May 20, 2006
My DaVinci Code Penance
As if seeing The DaVinci Code wasn’t punishment enough, this morning I received an official mortal sin notification from the Vatican condemming me for all eternity, after which it burned up in my hand. How very Mission Impossible, I thought, or maybe it was Satan. Both possibilities left me shaken so I figured I’d just hit the confessional before work, tell the padre, get absolution, say my Hail Mary’s and be on my way. But Father L. wouldn’t absolve me unless I said I was sorry I’d seen the film. Well … okay! I really wasn’t sorry except that I spent nine bucks on a real turkey, but I said it anyway.
As penance Father L. instructed me never to see anything connected to Tom Hanks or Ron Howard. “Nothing?” I asked in disbelief. “Nothing,” he replied. “And that goes for re-runs, too. Bosom Buddies, The Andy Griffith Show and Happy Days.” This was painful. No Andy, no Goober, Fonz or Barney Fife. “That seems kind of harsh,” I told him. “That’s the penance of it,” he said. “You commit a grave sin and the punishment must fit the crime.” “That’s not church teaching, that’s The Mikado,” I said. He replied smugly, “The Church knows no borders or art forms.”
I was reluctantly about to agree to the terms of absolution when Father L. said, “and you must never see anything produced by Jerry Bruckheimer.” Wow! “But Bruckheimer didn’t have anything to do with The DaVinci Code,” I told him. “And Hail Mary’s don’t have anything to do with fornication, but we give them out anyway,” he retorted. This was getting very intense. I might survive without a Bruckheimer film, but no CSI, Without A Trace, Cold Case, Close To Home. There goes half my cable package.
“What about I say a whole bunch of Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s!? And rosaries, too! Just don’t take away my CSI,” I begged. But Father L. was insistent. “The guidelines have come down directly from the Vatican. They’re really dropping the holy hammer on this one.” “But I was an altar boy,” I said. “Doesn’t that count for something? Serving those 6:30 AM masses, watering down the Chablis so Father Coleman wouldn’t get smashed at the altar. What about all that?” “One mustn’t rest on one’s laurels,” he said. “The modern Church is about ‘what have you done for me lately?’” Boy, first they get rid of Latin, then they change the rules in mid life. I was getting desperate. “How about this,” I suggested, “I’ll do Catholic community service, you know, fill holy water fonts, iron vestments, read stories to nuns in nursing homes, set up for bingo — like that.”
Silence from the other side of the screen, followed by a thoughtful “Hmmmmmm, community service, huh?” I felt a glimmer of hope. It sounded like he was considering the offer. Sensing the opening, I pressed on. “I didn’t believe anything in the film, anyway, Father. I took the whole thing as ersatz history, like JFK or Farenheit 9/11.”
I heard him muttering. “The lawn does need mowing, and if the House immigration bill passes, I’ll have to pay through the nose for gardeners.” I had him and went in for the kill. “Besides, the stupid movie wasn’t anything like the book — ”
“You read the book?” he snapped, menace now in his voice. The booth mood turned sour, like the feeling you get after seeing Battlefield Earth or Boxing Helena. My throat went dry. Like The Bad News Bears Go To Japan, I had gone a plea too far. “Uh …. yeah,” I said, “skimmed, really. I thought it was about Leonardo. A biography. Or a novel, like … like … American Psycho.“
“I’m adding Dick Wolf to your penance,” he said, a little viciously I thought. “No Law and Order?” I wailed. “I use them to fall asleep nights. And days” “Do you want absolution or not?” he asked. “Yes, I said.” “Then that’s the penance. Deal or no deal?”
“Uhhhhh …. “ Father L. grew impatient. “I have other confessions to hear,” he said briskly. “Make your decision or the penance is off the table and you’ll go to the Big Juror in the Sky.” I thought of all those television hours gone, time that I would have to fill with exercise, reading books, doing something useful or just gaining weight. I couldn’t bear losing my favorite shows and blurted out a tepid “No.”
Father L. must have sensed my caution for he paused before asking, “Is that your final answer?” I was still torn, confused, upset, unprepared for such a momentous decision. “Can I have a lifeline?” I asked. “Call my mom? Maybe pray for guidance? Double-dip?” He said nothing. The seconds ticked away. Then, the confessional window closed with a snap and my time was up. I knew that I was doomed.
Doomed.
Doomed.
Then I began to wonder, what’s up with Buddhism?
