The Confession I Didn’t Make

An Embarrassing Case of Sacramental Mistaken Identity

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ONE SATURDAY, many years ago, a friend of mine was visiting from out of town.

Looking for some prayerful encouragement—and probably a kick in the rear to get himself to confession—he confided painfully to me that he had fallen into a pattern of serious sexual sin, about which he was understandably distressed and embarrassed. (Let’s just say that the particular sins burdening him went beyond the solitary sort which many are prone to.)

During a frank conversation in which my friend was searingly honest with himself, I offered some heartfelt advice and encouragement that he go asap to the sacrament of confession (a.k.a. reconciliation). Agreeing to go, we wasted no time. Clambering into my car, we drove straight to a nearby parish so he could go to confession.

His discomfiture at having to confess these deeply embarrassing sins to another human being was palpable. He was miserable, but he knew he’d be even more miserable if he put off any longer the sacramental moment of reckoning.

Promising him my prayers for courage and trust in the Lord’s mercy, I knelt in a pew at the back of the church while my friend approached the confessional.

The red light above the confessional door indicated that a priest was waiting for penitents. Aside from my friend and me, the large church was completely empty.

Fifteen minutes passed.

My friend exited the confessional and scuttled to a back pew in the shadows of the left transept, where he remained motionless in prayer, head bowed, face covered by remorseful hands.

There were no other penitents.

Five more minutes went by.

Then the priest exited the confessional and walked toward the back of the church . . .

. . . where I happened to be kneeling.

The priest did not notice my friend kneeling in the transept.

The priest did, however, notice me.

The closer he got, the more clearly I saw the abashed look on his face as he recognized me.

Although this priest and I had exchanged only a few words in passing over the years, he knew who I was.

“Awkward” is not a sufficiently descriptive adjective to describe the look we exchanged as he passed by.

Panicking, I realized the priest thought he had just heard my confession.

Oh, ho! I imagined the good father thinking to himself. What a fraud!

If my friend hadn’t asked me for advice and encouragement that led to his going to confession, it’s true that I would have been none the wiser as to what the priest may have thought about me as he passed by; but that doesn’t change the fact that he would have had the same reaction. I simply would have been unaware of it.

Meanwhile, my friend remained conveniently engrossed in prayer for several minutes more, off in his wonderfully anonymous dark corner, blissfully unaware of the unpleasant little drama playing out as the priest whisked past me with that look on his face.

I admit, I was tempted to run after him and explain that he had it all wrong—that I was not that guy, that his newfound view of me was really just a case of mistaken identity.

But I stayed put.

Why?

Because, in a momentary flash of (albeit dim) understanding, I was painfully reminded of my own lifetime-constructed ziggurat of sin, and that my Savior, Jesus Christ, was wrongly accused of crimes He did not commit, but for which He willingly suffered the penalty. For my sake. For my many sins, He suffered, so that by His stripes I might be healed.

In the years that have passed since that day, I occasionally see that priest.

In truth, I have searched for, but never detected, even a hint of that look on his face when he sees me.

Perhaps he forgot what he heard in the confessional minutes later. (Many priests have assured me that this happens—a kind of grace of state that enables them to blank out lingering memories of what is unburdened to them by penitents.)

Or maybe he is simply a kind and compassionate man who would never even think of letting on that he had in fact been scandalized by what he thought I had done.

I don’t know.

What I do know is this:

My sins may be different from my friend’s, or yours, or that priest’s, but I am a sinner in need of God’s grace and mercy.

Just like my friend.

Just like you.

And I am profoundly grateful to the Lord for His gift of the sacrament of confession.

He knows how much and how often we need it.

Copyright © 2011-2026 Patrick Madrid. All rights reserved. All text, images, and other original content are the property of the author. Adapted from my 2011 article “An Embarrassing Case of Sacramental Mistaken Identity.”

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