Justice Notes: Atonement
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
This week marks the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, a season of repentance that’s expressed through prayer, acts of charity, justice, and inward work, culminating in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The custom of Tashlich—tossing pebbles into flowing water to symbolically cast away sins—captures that longing for a fresh start. It’s been five years since my release, and I’m still casting pebbles. Below is an excerpt from my memoir that tracks the journey. Though I was raised Catholic, I’ve long felt an affinity with Jewish practice through friends and colleagues. So, while this scene takes place in a Catholic church, the message is the same.
A DAY OF REPENTENCE
Father Fiore was the pastor at St Michael’s Church, a declining parish on the west side of Stamford, CT, formerly a robust Italian/American community, but now a marginalized community of Latino and Black minorities with the highest rates of crime in the city. He was a paunchy priest in his mid-fifties, with full, thick gray hair and a friendly personality, but with none of the gravitas you’d typically associate with a Catholic priest. I’d often see him lunching at an Italian Trattoria that I frequented. A popular neighborhood spot on the east side of town, outside the central business district. The owners were a group of Italian cousins who diligently patrolled the dining room, mingling with the customers, where there was always a lively din. Father Fiore—a regular there who usually dined alone—was settled in a corner, a bottle of red wine in front of him, and his napkin tucked neatly behind his priestly collar. He gave the benediction at many business events I attended. So, he knew who I was.
I went to lunch there by myself after another tension-filled morning, filled with the crises that had become typical during that period of my life. Without planning it, I stopped by his table and asked him about the schedule for confession at his church. He was puzzled at first, but he quickly apologized and said he had confessions that afternoon. I hadn’t been to confession in years. The urge just came to me when I saw him. A dear, simple man, looking so content, a plate of pasta and a full glass of red wine in front of him, seemingly unaware of the world’s ministrations. Somehow, it moved me to that place.
I arrived at the church about five o’clock. It was situated in a back alley, with a small parking lot and a worn-out entrance. The church was empty and devoid of life, yet the usual lingering scent of candles and smoke. Father Fiore was standing by the confessional, his back to me. Without a greeting, he started to go into the confessional cubicle. But I didn’t want to hide in there. A complete frontal, devoid of secrecy, was essential for me at that moment.
“Father, I’d prefer to do this out in the open.”
He looked surprised but said, “Okay,” and we sat in a front pew next to each other.
“Sorry, Father. It’s just important that I do this face-to-face.”
“I understand,” he said. But he didn’t look like he understood. He seemed more uncomfortable than I was. He put the vestment around his neck, a dark purple one, the traditional color of the church for suffering, and nodded for me to begin. But he looked straight ahead.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…” I paused. “Father, I can’t remember how long it’s been since my last confession. And I forgot the rest of the required introduction.”
“It’s okay, John. Just proceed as you like. We’ll figure it out.”
“Father, I’m not the man everyone thinks I am.” I had no idea why I said that. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. He didn’t respond. He turned and looked directly at me, but as if he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.
“I’m a fraud, Father. And everyone is about to find out.”
“John. You’re a successful businessman,” he countered. Turning toward me for a moment, but then looking straight ahead, then up at the ceiling, and then turning back to me. An incredulous expression, like this can’t be so.
“No Father...”
“Yes, John. You’re respected in the community. I hear from everyone that…”
“Yes. But it’s not true, Father. I mean, it was, but it’s not now. Or maybe it never was. I’ve committed terrible sins, Father—lies, forging documents. I mean. I mean, so many terrible things. I can’t even list them all.”
There was a long pause. He didn’t respond. I realized he was someone uncomfortable with grave revelations and complexity. Maybe being outside the confessional unmoored him. Perhaps I was expecting too much. It was almost unfair to expect more from him. I said a few more things and finished up. He forgave me with the usual blessing. A minor penance of prayers—much less than I expected. He didn’t seem scandalized or upset. I didn’t feel he really took it all in. I’m not sure he even believed me. I was so prepared to unburden myself with every sin, every illegal, self-serving, duplicitous, cowardly act. But I was unable. Not through fear. But no audience. He wasn’t listening.
I wanted so badly to confess. A confessional is a great thing, an unburdening, even if transitory. There is comfort in the darkness, the scent of the oak panels, the hazy screen, the priest behind it, a ghostly profile as you wait for the panel to slide open, and the signal to begin your confession. And what relief there is after, from those few minutes kneeling in silence, saying the simple prayers of penance and the unburdening they provide.
But there was none of that at St Michael’s that afternoon. I think Father Fiore was relieved when I left.
I’m a little further along than I was then, but I still carry many more pebbles. Hopefully, there are enough years remaining before the stream runs dry.
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John, what strikes me in your reflection is the contrast between Catholic confession and the way Judaism approaches this season. In our tradition there is no confession, no priestly gatekeeper. A rabbi is a teacher, not a father confessor. Teshuva — repentance, return — is a direct dialogue, an I and Thou. You can cast your pebbles without needing to get past a plate of pasta and a glass of wine.
And as for tashlich, which literally means “casting”or “throwing away” (not necessarily pebbles, but rather emptying your pockets)or the tradition of placing a stone on a grave, I liken it to the idea of being personally responsible for what you collect, or fasting away. No mediation.
Although I’m no longer practicing, I’ve always cherished this aspect of Judaism — that the work of repentance is radically individual, both spiritual and cultural. It’s you, your words, your honesty. In that sense, what you’re doing in your writing is exactly in the spirit of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
There is Catholic--or at least Camino practice--that echoes this. One leaves a stone at the Cruz de Ferro, both as a remembrance of someone as release of personal burdens.