heelers confessio

Wandering into a Dublin church in the heat of the day.
It's the atmostpheric one with the statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in a side chapel.
You'll find it down a side alley off Grafton Street.
In the shadowy interior I espy a confession box with a sign beside it indicating the presence of a priest.
The Catholic rite of confession involves telling a priest in a one on one encounter whatever sins you have committed.
The confession box in this church is a full sized room.
A thought strikes me.
Maybe it's time to confess the sin of hatred for Muslims.
I enter the confession box and sit down.
There is a partition with a grill in it between me and the priest.
It does not conceal the fact that he is black.
For crying out loud.
There's no way I'm confessing a sin akin to racism to an African priest. Best to stick to something nice and safe. Maybe I could make up something sexual.
From far away I hear myself saying: "Father I have come here today to confess the sin of hatred for Muslims. Whenever there's a terrorist attack, I find I hate them. I have written about them in harsh terms. I hate them for their terrorism. I hate them for the way they treat other people. I hate them for the way they treat each other. And this hatred is the sin that is heaviest on my heart."
The Padre heaved an African sigh.
"In my country they are shooting us and blowing up our churches," he said, "but you must meet them with love."