"


Catholics are divided on the nature of absolution. More conservative Catholics argue that a priest does the absolving.  Others argue that absolution comes from God and that a priest facilitates the transmission. (Others, of course, deem these distinctions made by unicorn-worshippers.)  Most Catholics agree, however, that God gets the last word on all things sacramental.


About seven years ago I went to confession for the first time in 33 years (Holy numerology was in effect.) I warned the priest ahead of time that I wasn't desperate to unload anything "mortal" -- I just wanted to make an Easter confession. Father could not possibly have been surprised to see me pull out the pocket-size notebook that contained a list of my sins; he knew me and knew that I was a writer.


I knew him too, well enough to recognize that beneath that man of the cloth poker face of solemnity, my priest was pushing away an urge to roll his eyes in sardonic amusement as he looked at me with my notes, and listened as I started confessing in the manner I'd learned at the age of 7:


"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 33 years since my last confession."


He smiled reverently, but I suspect he was suppressing an all-out guffaw.


"What?" I asked, "People don't do the 'Bless me Father' thing anymore?"


"Some do," he said, in guru voice. (Translation: "Sure, they do. If they're freakin' 96 YEARS OLD!")


We sat en face (No need to tick reading this off on your list; it's French, for "face -to-face.") but as my confession began, a partition descended between us -- a screen woven of convention and faith which was as palpable as it was invisible. It lent a strangely comforting formality and clear but perforated line of demarcation.


Detachment and intimacy intertwine when two confessors engage. This dramatic, situational, fleeting conjoining can be transformative and beautiful. As a poet, I love how the word "confessor" captures and expresses this potential.


Even as a child I thought attempts to render "confession" more smooth seemed silly. I remember overhearing Irish Catholic ladies at the kitchen table talking about confession.  One could off to the "next parish over" in order to confess anonymously. My own mother once queried me on why I would confess my sins to a priest I knew when I lived in "the borough of churches," in close proximity to many Catholic churches. I knew why.


Reading an introduction to Buddhism about ten years ago  catalyzed my interest in confession. Those new to Buddhist practice are often urged to seek a teacher.  I saw confessional as both a sacrament and a form of attending a teacher. I craved grace, a dialogue about sin with a priest whose path I knew something about, and the holy wallop I suspected the combination of the two could deliver.


It bears the Nihil Obstat imprimatur; there are no doctrinal surprises in the iPhone Confession app -- which is neither godawful nor good.


I came away from test-driving the new Roman Catholic Confession iPhone app thinking it one of those modern features that appears to reflect expansiveness or growth. But really the new mobile application is one of many such props designed to make a Church ruled by medieval minds and frigid hearts seem a little more user friendly and a little less backward.

A Lunar New Year Meditation: Chinese Mothering for the Soul

As a middle-class, white mother of European descent living in a part of New York City that has become notorious for helicopter parenting, neurotic maternal hovering and over-privileged "one-upwomanship," I have been reading the conversation about "tiger mothering" with great interest. I have not yet read Battle Hymn of the Chinese Mother by Amy Chua, but when I do, I will bear in mind that memoirs like hers are designed to "stir it up," and that the author's intention was to be more descriptive than prescriptive.


I think there is something to the suggestion that overprivileged Western, American parents are not strict enough with their children. I know I'm not.


My Chinese-born acupuncturist and I speak often about the challenges of raising and educating teenagers.  He has a high standard of excellence for his own children and uncommon affection and respect for his juvenile patients. When I mentioned Chua's book, he  laughed, and the good doctor, in his imperfect English, said the perfect thing:


"No one way is the best way."


My children say I'm strict. I wish they were right. In theory, I'm "old school," a former teacher who believes a TV-free home and piano lessons do make children smarter, but I gave up,  too soon I think, having failed to be hammering enough on the matter of practicing piano. Even getting them to practice guitar -- which they actually want to play -- is a push.


I've never called my children "garbage," and every birthday card my children have ever made for me has evinced tears of delight, but I've threatened to throw the television set out the window more times than I can count. I do not doubt my son would prefer being called "garbage" to listening to threats made against his beloved television set.


A year or so ago, I took a shot at teaching my kids some Latin.  I wasn't Machiavellian enough. I wanted to be loved, not feared.


I guess I'm a "kitten mom."


As I read about Amy Chua's book, I found that there were merits in arguments on all sides, but I found precious little attention to how religious, spiritual and ethical education fit into "tiger mothering."


Isn't training a child's soul as important as training his or her mind? Ought not a child's talent for making the world a better place to be subject to at least the same degree of rigor a child's musical talent warrants?


I was having lunch recently with a man of the cloth, a friend who knows my family well enough to have a clear sense of how we function in the context of faith and religion. I confessed that my children's lack of a formal religious education sometimes troubles me. (I'm a practicing Catholic married to an agnostic Jew, teaching them about both, raising them in neither faith.) The clergyman reminded me that my family observes Shabbat, that we pray before meals, that we observe Jewish high holidays, that we (children included) work in social justice ministries at my church, that my children sometimes accompany me to mass, that they sing in the choir. His point was that my children are growing up with prayer and a sense that the life of the soul matters.


It may be that when it comes to the spiritual education of my children, I'm a bit of a "tiger mother."


I suppose I hold out hope that any rigor their father are able to bring to educating our children in areas of social justice, faith, religion and ethics might help to ward off the sense of entitlement to which children of privilege seem are all too subject.


I suppose I'm counting on their involvement in the secular parts of my parish life to offer my children --  the spawn of white middle-class college educated baby boomers -- some kind of perspective on the privilege they enjoy. They grew up working in a food pantry. They take part in Haitian Creole liturgies. They sing Spanish songs in the children's choir. They work in gay Catholic and HIV/ AIDS ministry. They've visited the homebound elderly. They've taken part in a program for children whose fathers are incarcerated.


I'd love to have a child who can play a Rachmaninoff piece on the piano perfectly, but given the choice between that and one who loves well, cherishes diversity and cares for the vulnerable in his or her society, I'd take the latter -- which is not to suggest that many children can not do both.  Many do.


I tend to believe that an overemphasis on competitiveness does interfere with development of the soul.  


My children are not prodigious musicians, but when my 15-year-old son with autism is setting the tables for the Hope Dinner at my church (a festive monthly dinner for people with AIDS/HIV and their families) as he does one Sunday each month, he IS, in a sense, playing Carnegie Hall.


Furthermore, I don't want my children to believe their worth is predicated on how well they play violin, what colleges they attend, or what kinds of jobs they have.  I want their self-esteem to grow out of their belief in the dignity of all human beings. For me,
this belief is intertwined with religious feeling, but it need not be.


I was discussing "tiger mothering" recently with a friend who is a Chinese-born artist. As a girl, although she was poor, she hustled some free violin lessons without help from any adult.  She majored in physics, for a spell, in the Ivy League. She left, pieced together an artist's education, and today she is a the mother of a gifted Chinese-born daughter (who plays the piano well) and a teacher who works primarily with students a racist educational system has failed.


Jane (I'll call her) pointed out how socio-economics figures into the analysis of "tiger mothering."  A Chinese mother working 12 hours a day -- as Jane's did -- could not very well police her child's violin progress. Jane herself was often sewing alongside her mother in a New York City sweatshop when other elementary school girls her age were enduring Für Elise.


Today, Jane makes the world a better place through both her work as an educator and artist.     She is multi-lingual. She has traveled the world. Her art is big. Her heart is big.  What might have been lost had Jane's mother enjoyed liberty and privilege enough to "tiger mother" her Chinese daughter?


As a white woman reading about Chua's book, I found myself meditating on my own experiences with (in) Chinese family life.  Like many children living in dysfunctional homes, I spent as much time as possible away from home as soon as I was able. Between the ages of 9 and 15, I found sanctuary in home of my Chinese-American best friend (I'll call her) Ann. Ann's family had a color television, a back yard and soda.  I never saw a violin there. If there was a piano, no prodigies touched its keys. But I remember the Cantonese opera coming from her mother's bedroom, how vividly embroidered it was. I knew no Chinese, but I could tell it was love stories. Four decades later, that music still holds sway, sounding its plaintive strains of influence, some kind of persisting technicolor musica sacra that makes an appearance, now and then, in my poet's head as I compose.  


The Ling family (I'll call them) ate dinner together every night at a big table in the kitchen.  It was at that table where I learned to pick the ends off of fresh string beans.  It was there I learned to eat squab (pigeon) without cringing and rice with chopsticks. It was there I learned how valuable sitting down for a nightly meal with one's children is.


In the aftermath of some mischief I instigated when Ann and I were about 12 -- we (really, I) spilled black enamel on their soft beige wall-to-wall carpeting -- her parents forgave us immediately. I stayed away for a week in shame, until, at her father's urging, Ann demanded that I resume visiting her at home.


Mr. and Mrs. Ling knew a 12 year-old girl who was around so much must have a trouble at home.  Mr. Ling worked 10 or 12 hours, six days a week, and sat before the television news before dinner each night parsing The New York Times in his second language,  his one nightly cocktail -- a Johnnie Walker Red -- at his side. Mr. Ling thought I was intelligent because I read newspapers and took an interest in current events. He liked Nixon, Gerald Ford, Bob Hope and Ronald Reagan, and I easily forgave it in him.


Circumstance had forced Ling and his wife to emigrate from the land of their birth in order to start a new life in a strange land where they would give birth to seven children, work six days a week at hard jobs, love their children and each other well -- and still somehow have love enough left over for a neighborhood white girl with the drunken father.    


I credit this family with helping to raise, perhaps even save me. From them I learned to delight in the privilege entering within a culture outside one's own truly is.


Every year, as the Lunar New Year approaches, I remember the several times Mrs. Ling pressed a small red envelope bearing an ornate gold design (She called it "hum bau.") and containing a few folded dollars into my hand with a "Gung Hay Fa Choy." For good luck.    


I always think of the Ling family on Chinese New Year. This year, as I reflect back, I am thinking of how lucky I was to have enjoyed a taste of "Chinese parenting." Remembering reminds me that we are born into this world to bring to it our goodness -- not just our greatness.