I returned from the National Eucharistic Congress this past weekend, and I’m just now beginning to process all that happened there. The size of this event took your breath away.
The church across the street from the convention center hosted perpetual adoration during the days of the Congress. In one free moment between events, I decided to stop by there to pray but found that it was wall-to-wall jammed with people. It was an astonishing thing, really, especially when I consider the small, quiet, usually mostly empty adoration chapel at my local parish. No one was being rude or irreverent, but the sheer volume of bodies packed into a close space was not a prayerful experience for me.
Believe it or not, Mass and adoration in a football stadium with more than 50,000 people were prayerful experiences. Crowds of Catholics packed into Lucas Oil Stadium, where football heroes play, where they held the Olympic swimming trials a few short weeks ago, and where, come November, Taylor Swift will take the stage and sing Fearless. Here, we knelt and adored our Lord in the Eucharist. We spoke the responses of the Mass together, and we received Jesus’ body and blood physically and spiritually into our bodies. It was a uniquely powerful experience of Catholic unity and identity that I have never before experienced, even cradle Catholic as I am.
There were countless opportunities for confession, so I figured I would have the chance to go sometime during my five days in Indianapolis. But each time I considered it, the lines were incredibly long. Even though hundreds of priests were available, people waited in line for hours to go to confession. There were just that many people there, all wanting to go to confession. It was a fantastic blessing, but given that I needed to work while there, it seemed unlikely I would have the chance to go myself.
Sisters handled the crowds and managed the lines, and they were honest about the hours-long wait times. I resigned myself to the fact that confession would not be part of my Congress experience. But I should have known that Jesus would find a way.
“Now is your chance!”
On my very last day at the Congress, I said goodbye to my co-workers and made my way out of the exhibitor hall. I planned to leave the convention center, go to my nearby hotel to check out, and call an Uber for the airport. On my way toward the exit, though, I saw those same confession nuns. This time, they shouted in the crowded hallway, “The shortest confession lines we have seen all week! Now is your chance!”
Before I even had a chance to think about it, I was standing in line. The line moved quickly from the hallway into a large conference room, winding back and forth, filling the room. I looked ahead and strained to see where we were all going. The front of the line fed into another conference room, dimly lit and managed by nuns in the doorway.
I checked my watch. I had planned a bit of extra time for getting to the airport–just in case–and I realized that my “just in case” would be confession. The line was moving, but it was very long. As we patiently moved forward, one step at a time, I took in my surroundings. In every direction, I saw pilgrims, some holding signs and many wearing backpacks. Some were studying their phones with an examination of conscience on the screen, and others had their heads bowed in silent preparation.
A tiny nun in a brown habit offered to pray with people or help them prepare for confession. I saw her pause with an older woman in a bright pink dress. They put their hands on each other’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads together as they murmured words of prayer. Later, I heard Sister call out as she walked among the crowd, “Our Father in heaven is so happy that you are here!”
I looked around, and I supposed that he was. We were men, women, teenagers, children, and old people—all of us sinners, all needing God’s mercy.
Gift of Grace
When I finally made it near the front of the line, I peered into the adjacent conference room. The lights were turned down low. Spread throughout the room were about 50 priests, each seated in a chair with another chair beside him, facing the opposite direction. Two nuns greeted penitents at the doorway and directed them toward other nuns in the room. The nuns in the room held up glowing wands and signaled when and where spaces were available. One of these held up two fingers, and a man and I made our way toward her.
She directed me to an empty chair beside a young priest, and he looked straight ahead as I sat beside him. I noted a box of Kleenex on the floor beside my feet. My husband later asked me if it was noisy in there and if everyone could hear everyone else’s confessions. It was not loud. It was remarkably still, and I don’t recall hearing anyone else speaking. An astonishing thing. I’m not sure how they pulled that off.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
I said the familiar words and began my confession. I listed my failures. I recounted all the ways I had chosen wrongly and fallen short. Somewhere along the way, though, the words caught in my throat, and tears filled my eyes. I frequently have the “gift” of tears, but I was startled by these. I might have been confessing familiar sins, but my regret for them felt fresh, new, raw, and painful. I had let Jesus down. He loves me with abandon, and I had let him down.
Grace. I thought of the nun’s words: Our Father in heaven is so happy you are here! I knew that he was.
The gentle priest guided me through the rest of my confession and an act of contrition, offered a few words of guidance, and then spoke the words of absolution. Within minutes, I was outside, squinting in the sun and wiping smeared mascara from my face with a Kleenex.
So quick. So easy. Pause to say sorry, and then get right back to it. That’s the gift of grace.
It’s personal.
As I walked to my hotel and waited for my ride to the airport, I felt a sense of relief and renewal. The noise and the crowds of the past five days seemed a world away, replaced by a quiet peace that settled deep within me. The sacrament of confession once again reminded me of the boundless mercy of God and the extraordinary power of ordinary grace.
Reflecting on my experiences at the National Eucharistic Congress, I realized that the true power of a gathering like this lies not only in the grandeur of the events or the vast numbers of participants but in the intimate moments of grace each person encounters. It’s personal. Whether it was the overwhelming presence of believers in adoration, the collective reverence during Mass in a massive stadium, or the personal renewal found in confession, each of us had a unique and personal experience.
We are the church. We’re in this together. Despite our failings and the noise of daily life, we are bound together in our pursuit of holiness and our desire for God’s love.
What happened in Indianapolis was not just an event—it was not something that only happened there—it was a profound encounter with the living God, an encounter that can happen anywhere and at any time. He wants us to know him and love him wherever we are, every moment of every day. It’s extraordinary that God seeks us and comes to us in such ordinary ways. It’s the extraordinary gift of ordinary grace.
______________________________________________
This post was originally published on DanielleBean.Substack.com and is reprinted here with permission.
Photo by Josh Applegate, in partnership with the National Eucharistic Congress.
