There are certain phrases that capture the human imagination and express something so deep and so powerful that they become a kind of montra for us. One of those phrases is: "Bless me, father, for I have sinned." You just listen to the rhythm of this phrase, and you know it almost sings itself: "Bless me, father, for I have sinned." BLESS you, because you have sinned? Don't you mean: FORGIVE you? Yes, but it's the same thing. Except, because I have sinned, I need the blessing even more. The blessing of the father. My mother loves me anyway. But what about the father? When we are sinners, how do we get the blessing of the father? By doing penance? So we have the image of the penitant, sitting down in the confessional, transferring perhaps to a stranger, the primal need for the blessing they cannot get from their own father. What penance can earn you the blessing that should be your birthright?
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Esau was tricked by his brother Jacob out of his father's blessing. Esau should rightfully have had it, as the oldest. But Jacob pretended to be his older brother, and because his father's eyes were dim with age, he mistook him for Esau and gave his blessing to the wrong son. It didn't matter that it was intended for someone else. There was such a magical quality to the words and the act, that once bestowed, it could not be withdrawn. So Esau was left totally traumatized and desolate, beseeching his father: "'Have you not reserved a blessing for me? . . . Have you but one blessing, my father? Bless me, even me also, O my father.' And Esau lifted up his voice and wept" (Genesis 27:36-38).
Our hearts go out to Esau. What an awful cry of anguish went up from his soul, for that blessing from his father, lost then for him, forever.
Jacob got the blessing. This is the same Jacob that strove with the angel of God, wrestling with him all night, refusing to let the angel go until he blessed him. That same Jacob, who was then named "Israel", because he strove with God and won. That's the son, who went out into the world with his father's blessing. That's the son who became the Father of the Chosen People, because he was blessed by his father.
It's hard to be a father. You don't have to be a father to know that. It's easy to see that it's hard to be a father. I was in the grocery store awhile back, and I couldn't help noticing a man, who was trying to do his shopping with a little boy, who was crying and wailing from his perch in the cart, unconsolably. The father was murmuring under his breath: "Now, Dan, calm down, control yourself, be patient, just a little longer. We're almost through, almost through. Calm down, Dan, boy." I said to the man, as I went by with my cart: "Little Danny's having a hard time there, eh?" The man looked at me and said, "I'm Dan."
Not that mothers don't have trouble with children crying in the store too. Of course, we do. But men are often just not expecting to have to deal with that kind of thing. And although women often have little training in childrearing, men often have none. Which reminds me of the story about the man who filled out an application for a job. The interviewer read the form and then said: "I see you have no experience at this kind of work." "That's right," the man said. "But you're asking $1,000 a week," continued the interviewer. "Isn't that a lot of money for someone with no experience?"
