The midday sun slanted through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the tile floor beside my feet. The church door creaked and someone slipped in, joining the line of nearly 20 people waiting for the confessional. Silently we all shifted, and my feet stepped from yellow to green in the display of light on the floor.

I was in a large cathedral in the downtown area of a mid-sized Southern city I was visiting for the first time. It was Friday - a First Friday, in fact, and I wanted to attend the noon Mass to participate in the First Friday devotion. Confession is recommended before or after First Friday Mass, and so I had come to the church early enough to receive the sacrament. 

Evidently a lot of other people had the same idea. Or maybe this particular church always has a long line for confession. At any rate, as I have many other times before, I found myself struck by the strange, silent, and yet powerful solidarity of waiting with others for confession.

I see a wonderful priest for spiritual direction every two or three weeks and usually try to make a confession when I’m there. But either because of a more pressing spiritual need, or just because of an opportunity, I still like to come into a quiet church like this at the appointed time for confessions and wait my turn.

It seems like the lines have grown since I first became a Catholic 22 years ago. Praise God if that’s the case. The world needs Christ’s mercy and grace. But maybe it’s a function of how much more frequently I try to receive the sacrament now than I used to and I’m more likely to see a line like this. In my memory it felt like when I would go to confession as a new Catholic it would be me and a couple of elderly ladies. On this particular day, the line was overwhelmingly men. Young men, middle aged men, older men.

“What are they all here for?” I often catch myself wondering. With the old ladies, I find myself speculating about gossip, or impatience, or envying some neighbor’s inexplicably delicious pie recipe. And I chuckle inwardly to myself. With others I wonder, is it some mortal sin? Something awful? Or just the ordinary struggles to live out our faith consistently and with grace? There is a mystery in noticing how long or short each person takes in the confessional and feeling the urge to wonder about each person’s story.

I notice the body language of others in the line. Some seem anxious. Others at peace. How long has it been for some of them? Are they coming back to confession for the first time in decades? Or do they come here weekly? Like me, do they feel weary from confessing the same things as last time? And like me, do they also feel a certain hopeful anticipation for the chance to unburden themselves and start fresh?

I catch myself with these potentially dangerous, even sinful thoughts, and remember my own brokenness that brought me to this same line and I redirect my thoughts to preparing for my own pending confession.

The line itself becomes a part of the penance that is essential to the sacrament. We wait. Sometimes for a long time. We grow restless and shift our feet. Someone checks a watch. “How will Father ever get through all these confessions before time for Mass?” I find myself thinking. And then once again redirect my attention to the task at hand.

I review what I plan to say to the priest. Because the line is long, I don’t want to take too much time. As Fr. Chris Pietrasko recently reminded us in an essay for Missio Dei, confession is not a place for therapy, although it is immensely healing. Therapy or spiritual direction can support regular confession, but that is not its purpose. Rather, the sacrament of confession is a healing encounter with Christ through His servant the priest. It is about seeking, and receiving, absolution, and the grace to go back into the world and try again. It is essential for the life of discipleship. 

I look around the still church while we wait. Another priest is preparing the altar for Mass. Penitents come from the confessional and enter a pew, kneeling, to give thanks or offer prayers of penance. There is mostly just the sound of the confessional door as it periodically opens, the shuffle of feet as we move forward in line, the sound of the door as it closes. A sound machine whirs quietly, masking the voices from inside the booth.

It is my turn, and the man leaving the confessional glances at me as he comes out. We subtly acknowledge each other. Before entering, I look back at the line of people waiting and I feel a deep, silent bond with them all.

I do not know their names or what has brought them to this place. I will likely never see them again. I have no idea about their sins or their penances. I only know that, like me, they come in need of healing. They are my brothers and sisters in arms in this great counter-cultural act of acknowledging our brokenness and desire for a holier life. They are my fellow travelers seeking what Pope St. John Paul II called “the love that is greater than sin.”

To learn more about the Sacrament of Confession from other Missio Dei writers, see “Making a Good Confession” by Fr. Chris Pietraszko and “The Vicar of Christ Behind the Screen” by Mikaila Kruse.