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Confession! The word makes us nervous,
touching as it does all that is hidden in ourselves: lies told,
injuries caused, things stolen, friends deceived, people betrayed,
promises broken, faith denied — these plus all the smaller actions
that reveal the beginnings of our sins. Confession is painful, yet a
Christian life without confession is impossible.
Confession is a major theme of the Gospels. John the Evangelist warns us not to deceive ourselves. “If
we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in
us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive
our sins.” (1 John 1:8-9) Even before Christ began his public
ministry, we read in Matthew’s Gospel that John the Baptist required
confession of those who came to him for baptism in the River Jordan
for a symbolic act of washing away their sins: “And they were
baptized by [John] in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.”
(Matthew 3:6) Then there are those remarkable words of Christ to
Peter: “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and
whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you
loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” (Mt 16:19) The keys of
binding and losing sins were given not only to a one apostle but to
all Christ’s disciples, and — in a sacramental sense — to any
priest who has his bishop’s blessing to hear confessions.
What is sin? There have been countless
essays and books in recent decades which have dealt with human
failings under various labels without once using the three-letter word
that has more bite than any of its synonyms: sin. Actions
traditionally regarded as sinful have instead been seen as natural
stages in the process of growing up, a result of bad parenting, a
consequence of mental illness, an inevitable response to unjust social
conditions, pathological behavior brought on by addiction, or even as
“experiments in being.” But what if I am more than a robot
programmed by my past or my society or my economic status and actually
can take a certain amount of credit — or blame — for my actions
and inactions? Have I not done things I am deeply ashamed of, would
not do again if I could go back in time, and would prefer no one to
know about? What makes me so reluctant to call those actions
“sins”? Is the word really out of date? Or is the problem that it
has too sharp an edge?
The Jewish approach to sin tends to be concrete.
The author of the Old Testament Book of Proverbs lists seven things
which God hates: "A proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed
innocent blood, a heart that plots wicked deeds, feet that run swiftly
to evil, a false witness that declares lies, and he that sows discord
among the brethren." (6:17-19)
As in so many other lists of sins, pride is
given first place. The craving to be ahead of others, to be more
valued than others, to be more highly rewarded than others, to be able
to keep others in a state of fear, the inability to admit mistakes or
apologize — these are among the symptoms of pride. Pride opens the
way for countless other sins: deceit, lies, theft, violence, and all
those other actions that destroy community with God and with those
around us.
“We’re capable of doing some rotten
things,” the Minnesota storyteller Garrison Keillor notes, “and
not all of these things are the result of poor communication. Some are
the result of rottenness. People do bad, horrible things. They lie and
they cheat and they corrupt the government. They poison the world
around us. And when they’re caught they don’t feel remorse —
they just go into treatment. They had a nutritional problem or
something. They explain what they did — they don’t feel bad about
it. There’s no guilt. There’s just psychology.”
For the person who has committed a serious sin,
there are two vivid signs — the hope that what I did may never
become known; and a gnawing sense of guilt. It is a striking fact
about our basic human architecture that we want certain actions to
remain secret, not because of modesty but because there is an
unarguable sense of having violated a law more basic than that in any
law book — the “law written on our hearts” that St. Paul refers
to (Rom 2:15). It isn’t simply that we fear punishment. It is that
we don’t want to be thought of by others as a person who commits
such deeds. One of the main obstacles to going to confession is dismay
that someone else will know what I want no one to know.
One of the oddest things about the age we live
in is that we are made to feel guilty about feeling guilty. A sense of
guilt — the painful awareness of having committed sins — can be
life renewing. Guilt provides a foothold for contrition, which in turn
can motivate confession and repentance. Without guilt, there is no
remorse; without remorse there is no possibility of becoming free of
habitual sins. A blessed guilt is the pain we feel when we realize we
have cut ourselves off from that divine communion that radiates all
creation. It is impossible to live in Godless universe, but easy to be
unaware of God’s presence or even to resent it.
It’s a common delusion that one’s sins are
private or affect only a few other people. To think our sins, however
hidden, don’t affect others is like imagining that a stone thrown
into the water won’t generate ripples. As Metropolitan Kallistos
Ware has observed, “There are no entirely private sins. All sins are
sins against my neighbor, as well as against God and against myself.
Even my most secret thoughts are, in fact, making it more difficult
for those around me to follow Christ.” Far from being hidden, each
sin is another crack in the world.
There are only two possible responses to sin: to
justify it, or to repent. Between these two there is no middle ground.
Justification may be verbal, but mainly it takes the form of
repetition: I do again and again the same thing as a way of
demonstrating to myself and others that it’s not really a sin but
rather something normal or human or necessary or even good. “Commit
a sin twice and it will not seem a crime,” notes a Jewish proverb.
Repentance, on the other hand, is the
recognition that I cannot live any more as I have been living, because
in living that way I wall myself apart from others and from God.
Repentance is a change in direction. Repentance is the door of
communion. It is also a sine qua
non of forgiveness. Absolution is impossible where there is no
repentance.
Confession as a social action: It is
impossible to imagine a healthy marriage or deep friendship without
confession and forgiveness. If you have done something that damages a
relationship, confession is essential to its restoration. For the sake
of that bond, you confess what you’ve done, you apologize, and you
promise not to do it again, and you do everything in your power to
keep that promise. Confession restores our communion with God and with
each other.
It is never easy admitting to doing something
you regret and are ashamed of, an act you attempted to keep secret or
denied doing or tried to blame on someone else, perhaps arguing — to
yourself as much as to others — that it wasn’t actually a sin at
all, or wasn’t nearly as bad as some people might claim. In the hard
labor of growing up, one of the most agonizing tasks is becoming
capable of saying, “I’m sorry.” Yet we are designed for
confession. Secrets in general are hard to keep, but un-confessed sins
not only never go away but have a way of becoming heavier as time
passes — the greater the sin, the heavier the burden. Confession is
the only solution.
To understand confession in its sacramental
sense, one first has to grapple with a few basic questions: Why is the
Church involved in forgiving sins? Is priest-witnessed confession
really needed? Why confess at all to any human being? In fact, why
bother confessing to God even without a human witness? If God is
really all-knowing, then he knows everything about me already. My sins
are known before it even crosses my mind to confess them. Why bother
telling God what God already knows?
Yes, truly God knows. My confession can never be
as complete or revealing as God’s knowledge of me and all that needs
repairing in my life. A related question we need to consider has to do
with our basic design as social beings. Why am I so willing to connect
with others in every other area of life, yet not in this? Why is it
that I look so hard for excuses, even for theological rationales, not
to confess? Why do I try so hard to explain away my sins until I’ve
decided either they’re not so bad or might even be seen as acts of
virtue? Why is it that I find it so easy to commit sins yet am so
reluctant, in the presence of another, to admit to having done so?
We are social beings. The individual as
autonomous unit is a delusion. The Marlboro Man — the person without
community, parents, spouse, or children — exists only on billboards.
The individual is someone who has lost a sense of connection to others
or attempts to exist in opposition to others — while the person
exists in communion with other persons. The language we speak connects
us to those around us. The food I eat was grown by others. The skills
passed on to me have slowly been developed in the course of hundreds
of generations. The air I breathe and the water I drink is not for my
exclusive use but has been in many bodies before mine. The place I
live, the tools I use, and the paper I write on were made by many
hands. I am not my own doctor or dentist or banker. To the extent I
disconnect myself from others, I am in danger. Alone I die, and soon.
To be in communion with others is life.
Because we are social beings, confession in
church does not take the place of confession to those we have sinned
against. An essential element of confession is doing all I can to set
right what I did wrong. If I stole something, it must be returned or
paid for. If I lied to anyone, I must tell that person the truth. If I
was angry without good reason, I must apologize. I must seek
forgiveness not only from God but from those whom I have wronged or
harmed.
Confessing to anyone, even a stranger, renews
rather than contracts my humanity, even if all I get in return for my
confession is the well-worn remark, “Oh that’s not so bad. After
all, you’re only human.” But if I can confess to anyone anywhere,
why confess in church in the presence of a priest? Confession
is a Christian ritual with a communal character. Confession in the
church differs from confession in your living room in the same way
that getting married in church differs from simply living together.
The communal aspect of the event tends to safeguard it, solidify it,
and call everyone to account — those doing the ritual, and those
witnessing it.
My confession is an act of reconnection with God
and with all the people and creatures who depend on me and have been
harmed by my failings and from whom I have distanced myself through
acts of non-communion. The community is represented by the person
hearing my confession, an ordained priest delegated to serve as
Christ’s witness, who provides guidance and wisdom that helps each
penitent overcome attitudes and habits that take us off course, and
who declares forgiveness and restores us to communion. In this way our
repentance is brought into the community that has been damaged by our
sins — a private event in a public context.
“It’s a fact,” writes Fr. Thomas Hopko, Dean
Emeritus of St. Vladimir’s Seminary, “that we cannot see the
true ugliness and hideousness of our sins until we see them in the
mind and heart of the other to whom we have confessed.”
Key elements in confession: The
late Fr. Alexander Schmemann (1921-1983) provided this summary
of the three key areas we must examine in confession:
Relationship
to God: Questions on faith itself, possible doubts or deviations,
inattention to prayer, neglect of liturgical life, fasting, etc.
Relationship
to one’s neighbor: Basic attitudes of selfishness and
self-centeredness, indifference to others, lack of attention,
interest, love. All acts of actual offense — envy, gossip, cruelty,
etc. — must be mentioned and, if needed, their sinfulness shown to
the penitent.
Relationship
to one’s self: Sins of the flesh with, as their counterpart, the
Christian vision of purity and wholesomeness, respect for the body as
an icon of Christ, etc. Abuse of one’s life and resources, absence
of any real effort to deepen life; abuse of alcohol or other drugs;
cheap idea of “fun,” a life centered on amusement,
irresponsibility, neglect of family relations, etc.
Finding a confessor: A good confessor
will help us become better at hearing conscience and becoming ever
freer in an increasingly God-centered life. Fortunately good
confessors are not hard to find. Usually your confessor is the priest
who is closest, sees you most often, who knows you and the
circumstances of your life best: a priest of your parish. Do not be
put off by your awareness of what you perceive as his relative youth,
or his personal shortcomings, or the probability that he possesses no
rare spiritual gifts. Keep in mind that each priest goes to confession
himself and may have more to confess than you do. You confess not to
him but to Christ in his presence. He is the witness of your
confession — you do not require and will never find a sinless person
to be that witness. (The Orthodox Church tries to make this clear by
having the penitent face not the priest but an icon of Christ.) What
he says by way of advice can be remarkably insightful or brusque or
seem to you a cliché and not very relevant, yet almost always there
will be something helpful if only you are willing to hear it.
Sometimes there is a suggestion or insight that becomes a turning
point in your life. If he imposes a penance — normally increased
prayer, fasting, and acts of mercy — it should be accepted meekly,
unless there is something in the penance which seems to you a
violation of your conscience or of the teaching of the Church as you
understand it.
Don’t imagine that a priest will respect you
less for what you reveal to Christ in the priest’s presence. Don't
imagine that he is carefully remembering all your sins. “Even a
recently ordained priest will quickly find that he cannot remember 99
percent of what people tell him in confession,” one priest told me.
He said it is embarrassing to him that people expect him to remember
what they told him in an earlier confession. “When they remind me,
then sometimes I remember, but without a reminder, usually my mind is
a blank. I let the words I listen to pass through me. Also, so much
that I hear in one confession is similar to what I hear in other
confessions — the confessions blur together. The only sins I easily
remember are my own.” One priest told me: “I am just a fellow
sinner trying to stay on the path.”
A Russian priest who is spiritual father to many people
once told me about the joy he often feels hearing confessions. “It
is not that I am glad anyone has sins to confess but when you come to
confession it means these sins are in your past, not your future.
Confession marks a turning point and I am the lucky one who gets to
watch people making that turn!”
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