Several years ago a New York City artist, who went by the name Mr. Apology began The Apology Line – perhaps you’ve heard of it.
It was a phone line hooked up to a tape recorder-
The number was advertised all over town with posters that read:

“Attention Amateurs, Professionals, Criminals, Blue collar, White collar-
“You have wronged people - it is to people that you must apologize, not to the State, not to God. Get your misdeeds off your chest, Call Apology 212-255-2748
“… Apology will automatically tape-record your anonymous call. Do not identify yourself and call from a pay phone to prevent tracing. Describe in detail what you have done and how you feel about it.
“When enough statements have been collected they will be played to the public at a time and place to be advertised.”

Initially, confessions were brief, but over time, they got longer.
A man called in who had given his wedding ring to a prostitute in Vietnam and for years had told his wife he had lost it.
A woman, distraught over a friend’s confession of a violent act, called to get it off her chest.
Another man called to shed feelings stirred by an erotic dream he had about his mother.
There were even murder confessions.

Mr. Apology figured about one third of the confessions were true, one third were false and one third were a mix between the two. Sometimes people asked him to call back. Sometimes Mr. Apology did.

Designed to gather a handful of recordings for an art exhibit, Mr. Apology decided not to disconnect The Apology Line once he'd met his quota. He kept it open for 15 years, encouraged others to do the same thing, and even inspired a film (see below, warning explicit language).



I often wonder if The Apology Line is today’s really cool update of the scene St. Mark describes when he tells us that ‘people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out ’ to repent and receive forgiveness from John the Baptist. Was this the venue people were looking for to air out their deepest, darkest secrets that a judgmental and unapproachable religious establishment was utterly incapable of doing? Did John, whose singular passion was not tied to food, clothing or even a home, possess the fervor and compassion that along might unburden people?

You and I can't help but ask ourselves:
What will it take for us to reveal our deepest, darkest transgressions?
What are we waiting for to confess?
Do we trust each other with our secrets?

As we mark the event of Christ’s baptism, we face the reality that Jesus too went through John’s baptism - can we trust Christ to listen and forgive us?