![]() ![]() Though I couldn’t see much through the decorative screen, I had known my penitent the moment he stepped in the booth. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. One I prayed daily to change (when I remembered to.) Moving past that would take more than a facelift for the building, but I wanted to show my parishioners that the church was able to change. ![]() I’d been assigned to this parish because of its painful past…and my own. ![]() There would be windows and light and modernity. No more red carpet-admittedly good for hiding wine stains-but terrible for the atmosphere. Margaret’s of Weston, Missouri into something resembling a modern church. Ten thousand more dollars, and we would be able to renovate St. I folded my hands and thanked God for the success of our latest fundraiser. I’m not a claustrophobic man, but this booth could turn me into one. This booth was the antithesis to that room-constrained and formal, made of dark wood and unnecessarily ornate molding. Growing up, my church in Kansas City had a reconciliation room, clean and bright and tasteful, with comfortable chairs and a tall window overlooking the parish garden. I hated it from the moment I saw it, something old-fashioned and hulking from the dark days before Vatican II. But my prevailing theory at the moment was this fucking booth. I had many theories as to why: pride, inconvenience, loss of spiritual autonomy. It’s no secret that reconciliation is the least popular sacrament. ![]()
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