Professor
09-05-2007, 04:11 PM
Source: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/chi-kass05sep05,0,5794822.column
Click, confess, but don't expect miracle
John Kass (jskass@tribune.com)
September 5, 2007
I have a confession to make. I've just made up a sin, anonymously and online, so I could go to virtual confession on the Internet and read other anonymous confessions, some of which are quite juicy and bizarre.
Mine involved a dim memory of a teacher who looked remarkably like the gorgeous Italian movie starlet Verna Lisi. And my trusty assistant, the Polish Spartacus, confessed he had thoughts about his Spanish teacher in high school.
But like all sins, those belonging to other people are much more interesting, including these at ivescrewedup.com (http://www.ivescrewedup.com/).
"I steal and eat Twinkies from the 7Eleven every day, please God forgive me!" wrote someone from Massachusetts.
"When I was 13 I stole 900 dollars from my grandmother and blamed it on my cousin and my whole family believes that she did it and is always cautious when she comes around, when the one they should be worried about is me," wrote someone from Illinois.
And this one from a Florida woman: "I am engaged, but not divorced. I have herpes but my boyfriend doesn't know. My husband does not know my daughter is not his."
The virtual online anonymous confessional being used, or abused, by those who claim religious affiliation is another phenomenon peculiar to the computer age. It's almost as terrifying as that TalktoJesus (TM) cell phone, which requires its own column.
The online confessional phenomenon was documented in a recent Los Angeles Times story with the headline "Bless Me Web Master, for I have sinned." This subject came up while I was playing guest radio host Tuesday morning on WLS-AM, filling in with Jerry Agar for the vacationing Don Wade and Roma.
After the show, I called my priest, Rev. William Chiganos of Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church in Westchester, to ask if I could do an anonymous online confession.
"You mean, Bless Me Webmaster for I have sinned?" asked Father Bill. "I read that story in the Tribune. How ridiculous."
Yes, Father. Still, there may be certain advantages. May I confess anonymously, online?
"No," he said. "Confession is a holy sacrament. You don't do it on a computer. You're welcome to come in anytime, John. But not online."
According to another anonymous confess-me site -- absolution-online.com -- (http://absolution-online.com/)confession is as easy as clicking the icon that resembles a small wooden chamber where Roman Catholic sinners unburden themselves. A disclaimer notes that the site has not been endorsed by the church.
Once you click on the confessional, you can click on certain sins, venal, mortal and so on. Because my trusty colleague Spartacus is 25 and unmarried, he naturally clicked on lust.
"You should fast for 3 days," said the computer. "If this is too much to do at once due to the length of the fast, or infirmity, it is acceptable to break a fast into smaller sections. ... If your sin also broke the law of the land in which you live, you must confess to the authorities."
Then it prescribed a few Our Fathers.
But I had a question: Did you break any laws?
"Heck, no," insisted Spartacus.
Some of the sins on ivescrewedup.com seemed awfully serious, full of pain and guilt. I'm not going to make fun of these because they could be authentic, or real cries for help, and suggest a need for a face-to-face meeting with someone who can help them.
But with the Twinkie thief in there, and a few others of similar comic depravity, Spartacus and I didn't want them to feel isolated and alone.
So we made up some fantastic sins, stuff we'd never, ever do in our lives. It's all lies, lies and more lies. That's a sin, too, isn't it, lying on an anonymous Internet confessional?
"What are my sins?" typed an anonymous columnist. "Well, once when I was about 10 years old around Halloween, I stole some vampire fangs from the dime store down the street, and the manager caught me and threatened he'd tell my dad, but he didn't, and still I hated the guy's guts. That's a sin, isn't it? I broke Mrs. Biondo's basement window when I was 5, because Mike Fitzgibbons told me I had to do it to hang out with them, and Mrs. Galena saw everything, and she told my mom and my mom gave me a whipping."
A pair of stolen vampire fangs? A broken window long ago? These require but a slap on the wrist of the soul.
But there were other sins, confessed by a fellow quite partial to pierogi, that are horrifying, including lighting a paper bag on fire with a pound or so of you-know-what in it.
"We used to ding-dong ditch all the time, you know, fill a paper bag with fresh dog-doo and put it on a neighbor's porch and lighting it on fire and ringing the bell," wrote the sinner.
"The neighbor came out and stomped it and we laughed and laughed. And once I filched a six-pack of Old Style from my dad's fridge, and when he found the cans in the back yard I blamed some kids down the street. Oh, and I also had impure thoughts about my Spanish teacher in senior year in high school. She was smokin.' ... Am I absolved now?"
Yes, my son. You're absolved.
But only in cyberspace.
Click, confess, but don't expect miracle
John Kass (jskass@tribune.com)
September 5, 2007
I have a confession to make. I've just made up a sin, anonymously and online, so I could go to virtual confession on the Internet and read other anonymous confessions, some of which are quite juicy and bizarre.
Mine involved a dim memory of a teacher who looked remarkably like the gorgeous Italian movie starlet Verna Lisi. And my trusty assistant, the Polish Spartacus, confessed he had thoughts about his Spanish teacher in high school.
But like all sins, those belonging to other people are much more interesting, including these at ivescrewedup.com (http://www.ivescrewedup.com/).
"I steal and eat Twinkies from the 7Eleven every day, please God forgive me!" wrote someone from Massachusetts.
"When I was 13 I stole 900 dollars from my grandmother and blamed it on my cousin and my whole family believes that she did it and is always cautious when she comes around, when the one they should be worried about is me," wrote someone from Illinois.
And this one from a Florida woman: "I am engaged, but not divorced. I have herpes but my boyfriend doesn't know. My husband does not know my daughter is not his."
The virtual online anonymous confessional being used, or abused, by those who claim religious affiliation is another phenomenon peculiar to the computer age. It's almost as terrifying as that TalktoJesus (TM) cell phone, which requires its own column.
The online confessional phenomenon was documented in a recent Los Angeles Times story with the headline "Bless Me Web Master, for I have sinned." This subject came up while I was playing guest radio host Tuesday morning on WLS-AM, filling in with Jerry Agar for the vacationing Don Wade and Roma.
After the show, I called my priest, Rev. William Chiganos of Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church in Westchester, to ask if I could do an anonymous online confession.
"You mean, Bless Me Webmaster for I have sinned?" asked Father Bill. "I read that story in the Tribune. How ridiculous."
Yes, Father. Still, there may be certain advantages. May I confess anonymously, online?
"No," he said. "Confession is a holy sacrament. You don't do it on a computer. You're welcome to come in anytime, John. But not online."
According to another anonymous confess-me site -- absolution-online.com -- (http://absolution-online.com/)confession is as easy as clicking the icon that resembles a small wooden chamber where Roman Catholic sinners unburden themselves. A disclaimer notes that the site has not been endorsed by the church.
Once you click on the confessional, you can click on certain sins, venal, mortal and so on. Because my trusty colleague Spartacus is 25 and unmarried, he naturally clicked on lust.
"You should fast for 3 days," said the computer. "If this is too much to do at once due to the length of the fast, or infirmity, it is acceptable to break a fast into smaller sections. ... If your sin also broke the law of the land in which you live, you must confess to the authorities."
Then it prescribed a few Our Fathers.
But I had a question: Did you break any laws?
"Heck, no," insisted Spartacus.
Some of the sins on ivescrewedup.com seemed awfully serious, full of pain and guilt. I'm not going to make fun of these because they could be authentic, or real cries for help, and suggest a need for a face-to-face meeting with someone who can help them.
But with the Twinkie thief in there, and a few others of similar comic depravity, Spartacus and I didn't want them to feel isolated and alone.
So we made up some fantastic sins, stuff we'd never, ever do in our lives. It's all lies, lies and more lies. That's a sin, too, isn't it, lying on an anonymous Internet confessional?
"What are my sins?" typed an anonymous columnist. "Well, once when I was about 10 years old around Halloween, I stole some vampire fangs from the dime store down the street, and the manager caught me and threatened he'd tell my dad, but he didn't, and still I hated the guy's guts. That's a sin, isn't it? I broke Mrs. Biondo's basement window when I was 5, because Mike Fitzgibbons told me I had to do it to hang out with them, and Mrs. Galena saw everything, and she told my mom and my mom gave me a whipping."
A pair of stolen vampire fangs? A broken window long ago? These require but a slap on the wrist of the soul.
But there were other sins, confessed by a fellow quite partial to pierogi, that are horrifying, including lighting a paper bag on fire with a pound or so of you-know-what in it.
"We used to ding-dong ditch all the time, you know, fill a paper bag with fresh dog-doo and put it on a neighbor's porch and lighting it on fire and ringing the bell," wrote the sinner.
"The neighbor came out and stomped it and we laughed and laughed. And once I filched a six-pack of Old Style from my dad's fridge, and when he found the cans in the back yard I blamed some kids down the street. Oh, and I also had impure thoughts about my Spanish teacher in senior year in high school. She was smokin.' ... Am I absolved now?"
Yes, my son. You're absolved.
But only in cyberspace.