Reconciliation
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Reconciliation
By Cal Y. Pygia
In the old days, the act of reciting one?s sins to the
priest was known as ?confession.? Today, the same act is
called ?reconciliation.? By informing the priest as to the
wrongs that one has committed - or as to the good deeds
that one has left undone - one seeks to reconcile him or
herself with a righteous God who is both just and merciful.
Today, in some churches, the penitent sinner has the option
of seating him or herself across from the priest, in the
same room, face to face, while he or she confesses his or
her sins. In the old days, confession was done in secret,
the sinner entering a confessional booth that adjoined the
booth in which his or her confessor sat, with only a
screened window between them, across which could be drawn a
wooden panel. The new approach suggests, perhaps, that the
sinner need not be ashamed of his or her wrongdoing. What
was done in secret can be confessed openly and unashamedly.
In the past, the
implication was that sinful behavior was shameful and that
humility required a confession that was, if not exactly
secret, private.
Henrietta Samson preferred the confessional booth to the
face-to-face encounter with the priest. She liked the
darkness of the cubicle. She preferred the privacy it
afforded her. She favored the secrecy. What she shared with
the priest, Father Bender, was something that she would
admit only to him and to the God whom they both served, and
she wasn?t eager to see the face of the priest to whom she
confessed her sins. In truth, she did feel as though her
sins were shameful. To her, they were disgraceful. They
were appalling enough for her to wish not to show her face,
and she welcomed the dark and silent confines of the
confessional booth and the wall that it imposed between her
and the priest.
She stepped into the vast interior of the church, which was
empty and dark, with only the afternoon sunlight streaming
through the stained-glass windows, to spill across the
blood-red carpet and the white linen cloth that covered the
altar beneath the great crucifix that showed her Lord and
Savior nailed to the heavy timber of the ancient cross.
Like the Holy of Holies, the innermost chamber of her
church was empty - or seemingly so.
She made her way down the center aisle, past the empty
pews. The silence seemed as sensible to her as if it were a
great, crushing weight, waiting to fall. She looked at the
crucifix. The figure of the Christ slumped upon the cross;
his head was bowed, his features contracted with the agony
of his passion, and his side rent from the point of the
centurion Longinus? spear. She was conscious that her sin
had added to the weight of the grief and misery of the Son
of God, that her wicked behavior had helped to crucify God
Almighty, the Creator-become-Redeemer. Her guilt lay upon
her as an overpowering burden. Her eyes filled with tears
at the thought of the pain and suffering she had caused her
Savior, not
only once but daily.
Henrietta was young. She was more than merely pretty. She
was beautiful. She was gorgeous, and she drew the attention
of men wherever she went, even though she dressed modestly
and wore little makeup. She excited men to lust, although
she did nothing more than enter a room or reply to a
question that a man asked her. She knew that she enflamed
men?s passions without trying to do so, but her conscience
was clear in regard to this occurrence, for she did nothing
to provoke such behavior.
She paused to genuflect before the altar. Lord, forgive me,
she prayed, as a tear of remorse trickled down her cheek.
She crossed the church to the confessional booth that
occupied a dark corner of the structure, opened the door,
and stepped into the close confines of the upright box.
?Forgive me, Father,? she implored, ?for I have sinned.?
?What is the nature of your sin, my daughter?? the priest
asked.
Since becoming conscious of her wrongdoing, Henrietta had
sought a way to put her sin into words. She had not been
successful. The words that came to mind did not express
the sense of wrong, the burden of guilt, or the weight of
shame that crushed her, nor did they communicate her
remorse. Until two years ago, Henrietta had been known as
Henry, and he had been the son, rather than the daughter,
of Henry and Linda Samson. She, who turned men?s thoughts
to lust, was, the year before last, a man herself.
As a boy, Henrietta - or Henry - had learned that sex was
intended for one purpose, and one purpose only--to produce
offspring within the context of marriage. Aware that as a
transsexual she could not give birth to children, Henrietta
had hidden her charms within large, loose-fitting garments
and shunned the use of cosmetics. It would not do, she had
told herself, countless times, to encourage romantic
notions in the hearts and minds of men, for they should be
husbands and fathers, not merely lovers. For her to excite
them to lust was to commit a grave sin, especially since
her sin would encourage sin among her admirers as well.
However, lately, she had come to understand that she was a
creature of God as much as anyone else. The same deity who
permitted two-headed snakes and calves, albino animals,
Siamese twins, and bacteria and viruses had created roses,
sunsets and transsexuals, including Henrietta herself. If
transsexuals were a mystery, so were many other creatures,
but surely, before she?d been created in the womb, God had
known that Henrietta would be born of Henry and that the
child who?d started life as a boy would end it as a woman.
Once she?d seen this truth, Henrietta saw, further, that in
hiding her beauty, she was concealing a gift of God, for it
was he who had made her as lovely as the most magnificent
woman born of women. To hide the light of her beauty from
the world was as sinful as to hide any other gift that God
bestowed upon a man or woman, whether intelligence, wisdom,
artistic ability, strength, or love. These were the
revelations that the Lord God had shown her in the past
several weeks.
Convinced of the truth of her understanding, she had put
off the hats and scarves, the extra-large shirts, and the
baggy trousers. She went bare-headed now, revealing the
great, radiant curls of her blonde hair and displayed the
fabulous curves of her full breasts, round buttocks, and
long, tapering legs. She also used cosmetics, accentuating
her natural loveliness with eye shadow, blush, and lip
gloss. She showcased the beauty that God had given her,
rather than shamefully concealing it. Of course, she had to
admit, in her case, God had had more than a little help
from plastic surgeons. Still, it had been God who had given
them the knowledge and skill to sculpt and shape and mold
her into a more womanly and feminine form of herself. She
was as fetching as any screen goddess, model, or singing
diva, past or present, even with the male genitals with
which she hadn?t been able to bring herself to part. She
was, after all, a shemale, not a female. She was an
androgyne, a hermaphrodite. Neither fully male nor fully
female; she transcended sex, just as she transcended
gender.
The priest coughed politely, before prompting his
parishioner to answer his previous question, which he now
asked a second time: ?What is the nature of your sin, my
daughter??
No doubt, Father Bender would have a few follow-up
questions to what she was about to confess, she thought,
taking her rosary in hand. She took a deep breath, and then
declared, ?I have lived my life as a man, Father, when I am
neither male nor female, but a new creature in Christ
Jesus, our Lord.?
Hortense
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