AUSTRALIA
Herald Sun
Before there was Oprah and her famous tear-jerker telefessions, in which a remorseful subject perched on her couch and sought absolution for admitting their sins, there was confession of the religious kind.
In principle, it is a practice to be admired. A ritual that encourages a person to be honest in owning up to their transgressions and in turn enjoy the clean slate that forgiveness provides.
In reality, however, things can unfold somewhat imperfectly. At least they did for this former Catholic schoolgirl, who recalls mumbling apologetically about throwing my uneaten lunch away upon being initiated to the sacrament of reconciliation aged seven years old.
Having been absolved of any wrongdoing and sent away to rattle off a few Hail Marys, I remember feeling only relief that I had been spared an eternity in hell for my habit of regularly discarding any stale or uninspired sandwiches straight into the nearest bin.
Rather than prompt any serious soul-searching about how I could avoid such needless waste in future, my experience with confession left me feeling I had covered my bases. Now that my sins had been forgiven by the Almighty’s local representative – the parish priest – I was confident reconciliation would shield me from any further accountability.
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