Holy Thursday and the Bitties of the Church
Most shops have shortened hours, people are not getting married this
week and there is an air of a holiday floating around like that with
Christmas. Holy Week continues in Italy with the celebration of Holy
Thursday. Here, in Italy, the churches have a mass remembering the Last
Supper that Jesus had with his disciples. We went and I was surprised to
see that the church was filled to capacity and dozens of men stood at
the back since there was no room to sit. At the end of most masses the
priest gives a blessing, but on this day he doesn't. The mass ends with
the body of Christ, in the Eucharist (communion) being put in a
different area of the church. Then, the churches remain open till
midnight for prayer. This resembles how Jesus went, after the dinner,
to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. The three disciples that went with
Him fell asleep when He needed them most. In some way it also resembles
humanity that forgets Christ and
prefers to be comfortable and sinful without Him.
This might be the right blog to write about my Confession experience here in Italy. Gosh, I love Confession. That is when you go and tell the priest all of your sins since the last time you confessed, he gives you advice and then tells you not to sin anymore and forgives your sins. In a nutshell, that is what it is. I was raised Baptist singing Amazing Grace and had no idea about the Catholic church rituals (much to my devoutly Catholic grandfathers horror). Once I became Catholic, and am so glad that I did, I found myself in a predicament not being sure how to confess properly in Baltimore. I went to an ancient Irish priest who walked me through it while I hacked up the sins of my life. He was stern, quiet, calm and poised. Excellent. Here in Italy? Oh boy, I have heard a myriad priests, particularly the one in Rivoltella who didn't know how to whisper, exclaiming out of surprise from the confession box, "Ma guarda, quello non si fa!" (Look here, that shouldn't be done!) Sitting outside I could visualize him shaking his head, and the penetant confessor shaking from being outed. Finally I confessed to a few different Italian priests. It wasn't easy at first since telling your sins in a foreign language is challenging. The first time I went to the church of St. Anthony in Padova where they have Franciscan monks that speak several languages. I got a young Monk, worried, kind, hopeful and he wanted to talk about the cause my sins deeply, not at all like my practical Irish priest in Baltimore. What I thought would be a 5 minute confession turned into a 20 minute spiritual dialouge with advice. The following time I went to confession was in Cremona. I was in the Duomo looking curiously at the marble plate with St. Johns head in it and I heard the row of bitties (gossiping older women) sitting by the confession box waiting for their turn saying that the old priest was deaf. Great, maybe it would go faster and I didn't have much time to spare. Then, my confession experience began. I started to notice some general things about going to confess to very old (around 90) priests. There are always a row of bitties waiting outside. The priests are never deaf, maybe they just pretend to be with the chattering ladies. The old priests never fall asleep when you see them with their head nodding and mouth dropping open they are listening more attentively. Also, listening attentively are the row of retired ladies sitting outside of the confession box. They are in prime seats to get fresh juicy gossip to spread around the little towns and are delighted to see a young lady sit next to them like fresh meat. What could be more exciting? "Who is she, not from here and what did she do wrong?" I can see it dancing in their eyes as they study my Puma shoes and jeans then conclude that I am certainly not from their parts since I don't dress with the local fashion code. I found that I preferred going to very old priests because they have seen confessions all of the colors of the rainbow and usually give good sweet advice. Each time I have gone and sat on the long bench leading to the confession box I have gotten interrogated by the bitties. Never at first as they analyze, look at the shoes, your face, your hands then grin mischievously seeing that you are married. You hope the priest ends soon and look patiently ahead minding your business but can't ignore the scent of onions, gas and Nivea cold cream wafting over from your bench companions. You feel their curious eyes burning through you. Finally one quips up, always, "You're not from here? You married?" In the North, the women knew instantly I wasn't Italian at all. Here in Pescara, they think I am from some other foreign part of Italy, as any part other than their town is might well be foreign, and that is just fine with me. Then, in any place, they try to discourage you. Seriously! Shame on the bitties for doing that in church before confession. "You married? Marriage is terrible. Italian? Italian men are the worst. You have children? Don't do it, they never appreciate you. You are American? I heard a huge earthquake will destroy California and Obama doesn't look healthy these days. You like Italian food? It will make you fat, be careful since you are still skinny." One has to be resolved not to talk about ones business but be respectful to the elderly as they sit down on the plank of the Inquisition. As the confession box opens they instantly look pious and in meditative contemplation. The priests are not fooled though and look at them sternly. I love confession, and have also grown to be entertained by the bitties. They are the ladies that will also pray for you if you ask them to pray, they pray the rosary in groups daily in the mass, keep watch over the church during all open hours, pass the offering plate and keep a mental note of who was there and who wasn't, who sat with who and who has friends or family visiting. They are the grandma's who keep their grandchildren strait, and set an example of prayer. Where are the men? I think 50% are dead and the other 50% are in a coffee bar talking with their friends, far from the hen-pecking bitties. I like them though, if you can steer them away from your business they give cooking advice, cleaning tips, child raising advice and you make a new friend who will smile at you in the street nodding approvingly if they see you grocery shopping or with your spouse. Oh the Bitties, they protect the streets, church and keep crime low by keeping people on their toes and on their best behaviour, scared to be the topic of gossip. I wouldn't change a thing about them.
This might be the right blog to write about my Confession experience here in Italy. Gosh, I love Confession. That is when you go and tell the priest all of your sins since the last time you confessed, he gives you advice and then tells you not to sin anymore and forgives your sins. In a nutshell, that is what it is. I was raised Baptist singing Amazing Grace and had no idea about the Catholic church rituals (much to my devoutly Catholic grandfathers horror). Once I became Catholic, and am so glad that I did, I found myself in a predicament not being sure how to confess properly in Baltimore. I went to an ancient Irish priest who walked me through it while I hacked up the sins of my life. He was stern, quiet, calm and poised. Excellent. Here in Italy? Oh boy, I have heard a myriad priests, particularly the one in Rivoltella who didn't know how to whisper, exclaiming out of surprise from the confession box, "Ma guarda, quello non si fa!" (Look here, that shouldn't be done!) Sitting outside I could visualize him shaking his head, and the penetant confessor shaking from being outed. Finally I confessed to a few different Italian priests. It wasn't easy at first since telling your sins in a foreign language is challenging. The first time I went to the church of St. Anthony in Padova where they have Franciscan monks that speak several languages. I got a young Monk, worried, kind, hopeful and he wanted to talk about the cause my sins deeply, not at all like my practical Irish priest in Baltimore. What I thought would be a 5 minute confession turned into a 20 minute spiritual dialouge with advice. The following time I went to confession was in Cremona. I was in the Duomo looking curiously at the marble plate with St. Johns head in it and I heard the row of bitties (gossiping older women) sitting by the confession box waiting for their turn saying that the old priest was deaf. Great, maybe it would go faster and I didn't have much time to spare. Then, my confession experience began. I started to notice some general things about going to confess to very old (around 90) priests. There are always a row of bitties waiting outside. The priests are never deaf, maybe they just pretend to be with the chattering ladies. The old priests never fall asleep when you see them with their head nodding and mouth dropping open they are listening more attentively. Also, listening attentively are the row of retired ladies sitting outside of the confession box. They are in prime seats to get fresh juicy gossip to spread around the little towns and are delighted to see a young lady sit next to them like fresh meat. What could be more exciting? "Who is she, not from here and what did she do wrong?" I can see it dancing in their eyes as they study my Puma shoes and jeans then conclude that I am certainly not from their parts since I don't dress with the local fashion code. I found that I preferred going to very old priests because they have seen confessions all of the colors of the rainbow and usually give good sweet advice. Each time I have gone and sat on the long bench leading to the confession box I have gotten interrogated by the bitties. Never at first as they analyze, look at the shoes, your face, your hands then grin mischievously seeing that you are married. You hope the priest ends soon and look patiently ahead minding your business but can't ignore the scent of onions, gas and Nivea cold cream wafting over from your bench companions. You feel their curious eyes burning through you. Finally one quips up, always, "You're not from here? You married?" In the North, the women knew instantly I wasn't Italian at all. Here in Pescara, they think I am from some other foreign part of Italy, as any part other than their town is might well be foreign, and that is just fine with me. Then, in any place, they try to discourage you. Seriously! Shame on the bitties for doing that in church before confession. "You married? Marriage is terrible. Italian? Italian men are the worst. You have children? Don't do it, they never appreciate you. You are American? I heard a huge earthquake will destroy California and Obama doesn't look healthy these days. You like Italian food? It will make you fat, be careful since you are still skinny." One has to be resolved not to talk about ones business but be respectful to the elderly as they sit down on the plank of the Inquisition. As the confession box opens they instantly look pious and in meditative contemplation. The priests are not fooled though and look at them sternly. I love confession, and have also grown to be entertained by the bitties. They are the ladies that will also pray for you if you ask them to pray, they pray the rosary in groups daily in the mass, keep watch over the church during all open hours, pass the offering plate and keep a mental note of who was there and who wasn't, who sat with who and who has friends or family visiting. They are the grandma's who keep their grandchildren strait, and set an example of prayer. Where are the men? I think 50% are dead and the other 50% are in a coffee bar talking with their friends, far from the hen-pecking bitties. I like them though, if you can steer them away from your business they give cooking advice, cleaning tips, child raising advice and you make a new friend who will smile at you in the street nodding approvingly if they see you grocery shopping or with your spouse. Oh the Bitties, they protect the streets, church and keep crime low by keeping people on their toes and on their best behaviour, scared to be the topic of gossip. I wouldn't change a thing about them.
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