“A listening church.” This is a meme, a theme, an assertion and a cry. “A listening church.” Our Bishops' Conference provides a photo of Pope Francis with his hand cupped to his ear, and looking out over his notes and over his glasses at -- whom? You? Me? We do not see, as nobody else is in the image, no aides nor audience, only a hot-pink background with tangerine text that asserts in several scrawled fonts, “A listening church.”
People want a listening church, goes the story, and we have to be a listening church, goes the directive. We are having synods and sessions, we are being a listening church; that is the narrative. Okay. I am fine with that, for all that is worth.
But something about that photo: the hand cupped over the ear, the searching, almost eager look. It rang a bell, reminded me of something I had heard a few years back that stuck with me. A protestant preacher was talking about how Catholic pastors have an advantage over protestants when it comes to preaching.
Now, to me at first that sounded absurd. I mean, I grew up in Alabama surrounded fifty-to-one with protestants: happy, practicing evangelicals; zealous, assertive fundamentalists; and circumspect, sarcastic, or even skeptical but still proudly self-identifying protestants. And I was glad to be a Catholic! Happy, and proud even. But when it came to preaching, I was under no illusion that any advantage was to be found on our side of the split. What we got was on average, if not without exception, horrible. Protestant preaching was engaging, energetic, assertive, emotional, Scriptural, prepared, practised, occasionally silly, often demanding, almost always long.
So where was this Catholic advantage, in the eyes of this preacher not-Catholic? He said it lay entirely in that we priests hear our people’s confessions.
Conceding no sacramental power or efficacy, the preacher saw the sacrament of penance as the preacher’s chance to hear from his parishioners their deepest and otherwise hidden thoughts and yearnings, faults and fears. That information, like intelligence got by hook or crook, in his assessment gave priests an advantage passing any depth of soaking in Scripture, even exceeding having six days of uninterrupted preparation between only-on-Sunday sermons. And it dawned on me that he had a point.
Being focused on the sacramental efficacy, I had not considered this contribution to my preacher’s tool-kit; though when I thought about it, I recognized that I had unbeknownst incorporated it. To hear my people speak frankly of their own lives, and of their souls, gave me an awareness of their understanding and their misunderstandings, the shape of their consciences, and their fears as well as their hardships. With this now-conscious awareness, I am helped in doing what the Letter to the Hebrews exhorted just last week: So strengthen your drooping hands and your weak knees. Make straight paths for your feet, that what is lame may not be disjointed but healed. (Heb 12:13)
Long had I been aware that the Holy Spirit moves first in the Sacrament of Penance by inspiring the penitent to present himself for forgiveness, and then in how he express his regrets and repentance; that is, what he says about his sins. And so first, as a cooperator with the Spirit, I listen. It is called auricular confession, after all – it’s all about the ear.
Long have I found myself while hearing confessions closing my eyes, or focusing them in the middle distance, even when the penitents present themselves for face-to-face. Except for small kids – first penitents through, say, sixth grade --I have found eye contact to be more of a distraction, and occasionally an obstacle, rather than an aid. I even conspicuously point my ear in the direction of the penitent to emphasize to both of us what is at work.
Then, during Covid, when I kept hearing confessions, and demand for it soared as other options closed down, I accommodated the fears of the moment by encouraging people to keep the screen between us, and I even swiveled my chair around so I was not breathing in their direction. Thus facing into the corner, I could stare at the psalm open in my lap, or at one of the two rich paintings on the covers of books I have left on my side table because they are such feasts for the eyes. One has a baroque Annunciation scene, the other a medieval Christ at Creation. With my eyes thus occupied and making no demands, I can listen.
Occasionally I have to remind penitents not to tell me what other people have done wrong, especially to them; or what circumstances have compelled them to transgress. So much else becomes clear when souls express their own sins with genuine sorrow!
What happens after that is important and essential too, by all means. Perhaps a question, maybe a spot of advice, occasionally a concise conversation; then I assign a penance, speak the Absolution, and say those words that Christ Himself utters: Your sins are forgiven. It is the forgiven penitent’s chance to listen, and in the hearing is it so.
While rarely do I remember the specifics or content of confessions (that’s a real thing; it’s called the gift of forgetting), my understanding is enhanced and my knowledge enriched of the real needs of the people entrusted to my care. Even if some of them come from neighboring parishes, another authentic Catholic tradition, I know better what people genuinely crave and require, because in their humility and trust they have expressed it to me. Complaints and grievances come to me by plenty of other channels, but in this grace-guided encounter I hear the authentic cry of the poor – and the sheep make themselves known to the shepherd.
Speak, Lord, your servant is listening! (1 Sam 3:10) is always a good prayer to include in your time before the Lord. Labor Day weekend, because it is the end of summer and the beginning of a new routine, is always a good time to go to confession. Don’t hold back; this is your chance to shape the preaching and guiding of the shepherds of the church, including yours. Speak, child, your shepherd – and the Church – is listening!
Monsignor Smith
