Speech to the Eighth-Grade Confirmation Class

Journal & Essays

I was recently asked to speak to a group of eighth-graders preparing to make their Confirmation. Confirmation is a sacrament in the Catholic Church in which believers are sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit and strengthened in their Christian life. The text of my speech follows.

After worrying myself sick trying to figure out what to say to you in this speech, I decided I would throw away all the scraps I’d written and just tell you whatever message came out of my heart. And so this is what I’ll share with you today:

First, I want to tell you that finding God in your life is the biggest and most important responsibility in the world. But don’t worry; it doesn’t have to be a difficult burden, or some kind of chore. There are already too many people doing things “just because they need to do them” in the world. I think it’s so much more inspiring to watch people who are moved by desire; to see people acting from some energy that lights them up and makes their eyes sparkle with fire. Deep inside your heart, and mine, is the greatest desire of all: the desire to know and be united with God. It’s a desire we all have, because it is the material of life; it’s the stuff that keeps our souls alert and our cells together. Some of us like to think about this desire a lot, and some of us forget about it. Some of us deny this desire altogether and say that God doesn’t exist. But all humans have to wrestle with this desire someday. You see, this desire to know God—to find out where I came from, and where I will return to—is too important to get buried forever. In my own life, I feel empty and overwhelmed when I’m not paying attention to the messages of my heart. I think St. Augustine got it right when he said that our hearts are restless until they rest in God.

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Hidden Thoughts

Journal & Essays

Do you ever get the impression that you can’t permit yourself to think a certain thought until you’re in the right place—the right physical location—to think it?

This perceived obligation strikes me from time to time, particularly when I’m about to entertain an especially treasured and intimate thought, like a fond memory of someone I love. It doesn’t seem right to think this kind of thought while I’m walking in an open, public space (as through a parking lot), or when someone else is sitting close to me (as on the bus). Not because the thought is indecent in any way, but simply because it’s too private and special to be aired so freely. You could almost say it’s an impulse to preserve the “purity” of a thought—whatever that means. This might sound ridiculous, since, of course, my thoughts are safely ensconced in my skull, unspoken, formless, and invisible to anyone but myself. Nevertheless, I feel obligated to protect them and give them the extra measure of privacy they seem to demand. Otherwise, the thoughts deflate and lose a little bit of the quality that makes them come alive. That’s why, when I have an idea or a memory I really want to savor, I wait until I’ve settled myself into a nice, solitary place (like in bed, with the sheets pulled over my head—sealing the thoughts under the blanket so they can’t escape) and then allow myself to indulge in the thinking. The postponement and anticipation, in fact, make the whole thing more exciting, and turn my simple thoughts into what feels like the sweetest of rewards.

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