I spend a fair amount of time in the confession line at the Cathedral of St. Paul in St. Paul.
There are two reasons for this. One, I need to go to confession a lot. And two, our archdiocesan seat is one of the best places to do it: it’s centrally located, has confessions available every weekday and Saturday in the late afternoon, and its rector, Father John Ubel, is a great confessor.
But one of my favorite parts about confession at the Cathedral takes place before I even make it inside the confessional. Instead, it happens when I’m sitting in the confession line — and a notorious sinner in statue form stares back at me from the side chapel.
The man depicted doesn’t necessarily look like someone who infamously betrayed the Lord. After all, here he is, prominently displayed in Christ’s church. He’s presented as a stately figure, regally holding his keys to the kingdom, while a depiction of his presence at the Transfiguration and a Latin inscription emphasizing that he’s the rock upon which Christ built his Church adorn the apse. If anything, this notorious traitor looks like someone we should look up to and emulate. It seems like he and Jesus are on good terms.
But that’s the point. St. Peter denied the Lord three times during Christ’s agonizing passion — Christ’s time of greatest need. And yet, Peter has his own dedicated chapel across from the confession line at our archdiocesan cathedral (and, I suppose, has other things going for him, like being the first pope, and enjoying eternal joy with Christ in heaven).
Not because of anything he contrived, or achieved, or earned: but because of Christ’s offer of mercy. All Peter did was receive it.
I think about this a lot during those frequent trips to the Cathedral’s confession line, Peter’s likeness staring down on me. My sins aren’t as dramatic as his were; in fact, they’re often downright petty. But they’re still instances of the same genre: betraying Christ, choosing something else — comfort, self-preservation, my ego — instead of adhering to him.
But while my tendency in the wake of my sins is to feel shame, and to allow my failure to swallow me up, cutting me off even more from God’s love, Peter’s presence offers another way. Because if a man who betrayed Christ in such a severe and personal way could be opened to and accept God’s mercy, then surely, I can too.
I like to think that there was some spiritually sensitive interior decorating going on when they originally laid out the Cathedral that led to a statue of such an iconic sinner-turned-saint being intentionally placed right across from the confession line. But, if not, I’m grateful for the coincidence, this coming together of a preeminent witness to God’s mercy with the means that he uses to dole it out to us today. And I’m grateful to be reminded that every visit to the confessional is an opportunity to answer the question Christ posed three times to Peter on the shores of Galilee, “Do you love me?” with a heartfelt “Yes, Lord.”
Liedl, a Twin Cities resident, is a senior editor of the National Catholic Register and a graduate student in theology at The St. Paul Seminary School of Divinity in St. Paul.
