The snow/windshield wipers might have turned into another of my many excuses not to get to Confession... it's been months of excuses like this. Not that I don't need Confession! This past few months has also been a realization of the Sara Groves lyric "I've got layers of lies that I don't even know about yet." But whatever it is... inertia... wanting to do something else... wanting it to be at a more convenient time... has kept me from going. I'm so used to everything else being convenient: 24-hour Walgreens, drive-through fast food, instant streaming, 2-day shipping - that I start expecting God to love me like a business transaction.
But I went. Walking into the empty church, I noticed the green light of the confessional, recognized a jump start of eager impatience to get there before a line built up - and knew that, as much as I hate waiting in line, I needed some time in pews to think things over.
I'm not going to tell you about my confession, but I will tell you that the priest in the confessional was battling some illness. He looked tired. I saw his eyes lolling open and shut, and wondered a few times if I should ask if he was alright. He looked more like he needed to be in bed with a hot water bottle than sitting here with me as I confessed my sins.
But as I left, grateful for the priest's presence there that day, grateful that for once, I made it before excuses found a foothold - as all of this happened, something struck me.
The priest made a commitment to be the hands and feet of Christ, to be in persona Christi. And part of that commitment is showing up, in the cold, empty church, every week, to wait. To wait for someone - anyone - to wait for me.
Christ waits for me. Even though, many weeks, I say, "I'm tired. It was a long week. I'd rather sit here and drink coffee and read. I'd rather go shopping. I'd rather hang out with friends." But he comes, that priest - because he made a commitment and a vow to be Christ's hands and feet. He comes, even when he himself is sick. And in that sitting and waiting is Christ's love.
Now, yes, I know the priest is a human being. He probably isn't always sitting there with saintly thoughts. He probably grumbles to himself somewhat, or maybe if he's cranky, he's sitting there hoping it's a slow day. That's how humanity is sometimes. and that's how I am many times.
I remember in high school (before cell phones were common), occasionally, my sister and I, who were supposed to share the car, would not communicate, because communicating with your sister in high school isn't always cool. My dad, a doctor at the hospital not too far away, often got off work an hour or two after school was out. I would go and sit in the waiting area and wait for him to walk out from a surgery, so I could catch him and ride home.
I would read or do homework, but my eye was always on the door that he would come through, because he wouldn't know I was waiting (unless I had had him paged, which somehow I was always too shy to do). I can still remember the feeling of relief when I saw my dad walk through the door. If I missed him, I missed my ride home for the day, and we lived several miles out of town.
That's how Christ waits for us, I think. With an eye on the door, always ready and poised for us to walk through the door, because He knows everything that's out there that might keep us out. He doesn't want to miss the sight of us.
And this is what is so amazing about the love of Christ in us - the love of Christ in the priest, who is there, who waits. And love of Christ in me, who comes to be with Him.
