Yom Kippur is the Jewish day of atonement on which the tribe fasts and goes to temple to privately confess your evil deed, thus earning a tabla rasa for another year to repeat the ways of the flesh in violation of the Ten Commandments. Personally I wouldn’t go to temple, since attendance is the surest sign of guilt, then again we are all guilty of something, which is how the police justify arresting the wrong person.
“He committed a crime. The question is only what crime.”
Last year I lied, denied the existence of God, and nearly killed the driver of an oncoming car, when I fell asleep at the wheel. I did not cheat on my wives, I honored my father, and I worshipped no false god. No true god either.
This omission could endanger my immortal soul. The only remedy would be an act of contrition via the sacrament of confession.
“Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been a long time since my last confession.”
I can’t remember how long.
Two decades? Three?
Twenty-four years ago I swam in the Ganges at Varanasi. That feat expiated all my previous sins. So I only have twenty-four years of sins to negate somehow.
Good deeds?
I’ve done a few of those on occasion, but while the road to Hell is paved by good intentions, the surface is greased by bad ones.
I am sorry for a lot, but then again too little to mention, because I did it my way.
When in doubt, quote Frank Sinatra.
Old Blue Eyes won’t steer you wrong.