Confession is one of those cloudy Christian buzzwords—vague, overused, and somehow still intimidating. Is it private or public? Whispered or spoken out loud? Ritualistic or spontaneous? If I confess to an intermediary, do I censor the groans that only the Holy Spirit knows how to translate? Is it a quiet moment alone on my knees before the Father, a hidden practice behind a curtain with a priest, or a collective cry as one body lamenting the distance between God and His people?
However we practice it, Scripture is pretty clear: confession is the acknowledgment of our sin before God. Owning our mess and seeking restoration seems hardwired into humanity by design—a divine homing signal pulling us back into intimacy with Him. Our conscience grows heavy under the weight of unconfessed sin, and eventually, the pressure to disclose becomes unbearable. We want relief. We want freedom. We want to breathe again.
But how we approach confession? That’s where things get sticky.
A generation ago, many of our parents rejected denominational tradition and rigid Catholic practice with the enthusiasm of a wrecking ball. Ritual was out. Structure was suspect. And as a result, the children of the anti-ritual movement inherited faith without much context for communal confession at all.
Yes, the doctrine of imputed righteousness—particularly in Reformed theology—has been a balm for the anxious soul. Salvation is secure. The verdict has already been handed down. Case closed. But while that truth quiets our fear of condemnation, it doesn’t always address our very human need to cleanse a guilty conscience.
There have been plenty of times when private confession in prayer didn’t quite do the trick for me. I knew I was forgiven. I believed it intellectually. But sin has a way of lingering—through memory, through shame, through that low-grade ache that refuses to leave. Luther called this “terrors of doubt.” I call it Tuesday.
And while a formal rite of penance doesn’t exactly stir my soul, endlessly repeating memory verses like a spiritual hamster wheel hasn’t always helped either. These are the moments I crave a safe person. A trusted voice. Someone who can look me in the eye, remind me that I am forgiven through the blood of Jesus, and pray over me like they actually believe it.
James 5:16 tells us to “confess your sins to one another and pray for one another so that you may be healed.” This verse sits squarely in the context of healing, and I don’t think that’s accidental. Some sins wound the spirit long before they touch the body. Emotional trauma has a funny way of showing up physically. Forgiveness is offered freely through Christ—but healing? That often happens in community.
The same is true on a larger scale. When I’m in a room where people are honest about their temptations and failures, something breaks. Isolation loses its grip. Shame loosens its hold. I’m reminded that I’m not uniquely broken or especially sinful—I’m human. All have fallen short. Even me. Especially me. And somehow, that reminder draws me closer to grace, not farther from it.
In many Protestant and Reformed churches, confession has been relegated to accountability groups or counseling offices—important spaces, yes—but largely removed from the rhythm of corporate worship. If it appears at all, it’s often a quiet, internal moment before communion. In our effort to escape empty ritual, we may have stripped worship of something deeply formative: communal expression.
Not long ago, I was standing in worship—singing, hands lifted—when it hit me that what I really wanted to do was collapse on the floor and beg for mercy. I hadn’t done anything scandalous. No headlines. No crimes. Just standing before a holy God, painfully aware of my own smallness and sin. Like Ezra, I felt exposed: “O my God, I am too ashamed and disgraced to lift up my face to you… our guilt has reached to the heavens.”
But here’s the rub: in a mostly Caucasian, upper-middle-class suburban church, dramatic displays of repentance tend to read as instability—not humility. Tears are fine. Sobbing is… concerning.
Still, some churches are finding creative ways to reintroduce confession—corporately, but gently. My church, Mariners, created a chapel space apart from the main sanctuary. Inside are tangible, embodied practices: prayer walls, candle lighting, communion offered throughout the service, extended time for reflection. On Good Friday, sins are written down and physically nailed to a cross. Other times, those same sins disappear in blood-stained water (apparently Jesus saves and ministry workers are amateur chemists).
These acts matter to me. Not because forgiveness requires theatrics—but because my faith is embodied. Tangible reminders help me grasp an invisible truth. They give shape to grace.
Some might call this a lack of faith. I call it honesty.
I live with a constant duality in my faith journey. I believe Jesus paid it all—fully, finally. And yet, I still long for reassurance. Like the father in Scripture, I find myself praying, “I believe; help my unbelief.”
This tension—hope mixed with doubt, certainty wrapped in longing—is the truest description of my walk with God. And if faith on this side of eternity is always a little incomplete, always reaching, always wanting—then perhaps communal repentance isn’t ritual at all.
Maybe it’s simply a way home.
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