Going to court is a lot like going to church. Not because God is a judge—though he is—but because the setting resembles a chapel: the seating is comprised of long wooden pews, a railing separates the “sanctuary” from the congregation, and the presiding judge wears a long robe. 

          When proceedings begin, the assembly stands and mumbles the Pledge of Allegiance like a halfhearted penitential rite.

          During my last parish assignment, I assisted the local drug court as an alternative to incarceration for those charged with drug or alcohol-related offences. The programs are significantly more successful than jailtime and save local substantial tax revenue. The program includes group and individual counseling, job training, housing assistance and weekly drug tests. 

          The process is monitored by a local judge and usually lasts three years. For many offenders, public parole and personal prayer walk hand-in-hand, hence the advantage of including chaplains on the team.  

          Like most congregations, the drug court meets on a weekly basis and its makeup tends to reflect the communion of saints: Mary Magdalene shows up sporting a blue scarf in a vain attempt to conceal bruises on her neck; Francis of Assisi shuffles in with tire-tread sandals on his feet; Martin de Porres wears a tattered coat that smells of homeless shelter mice. 

          Unlike regular denominations, however, the majority of the year is spent in the season of Lent. Tattoos branded on skinny arms, scrawny necks and shaved scalps proclaim We are dust better than any Ash Wednesday service. 

          Each client is assigned a social worker and a mental health counselor. Chaplains attend to issues regarding regret, repentance and reconciliation. 

          Most weeks, I take a seat at the back of the chamber. I come not to preach, but for communion. There is no holy water font at the door, nor is there a need to light a vigil candle. Despite the absence of a crucifix, reminders of Christ’s passion are readily apparent: guards with weapons, the sound of shuffling feet, downcast eyes and, occasionally, profuse weeping. At the conclusion of each hearing, I resist the urge to genuflect before exiting the chamber. 

           Outside, in the parking lot, I glance at the Methodist Church across the street. Its flight of steps, stout pillars and brick façade mirror those of the courthouse. For a moment, I stare at the cross atop the steeple, grateful for the community service which Christ, merciful judge that he is, has sentenced me to perform.