Confession

“I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover up my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the iniquity of my sin.” – Psalm 32:5

“I confess my iniquity; I am sorry for my sin.” – Psalm 38:18

I often jump too quickly from confession to repentance. Maybe it’s because I tend to value efficiency and visible outcomes: I want to get to the change, to get the uncomfortable part over with and get to what will be different now. Over time, God slowly leaks out of the process: central instead is my own personal guilt, driving me to admit what I feel bad about, leading to a self-imposed solution to avoid recurring guilt. The source of guilt becomes a consciousness of moral law that is increasingly divorced from the character and glory of God that it reflects.

There is nothing like having children to make you consider thoroughly what it means to say sorry. I think of the many times my kids have paid lip service to confession so they can avoid a consequence, and I think, what do I really desire them to do instead? I want them to look at the person they’ve offended: to see that person’s perspective, to understand that person’s loss. I want them to look at their action in light of that, to respond from that place—rather than “okay, I feel bad because I should, but really I’m still thinking about myself and how to get this over with.”

That takes time, and attention. It moves beyond something we know with our minds to something we experience in our hearts. Sometimes it’s the work of the Holy Spirit in an unexpected moment. Sometimes it happens routinely, during various personal or congregational practices. 

When I think back on the few most powerful times of confession in my life, the primary word that comes to mind is sadness, a sadness akin to a grief so absorbing I couldn’t have just gotten over it if I’d wanted to. Of course, not all moments of confession are like that, but those moments are precious because I was pierced with the reality of my sin before God’s holiness in a way I’m often too self-absorbed or inattentive to see. And often there is something like what Thomas Merton describes: “We discover that as long as we stay still the pain is not so bad and there is even a certain peace, a certain richness, a certain strength, a certain companionship that makes itself present to us when we are beaten down and lie flat with our mouths in the dust, hoping for hope.”

This is the godly sorrow in 2 Corinthians 7:10; this is the mourning that brings comfort (Matthew 5:4). It may not come naturally to us: David had to enjoin himself to do it (“I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,” verse 5). Perhaps that is how he began, but what he found was great blessing (verses 1, 2) from a God who forgives (verses 1, 5). Ultimately, his words point to Jesus, the true “man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity” (verse 2), who “kept silent” (verse 3, also Matthew 27:14 from our reading today) who bore the heavy hand of God’s judgment (verse 4) so that our own sins can be covered (verse 1). Confession leads to true repentance and a change from the heart (verses 8-9), and it leads to joy (verse 11). The blessedness frames it all. Is this your experience of confession? Of forgiveness, and change, and joy? Oh God, make this a reality in our lives as we turn our eyes to you.