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Often, without rhyme or reason, my anxiety mobilizes. Social media, loneliness, busyness, injustice, you name it, contribute to anxiety for so many of us. Sometimes I feel bad about feeling bad, which compounds the stress.
Other times, despite my best effort to live in Presence, I don’t even notice my anxiety until a friend checks in at the close of the day. I’ve been known to sigh and reflect, “You’re right… It’s been a long day. I’m anxious and stressed and scared about the future.”
It’s a confession, a recognition that the world is not in harmony with itself, that I am not in harmony with myself. I wonder about the antidote, especially for the loneliness.
I spent the first part of my career as a pastor in progressive Christian churches. As a kid, student and then young adult, I experienced acceptance and opportunities for leadership at church. The people I loved most in the world were at church, and I knew they loved me. I belonged there.
As my ministry continued to take shape and I learned more about social justice and how the church offered space to advocate for good, I also began to learn others were at church for different reasons. That, of course, was totally fine, but it created a gap that grew alongside my ministry.
As I studied more about racism in the American Church, endured ongoing sexism in and out of church (even when I wore a clerical collar) and felt the fatigue that accompanies the rise of white Christian nationalism, that gap grew into a chasm. I struggled to reconcile my commitments to ecumenism and celebrating diversity with the church’s status quo. I no longer belonged.
And yet, there are parts of church I miss. Every Sunday for more than a decade, I zipped up my ministerial robe and slid a clerical stole over my shoulders before heading into the sanctuary to lead worship. I served a United Church of Christ congregation on Taylor Boulevard in south Louisville as a solo pastor for a few years, then led on a ministerial team at a larger church in the Highlands. Regardless of where I served, a highlight was always leading a congregation in their weekly prayer of confession.
In Christian Reformed worship, the people in the pews recite in unison some variation of, “I confess what I have done and what I have left undone, O Holy One, in word or deed, in mission or thought. Forgive me.”
One interpretation might go like this: “I just did not have the energy to keep going this week. I am exhausted at my job. I am worried about my kids. I am overwhelmed by the need to produce. Striving and urgency are killing me.” It can be individual, like: “I’m compulsively checking my email and ignoring my partner.” Or it can be systemic: “I don’t know how to respond to the war in Iran or Ukraine or Sudan or…”
People might think it’s weird that I enjoy this humbling process. But for me, confession is not a means of feeling guilt or shame. Nor is it a place to over-expose our inadequacies in a way that leaves us weak. It’s about strength.
....confession is not a means of feeling guilt or shame. Nor is it a place to over-expose our inadequacies in a way that leaves us weak. It’s about strength.
Together, giving and receiving, we offer one another a living balm to the cultural myth of individualism. In confession, I find belonging
When Breonna Taylor was murdered in 2020, I remember leading a prayer of confession where we — a predominantly white congregation — prayed for awareness and forgiveness regarding our collective complicity in the face of such atrocious violence. Now, did every single person in the pews that day lament racist ideologies? I doubt it. But did the congregation seek to right its silence in matters of injustice in the name of God? Absolutely. Did the confession equip us in ongoing protest? I believe yes. There is belonging in confession.
Here’s a quick Bible story. In first-century Greco-Roman culture, women caught in adultery were subjected to severe punishment. Sometimes, they were stoned to death. The Gospel of John tells of a woman captured for such illicit reasons and how she was cast at the feet of Jesus. Thinking Jesus would condemn her according to the ancient laws, her accusers were shocked when Jesus subverted everything. He asked, “Who among you is without sin? Then let that person cast the first stone.” The violent mob dropped their stones and walked away, sparing the woman’s life. Then Jesus blessed the woman.
I imagine the woman’s fear and relief and perhaps her feelings of unworthiness. Is it her fault? Or is her guilt the result of a patriarchal system built on punishment and objectification? In this instance, Jesus liberated her to heal. I like to imagine her sense of belonging after the traumatizing ordeal of such a forced confession.
The confession is a great equalizer that says: “We’re in this thing called life together. It’s hard, and being honest can be threatening. Folks you love might disown you or distance themselves. So, I’m here for you. I’m here with you. You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”
I’ve been known to quote a pastor friend who regularly reminds the people right before the prayer, “We confess not for guilt or shame, but for liberation!” And if the prayer of confession is worth its salt, with contrition comes freedom. Confession spurs great solidarity and profound support.
Here’s the real sticking point for me. Confession should always end with good news, a holy act of mercy. Once there is recognition of wrongdoing, I, as the minister of Divine grace, would raise my arms to speak on behalf of the Holy One. I really valued proclaiming boldly, “You are being redeemed!”
Not, “You are redeemed,” as if it’s a one-time thing. Grace has no limitations. Rather, we are in the ongoing state of perpetual renewal. We are always and forever, at every point of confession and every moment of mistake-making, being forgiven. Being made right. Being re-sanctified into goodness and health as often as necessary.
Don’t hear me saying that our actions are without consequence. Rather, I’m arguing that even amid the painful consequences of our personal and systemic (in)actions, God is going about the healing work of culling redemption.
Here’s one last example: Kentucky has one of the highest rates of opioid addiction in the U.S. Imagine a church confession that upholds the pain of all involved individuals — friends and family, not just the one fighting addiction. The entire church might rightly pray, “Forgive us, God, for a lack of compassion. Forgive us for looking the other way.” Finally, imagine standing in the church, quietly nursing your own secret addiction as you hear the people you love confessing their own participation in your suffering. What is it like not to hear condemnation but accompaniment? This sounds like belonging.
It’s magnificent to proclaim, “You are being redeemed.” It’s the priest saying to the people, “You are loved. You are worthy. You are being made whole. You are being forgiven — always.” We all belong to an energy that is greater than the sum of our parts.
Having confessed and been forgiven, all the anxious people shake hands, smile, hug or hold their hearts as they acknowledge one another. Here is a contemporary interpretation: “I see you. I recognize your vulnerability. I honor you. We are both forgiven in sacred love. Peace be with you.” The recipient responds, “And also with you.”
It’s not a peace that shames my anxiety or denies the shortcomings of systemic injustices. It’s not a peace that sets us at odds with one another by pushing uniformity. It is a peace that boldly demands equity, inclusion, healing and liberation.
For Christians, it is the peace of Christ. For Jews, it is the great shalom from Adonai. For Muslims, it is Muhammad’s peace. For Hindus, it is namaste. Buddhists honor an inner peace, and Baha’is pass the peace of deep unity.
In a world ripped apart with division, in a city struggling with racial, socioeconomic and political polarities, we here at Louisville Magazine and the Festival of Faiths advocate for compassion, harmony and gratitude — a kind of peace that will benefit all of Louisville. It is the peace that revolutionizes our hearts and softens our spirits. It does not ignore pain or injustice, but in naming it, lessens the pain and enacts justice with joy.
It’s theological and sociological brilliance. This is the sticking point: Whether you go to church, have left the church or have intentionally never attended any place of worship, this message still permeates our boundaries of isolation and exclusion.
This fantastic Reddit thread shows how things that characteristically happen inside the church (like confession) actually transpire everywhere. Like the person who confessed to faking a disability while on a date or the chronic liar living a double life, the ways we deceive ourselves can hurt as much as the ways we deceive one another. The Reddit conversation reminds readers that the worst of us is not all of us. Maybe, if we confess and own our mistakes, we find ourselves worthy of belonging. We find others worthy of belonging.
Confession speaks to the profound nature of being in this thing we call “life.” Let’s not confine this liberation to the inside of holy buildings. Radical belonging welcomes each of us into a civic, cosmic, sacred, transcendent thread of love.
It is remarkable. It is confessional. It is grace. It is liberation. It is belonging to something greater than ourselves. It is belonging.
Louisville, we are being redeemed. May peace be with you.
The worst of us is not all of us.