I grew up in a religion in which confession was a weekly ritual. As I child, I remember standing in line outside the confessional waiting anxiously for my turn to go into a dark private room and begin with the words, “bless me father, for I have sinned.” Then I would recite my litany of sins, both venial (minor-league stuff) and mortal (big time, major-league material that could land you in Hell for all eternity).
For an eight-year-old, mortal sins were deliciously angst-ridden. I remember agonizing over these epic sins that went beyond the vague, clumsy and occasional “impure thoughts” into the realm of a touch or two, or those times when I would just linger in the corridors of fantasy (I was the youngest of four boys and the inevitable “girly” magazines would end up under somebody’s mattress).
- The Post-Adolescent Marginal Male
- Been There, Done That
- Does The Existence of God Really Matter?
- Some Thoughts About Reality: The “Manifestations” of the “Tao Te Ching”
- Modernism and Religious Orthodoxy
- Obsolescence and the Upgrade
- Mystery and the Sacredness of Life
- Or Not To Be
- The Institutionalization of Religion