Wash Your Ass: A Theology of the Bidet
I keep seeing Europeans on social media freaking out about and rizzin up (as the youngens say) American culture. The exotic Waffle Houses’ redneck hibachi, the royal carnivore BBQ, the endless fizzy 200 ounce soda choices. But what really horrifies them is that we don’t have bidets. All that food, and nothing to clean our ass.
They are shook.
People always tell me I have crappy analogies (pun intended). And all metaphors stink in the end (pun also intended). But I figured I’d give this one a shot anyway.
People who say they don’t need confession because they confess straight to God are like folks who only use 1-ply toilet paper. Sure, you’ve done something.
You’ve wiped.
But you just smear it around the best you can (eww, as the EU folks say).
Stepping into the confessional is like using the bidet. It cleans you with certainty, not by your own work and strength.
Sure, I wipe. I examine my conscience and confess to God daily.
But I need to stay fresh and clean.
The point isn’t that God can’t forgive me outside the confessional. Of course He can. He honors your Angel Soft attempts.
The point is that Christ didn’t leave me to wonder whether I’d wiped myself well enough.
He gave His Church a sacrament. After His resurrection, He breathed on the apostles and said, “Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them” (John 20:22-23). St. James tells us, “Confess your sins to one another” (James 5:16). From the beginning, Christians didn’t just repent inwardly. They brought their wounds into the light so Christ could heal them through His Church.
So yes, every day I examine my conscience. Every day I ask God for mercy. That’s the toilet paper that this Charmin bear uses on the daily.
But every so often, I go to the place Christ established for washing souls. That’s the bidet.
Because I don’t just want to feel forgiven.
I want to hear the words Christ entrusted to His priests:
“I absolve you from your sins.”
That’s a kind of clean you don’t have to guess about.
I have an army of children at home, and it’s a pretty common liturgical refrain in our house to hear, “I’m done! Come wipe me!”
Sure, my three-year-old could try to do it himself, but it would be a messy endeavor. When I come with the wipes, he doesn’t argue about how I do it. He simply trusts that his father will take care of him.
In much the same way, Christ calls us to become like little children. Not by refusing responsibility, but by trusting the One who cleanses us. In confession, we trust the instrument He Himself established for our purification.
Did you wash your ass today?
