Rowan Murphy, middle-aged math teacher and police scanner enthusiast. 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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