That I Will See Him Face to Face

Life goes on as it has: terrible and historic in the great big world, and fairly ordinary here in Northern Appalachia.

My life is what it’s always been: unremarkable, except insofar as every human life is remarkable. I am not important, except insofar as every human being is important. I am not a saint, except insofar as everyone who comes to God for mercy will be made a saint. I am not strong or heroic, but I’m doing the best I can. Sometimes I’m proud of myself, and usually I’m ashamed.

I went to confession for the first time in years this weekend. Don’t anyone dare applaud me for that. I’m not sure it was the right choice, because now that it’s over I don’t think my religious trauma has healed enough. I don’t want anyone who’s severely traumatized to follow my example and get hurt. It was just something I felt I was ready to do.

I went because I thought the post traumatic stress had calmed enough that I could get through it, and because I’d found a friendly priest I thought I could explain my predicament to. He was very kind. I clutched my icon as I panicked the whole time, and prayed my penance as I ran back to the car when it was over. I don’t know what I expected to feel. I guess that I hoped I would feel relief. I wanted to feel as if I’d saved myself, God wasn’t angry anymore, I was going to Heaven, and everything would be fine. But of course, I didn’t. All I felt was that exact same anxiety. I’d been terrified that I’d go to hell for having trauma too severe to be alone with a priest ever since 2022. Then I was terrified the priest would do something horrible as I was making the appointment to go to confession. Now I was terrified that I hadn’t gone to confession in the right way, which meant I’d added the mortal sin of sacrilege to all of my other transgressions. I suppose I’ll be terrified until I see Him face to face.

But I do believe that I will see Him face to face.

The next day was Sunday, so Adrienne and I went to Mass. We go to Mass weekly now. I used to panic in terror at every Mass, and lately I haven’t panicked at Mass for the longest time. Of course I was afraid when I received Communion. I remembered every superstition I’ve heard of a person who receives Communion unworthily getting physically sick and wasting away and going to hell.

I kept reminding myself that nobody is ever worthy– or else, everybody is. All have sinned. We are all infinitely removed from what we ought to be.  No one is good except the Father. But the Father sent the Son, whose word to the disciples was “Take this, all of you, and eat,” so I ate. If no one is good except the Father, but the Father created you and me in His image and likeness, what does that say about us?

After Mass, we ran our errands. There’s a pleasant lady in another neighborhood who wanted to give me all of the pickings from her art and craft room that she just cleaned out. She’s excited to see how I use them for the art lessons at the after school program with the elementary school children. I greatly appreciate the help, but I don’t much like driving through that part of town, because all the houses are on little cul de sacs on the slopes of hills. You have to drive up a steep slope, then hover over the gas instead of the brake at a four-way, then ride the brake all the way down again. It’s especially frightening in winter, with little snow squalls blowing through the air. Sometimes the car skids on ice. It was equal parts fun and terrifying to scoot up and down the slopes in my old blue jalopy, with boxes full of beads and silk flowers and great big peacock feathers rustling in the backseat.

What if I died just then? What if the next time I hovered over the gas at the intersection on top of a hill, was the time something went wrong? What if I saw Jesus face to face, and He was as angry and cruel as His representatives on earth have so often been? What if the TOR Franciscans of Loretto were right, and the Charismatic Renewal was right, and Father Michael Scanlan and Sister Angeline and all the other Charismatic charlatans with their pomps and works and empty promises were standing there next to the throne of God, grinning at me, as God condemned me to hell?

But then again, what if God was a just God?

What if I crashed the car, and the next thing I saw was Jesus, tears of compassion in His eyes, holding out a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate? What if He didn’t say “depart from me, you who are cursed,” but rather, “I’m so, so sorry! I did not authorize what happened to you. I don’t know what a Charismatic is. What they did is blasphemy, because they claimed to speak for me. Please, come in and meet your real family. We’ve seen everything you’ve ever done, we understand your struggles, and we’re proud of you. Share your Father’s joy.”

The fact is, I don’t know what He’ll say. And I will not know what He has to say, until I see Him and hear Him say it. I am sure that I won’t stop being at least a little traumatized and afraid, until I see Him. But I believe that I will see Him.

I believe that, if God is unjust and unmerciful, a spoiled narcissistic father who would punish me for not being able to follow the rules, I’m done with Him and I don’t care what He has to say. A god who isn’t a God of Love is not a god worth my time.

If, on the other hand, God is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control, then I am willing to listen. I am willing to go with Him, into purgatory or wherever else He suggests, and let Him make me what I ought to be.

And I wasn’t afraid.

Nothing went wrong as I reach the top of the next hill. I got back on the main road and took my silly boxes of art supplies home.

I think I am getting better.

I think I will be all right.