A Slimy Onslaught

Or, Confession of an Omission

As a (lapsed) Catholic, an odd thought has popped into my head, today.

When young enough still to attend Sunday School and Catechism lessons, I would be taken to Mass at our local church. Responsibility for this aspect of development was seized joyfully by my mother. My father wasn’t even agnostic. He did not believe in any higher power at all – well, apart from my mother, that is. He preferred tending to the garden or reading.

So every Sunday, rain or shine and even when snow lay thick upon the ground, my mother would somehow get the car going and we’d make our sometimes wheel-spinning way to Church. A side note here: in addition to shaping my own views of religion, I reckon these weekly trips may have planted the seeds of my love of driving fast. I recall quite clearly the horrified expression on the bundled-up face of Father Wright, sheltering beneath the portico of our local church on one especially frigid morning during the hard winter of 1963. My little face must have been pressed against the rear window as our car broadsided onto Church grounds and swivelled into a tight parking space with my mother’s dextrous use of the hand-brake.

It was shortly after that, I recall, that Father Wright requested that I no longer attend Sunday School. Of course, my constant enquiry of ‘Why, Father?’ and refusal to accept at face value Father Wright’s teachings may have been a contributing factor.

But I digress.

My mother would always describe going to Mass as an ‘Opportunity’ to confess my sins. To be honest with you, I really was a very good and innocent young boy. Indeed, so earnest was I in my duty to make a confession, on occasion I had to fabricate some sin or other. I simply couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. On one occasion, I said  I’d not gone to my evening bath when my mother told me to. I was told to do penance by reciting a couple of ‘Hail Mary’s, perhaps with an ‘Our Father’ for good measure.  

But now comes the kicker. This is the odd thought I cannot shake off:

My evening garden patrol last night has prompted me to feel as if I should go to confession.

I imagine it might go something like this. I’d enter the deserted church and approach the dark wooden Confessional. It is a structure with two compartments, each with a shuttered door. The door on the left is for the penitent. There is a hard wooden board on the floor mounted so that your head, when you kneel in prayer, is close to a grill in the separating wall. I always imagined the priest had a nice, comfy chair on the other side. He might have to remain there for some time while many of his parishioners filed in and out after Mass. When ready, he would slide back part of the grill, indicating he is ready to offer the Sacrament of Confession.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is about sixty years since my last confession.”

“The Lord can forgive anything, my child, if you truly repent. What is it that you have done?”

“Father, it is more a sin of omission, I’m afraid. I confess to failing to carry out my nightly slug patrol for three nights.”

“Did you say, ‘Slug Patrol’? Is this a serious matter, my son?”

“I did and yes, it is very serious, Father.”

“Has this harmed anyone else?”

“Indirectly, yes, Father. It means we may have less to eat this year than we had hoped.”

“I see. How did this failure manifest itself?”

“When I returned to the task last night, I found that my usual 1-litre container for captured slugs was inadequate – in the space of just three days, the slug population must have quadrupled and so many of them were three and four inches long. They were huge, Father. And they kept crawling out of the top.”

I hear his chair squeak as he moves. Then a strange, chuffling noise. Is he laughing?

“This is a most unusual sin, my child. What penance would you propose for yourself?”

“Well, Father – the task normally takes me around fifteen minutes. Last night, I spent nearly a whole hour – on my knees – grappling with the slimy onslaught and fully repenting my sin. So, do you think the Lord might grant me absolution in view of the physical and mental punishment I have already undergone?”

That chuffling noise came again. The priest sighed. When he began to speak this time, I could hear tension in his voice. The pitch was higher, as though he was trying very hard to control himself.

“God will take that into account, my son. For you have fought valiantly against Satan’s warriors. You should take a few minutes of contemplation in this holy place to reflect on how your laziness has caused harm and how hard it is to put right. End your contemplation with the Lord’s Prayer. Now – go in peace and may God guide your Slug Hunting activities in future. Oh, and it may be useful if you make a voluntary contribution to the Church Renovation Fund. There is a box on the way out.”

Satan's Slugs emerging from a jar

I don’t know where this little dream-like thought came from. It must have been my conscience reminding me of the unpleasant task I’d forgotten since Friday night. Sometimes it helps me. Sometimes it’s a pain!

What about you? Does your conscience find ways of prompting good behaviour?