In the time of Jesus, there was in Jerusalem a well-known pool called the Pool of Siloam. At certain moments, the Angel of the Lord would descend from Heaven and stir the water. Then the first sick person to enter it was immediately healed.
Around the pool lay a crowd of infirm people, stretched out or seated on the ground. Among them was a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years. Jesus passed by and saw him lying there, motionless, his gaze fixed upon the water, still clinging to hope despite so many disappointments. Jesus approached him and said:
“Do you want to be healed?”
The man lifted his eyes to Him:
“Alas, Lord, how can I be healed? I have no one to carry me into the water after the Angel has stirred it. I drag myself there as quickly as I can, but when I finally arrive, another has already gone down before me.”
Then Jesus said to him in a calm voice:
“Rise, take up your mat, and walk.”
At these words, faith lifted the paralytic. He rose, hesitated for a moment, then stood upright. He took up his mat, took a step, then another – he walked. He was completely healed by the power of the Master’s word.
A little later, Jesus met him again and said:
“Now you are healed. Sin no more, lest something worse happen to you.”
The Pool of Siloam in Jerusalem was only a figure of the sacrament of Penance – and an imperfect one at that. It healed only one person at a time and restored health only to the body. The sacrament of Penance, however, heals the wounds of the soul and restores spiritual life to those who receive it – and this, every day, for all who come, no matter how many. How grateful we should be to God for this masterpiece of mercy: confession!
For the forgiveness of sins to take place, three conditions are required on the part of the penitent:
Penance in words, that is, Confession: humbly acknowledging one’s sins before the priest.
Penance of the heart, or Contrition: true sorrow for having offended God, with the firm resolve not to sin again.
Penance in action, or Satisfaction: accepting and carrying out the penance given, as reparation for sins.
God’s goodness is so great that He grants forgiveness to the sinner who fulfills these three acts with sincerity.
If someone is unable to confess to a priest, God will not refuse forgiveness to the one who has true contrition of heart and does penance.
A great sinner once went to confession to the venerable Peter of Corbeil, Archbishop of Sens from 1199 to 1221. He made a sincere confession of all the crimes he had committed, sighing deeply, shedding a torrent of tears, and humbly asking whether God would be willing to forgive his sins.
The prelate answered him:
“Do not doubt it, my son – provided you are sincerely resolved to perform the penance I shall impose upon you.”
“Whatever you wish!” replied the penitent, contrite and humbled. “Even if I must suffer a thousand deaths! Will God, whom I have so grievously offended, be satisfied with it?”
The holy prelate, deeply moved at seeing the sinner so well disposed, said to him:
“I give you seven years of penance.”
“What is that, Father? Only seven years for such great crimes? Even if I were to do penance until the end of the world, it would still be too little!”
“My dear child,” continued the archbishop, “you will fast only three days on bread and water.”
“Ah, Father! Father!” cried the man, sobbing and striking his breast, “do not spare me, I beg you. I am at your feet, imploring a mercy that I cannot purchase at too high a price. Let my penance be proportioned to my iniquity. Do not spare my weakness. Give me a fitting penance!”
The bishop, inspired by God and unable to sufficiently admire the work of grace, told him to say only once the Our Father, assuring him that his sins would be forgiven.
At that moment, the sinner, whose heart was broken with sorrow, uttered a great cry – expressing both astonishment and gratitude toward the God of mercy. Then, instantly, he fell at the feet of the holy archbishop – dead.
The archbishop himself, moved to tears, declared with conviction that this poor sinner had possessed such perfect contrition that he had gone straight to Heaven without passing through Purgatory.
Confession is the sincere accusation of one’s sins before a priest, in order to receive forgiveness. But what does it mean to sin? It means to disobey God – to do what He forbids. And how do we know what He forbids? By studying His Gospel, the commandments of God and of the Church, and by consulting our conscience.
Conscience is that inner voice which does not speak aloud, yet makes itself heard in the silence of the heart: This is good – do it. This is evil – do not do it.
There are two kinds of sin: original sin – which we have already discussed – and actual sin, which each person can commit. The latter may be either serious or slight. A slight disobedience is called a venial sin; a grave disobedience is called a mortal sin, because it causes the death of the soul’s life.
A thousand small faults do not make one mortal sin, but a single mortal sin deserves hell if it is committed with full knowledge and deliberate consent. It is the greatest of all evils.
Queen Blanche of Castile once said to her son, the future King Saint Louis:
“My son, God knows how much I love you. Yet I would rather see you dead than guilty of a single mortal sin.”
We can sin in four ways: by thoughts, by words, by actions, or by omission – that is, by failing to do what God commands. And all sins, whatever they may be, have their source in the seven capital sins: pride, avarice, lust, envy, gluttony, anger, and sloth.
The opposite of sin is virtue – that firm and joyful habit of doing good.
Along the shores of the Rance, between Dinan and Saint-Malo, there lived a sailor who was far from being a saint: somewhat fond of drink, quick to swear, and at times speaking like the gentlemen of the town against priests and religion. One fine day in April, he set sail for the Grand Banks of Newfoundland to fish for cod. Another sailor, his neighbor – no more inclined toward church than he and even more drawn to the tavern – boarded the same ship.
The voyage went well, and the catch was abundant. The expedition was nearing its end when, in the final days, the weather turned. The sea grew rough, the wind howled violently, the ship rolled – and one of the two friends was thrown overboard.
It was Peter, the first of whom we spoke. Jimmy, his companion, immediately threw himself into the water. A far better swimmer, he managed to bring Peter back to the ship, at the cost of an extraordinary effort, battling the raging sea. But, exhausted by this heroic rescue, he returned on board more ill than the one he had just saved from death. Two days later, a severe inflammation of the lungs left almost no hope for his recovery.
Poor Peter, deeply shaken, stayed beside the hammock of the dying man.
“So you are going to die, my poor Jimmy,” he said bluntly. “And to think it is for me! Your wife will not even let me help her when she learns that it is for me that you die.”
“Be quiet,” replied the other. “No lamenting. We must speak of serious matters. I have little time left. Promise me one thing, and do not fail in your word. I did not go to confession before leaving, as my wife wanted. Now there is no priest for Jimmy… But listen. Have you a good memory?”
“Yes, my friend – I will never forget that you saved me at the risk of your life.”
“That is not it,” Jimmy continued. “I must confess to you, and you must promise not to forget anything, and to carry my confession to the parish priest of Pleudihen. You will confess afterward, and the absolution will be for both of us.”
Peter found the idea remarkable – almost inspired. The confession began – detailed, precise – so much so that it exhausted the sick man. But Jimmy had only one concern left: to set his soul in order. He insisted on the main points, made his companion repeat them several times to be sure he had understood and remembered well. Then he instructed him to repeat this confession often, to drink only water, to amend his life, and to do penance for them both.
Once this was settled, Jimmy grew calm. He spoke of his wife and children and died in peaceful hope.
At the time of the sailors’ return, around the month of October, anxiety reached its peak in the homes along the coast, where all the men had gone to sea. Eyes searched the horizon, days were counted. Crews returned little by little, which only increased the anguish of mothers and wives whose loved ones had not yet come back.
Among them were Jane and Mathilda, neighbors and mothers, the wives of the two sailors. Many women had come to pray with them for the missing men; many candles had burned on Sundays before the altar of the Virgin, Protectress of sailors.
One evening, seated on their doorstep, they once again watched, hearts heavy, the road by which the men usually returned. Nothing – still nothing. Suddenly, a man appeared, walking slowly and solemnly, his hat bound with mourning crepe. At such a sight, who could recognize the return of a sailor absent for six months? And yet – it was Jane’s husband.
At last she recognized him and ran toward him. But he, without a word, gently pushed her aside and continued on his way, with an alarming gravity. At the cries of the two women, the whole village gathered. Some, frightened, claimed it was the soul of the sailor returning in human form to appear one last time. Others, more reasonable, whispered the word “vow” to reassure them – and indeed, it was a vow that Peter was faithfully fulfilling.
The boldest followed him, caught up with him, tried to speak to him – but in vain. He did not answer. With a rosary in his hand, he prayed as he walked. They saw him pass through the village, walk by the tavern – the very place where he had so often squandered his best resolutions – without even glancing at it. He devoutly made the sign of the cross before the church door, where all expected him to enter, but he continued on his way, to the astonishment of the growing crowd. At last, Peter disappeared into the presbytery, whose door closed behind him, leaving the onlookers to their speculation.
Inside, poor Peter fell at the feet of the parish priest – the true father of sailors. Sobbing, he told his moving story and begged him to hear the confession of his deceased friend. The good priest, deeply touched, listened – not as a sacramental confession, he clarified, but to fulfill the last wish of a dying man and to bring peace to the sinner before him.
“Ah! how heavy it is to carry a friend’s confession,” Peter repeated. “He was so grieved not to have you near him. But it comforted him to know that you would still come to know his sins, Father.”
Faithful to his promise, Peter then made his own confession. From that day on, he became a different man. He cared for the needs of both families: he worked for his own and for that of Jimmy. Soon it was noticed that there was more comfort in both households than there had ever been before, even in Peter’s own.
“As for poor Jimmy,” the good priest concluded, “I have no doubt about his salvation. His faith, his courage, and his contrition have abundantly made up, in the eyes of God, for the absolution he could not receive. Of course, several Masses will be offered for the repose of his soul. Oh yes,” the holy priest added, “one does not truly know sailors. Whatever they may do, they keep the faith. There is strength in them still!”