Forgive me, Father

For non-Catholics, the most luridly fascinating aspect of Catholicism is confession. Telling your inmost sins — and we know what they are — to a male cleric, eh? In a darkened booth. How medieval is that?

Well, the fantasies that people who never go to confession nurse about it are about to be shored up by a new book on the subject by the Catholic author John Cornwell. It’s called The Dark Box: A Secret History of Confession. On the cover is a scary-looking picture of a confessional — not somewhere you’d take the children, frankly, but right at home in a Hitchcock movie.

John Cornwell is a friend, and moreover an intelligent and thoughtful man, but if ever there were a book that played to its gallery, it’s this one. The thing is riddled with sex, including child abuse, which is plainly working miracles from the point of view of publicity. I’ve been asked to review it by three newspapers; another is carrying extracts. It’s a cue for every ex-Catholic in the commentariat to discuss their angst about sharing their sex lives with elderly priests. The trauma!

The last time I went to confession was on Christmas Eve, in my home parish in Ireland. Confessions were from 10 until noon. There had already been a penitential service that week, so I assumed anyone who had anything on their conscience would have gone then. To my surprise, there were priests in three confession boxes and two rows of people, constantly renewed, waiting their turn in front of each of them. The penitents weren’t all elderly, either. There were teenagers and children.

My confession went just fine, thank you. There was, as ever, a grille between me and the priest; the box was dark but not intimidatingly so, which is how I like it.