Me and My Sin

Confession As Private Commodity

With the rise of seeker-sensitive ministry in the 1980s, sin was relegated to the back bench. It all but disappeared from most pulpits or popular works on pastoral care, evangelism, and church growth. Sin was also stripped of its arms and legs, the commonly understood behavioral expressions that marked its soul-breaking presence. Not all of that was bad. Church history is rife with misshapen notions of what behaviors constituted sin, while deeper issues, like the lack of merciful love, went unaddressed (Matthew 23:24).

But the rebranding of sin wasn’t all good, either.

It fragmented any public sense of what constituted sin. This revolution didn’t only happen in the culture at large. It happened in the Church. As a result, sin became privatized. There was no longer a broadly Judeo-Christian cultural definition for sin. The more radical relativists among us even framed it as irrelevant or non-existent.

Lacking a shared understanding, sin had no choice but to evolve into a personal, values-based category left almost entirely up to the individual. Sex outside of marriage? Maybe it’s a sin, maybe not, depending on your point of view. Drugs? Not for me, but who am I to say that it’s not okay for you? As our society trudged further down that road, the only agreed-upon sin was the supposed micro-tyranny of intolerance, as an ironically intolerable challenge to unquestioned autonomy.

One consequence of privatizing sin was the dissolution of communal confession. One of the great reformers of the 16th Century, Thomas Cranmer, who did not support the Roman Church’s view of confession, also wrote this:

“If there be any of you who by this means (meaning a direct confession of one’s sin to God— ed.) cannot quiet his own conscience . . . let him come to me, or to some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word, and open his grief... (for the) …quieting of his conscience and removing of all scruple and doubtfulness.”¹

Cranmer understood confession’s need for belonging, for the tangible presence of love, an inherently relational bond, in order that the act of confessing might benefit the one repenting. In his view, confession is not limited to an exclusively private encounter between “me and my God.” It’s meant to confront guilt and shame with the face of mercy. That face is always human. It’s the face of Jesus, often best reflected in the tender love of a confessor. Again, this is not a Roman Catholic-versus-Protestant thing. It’s a human-to-human thing.²

Does this exclude private confession? No, but to Cranmer’s point, sometimes that is not enough. We often don’t experience the sweet relief to which he alludes if sin is entirely privatized. Confession and forgiveness happens best within a beloved community. That need not be overly broad. The society of penitent and confessor is enough.

“ME AND MY SIN”

In seminary, I had to write a paper about my sins. As I reviewed the course syllabus, I dreaded eventually having to do this assignment. I was a product of my culture. My sin was my business and no one else’s. I wasn’t in rebellion against a historically orthodox Christian view of sin. I was simply unwilling to confess sin outside of the silent conversations I had with God.

The paper was a capstone project for a class on spiritual warfare. The course was designed to address the biblical, theological, and practical aspects of spiritual conflict in ministry and the personal lives of ministers. The goal was deep spiritual formation, and it included exercises such as weekly reflections on issues like evil, sin, and confession.

Slowly, as the course proceeded under the leadership of a wise and patient professor, Dr. Calvin Blom, I softened my stance. I no longer dreaded the final assignment. I began to look forward to it. Simply writing my thoughts weekly, in what amounted to extended journal entries, and sharing them with my professor built trust. His winsome and significant engagement of my writing also began to mediate a reassuring sense of God’s Presence.

Author Esau McCaulley writes about a similar experience:

“The diocese in which I was ordained requires future clergy to do a life confession before their ordination. I was terrified that if the priest knew about the foolishness of my youth or the dumb decisions I had made, I wouldn’t be forgiven. I realized that anxiety and a troubled conscience had been with me for years. I was encouraged to write these things down so I wouldn’t forget anything. Surprisingly, it didn’t take much space to write down my sins…I came into the office with my sins written on yellow notebook paper. I sat facing the priest and we talked it through. The confession part went much more quickly than I expected. The priest then gave me some advice on ways I could pursue God more faithfully. It was like going to a spiritual doctor, listing my symptoms, and receiving the medicine. One thing that sticks with me from that day is what the priest did with that yellow sheet of paper. He pulled up a metal basket next to us. He then took the paper that held my sins and lit it on fire, dropping the flaming paper into the bucket. He said, “The Lord has put away all your sins.” I felt more free in that moment than I had for years.”³

I can identify with McCaulley’s story. As I sat with my professor and a few classmates, sharing what I’d written in my Me and My Sin paper, I felt so many emotions: fear, shame, and exhilaration. I doubt my classmates did to any great extent. They hedged their bets, speaking and writing in non-specific terms about their sin.

They wore protective pads. I played without a helmet.

I felt foolish at first, like I’d pulled my pants down in front of everyone. However, as the session ended and we began to depart the professor’s office, he touched my shoulder and nodded for me to stay. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “You took back some spiritual territory in your life today. Hold on to it. Don’t give it up.” It was one of the most life-giving things a pastor has ever said to me.

I’ve never forgotten it, nor the intense freedom I felt from his encouragement. I would go on to confess things to my wife and kids that I had previously asked God to let me keep to myself. I did not do so foolishly or precipitously, of course, but honestly. Nothing in life is 100%, but in the vast majority of cases, I’ve been met with embodied grace and love when I’ve trusted someone with my confession.

Jame’s instruction to the Church anticipates this:

“Is anyone among you in trouble?…If they have sinned, they will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” (from James 5:13, 14, and 16)

Most of us have forgotten how to do this well. We turn confession into a therapeutic dump, or an opportunity for life coaching. When all the while, God is saying, “May I join you two in this holy moment? I have something good for both of you.”

1. ©2022 by Esau Daniel McCaulley, “Lent (Fullness of Time,” Intervarsity Press, quoted on page 39

2. This is deeply underscored by a theology of the Incarnation, God’s divinely merciful love mediated through real, flesh-and-blood humanity.

3. ©2022 by Esau Daniel McCaulley, “Lent (Fullness of Time,” Intervarsity Press, page 41