Confession (Psalm 32)
Summary
Most of what we associate with confession is negative: getting caught, being sentenced, carrying shame. Yet Psalm 32 opens by calling the forgiven person "blessed." Pastor Dominic Jackson follows David from the crushing weight of silence to the relief of being covered by God. Along the way he explores what the Bible's three words for sin reveal about us, and why healing comes not from a church without sin but from a church without secrets. Confession, it turns out, is less about punishment than about freedom.
Questions for reflection
When you hear the word "confession," what comes to mind first? Where do you think those associations came from?
Dominic distinguishes guilt ("I did a bad thing") from shame ("I am a bad person"). Which voice tends to speak louder in your life? How does the gospel answer each one differently?
Of the three Hebrew words for sin (missing the mark, going the wrong direction, and crossing a line), which one best describes something you're wrestling with right now?
David's confession has four movements: name it, don't cover it, bring it to God, and receive forgiveness. Which of those steps is hardest for you, and why?
Dominic says, "Healing doesn't come from a church with no sin. Healing comes from a church with no secrets." What would it take for you to be more honest with trusted people in your community?
In the story of the towel held up in the parking lot, it wasn't the towel that kept him safe but "the hand that was holding it." What would it look like to trust God's hand enough to bring him the parts of yourself you'd rather keep hidden?
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Dominic Jackson:
I want to open with a question. When I say the word "confession," what comes to mind?For me, typically my mind goes a couple of different places. First—and maybe this is just because I'm a pastor and I think about these things all the time—but for me, my mind pretty much goes automatically to the confession of sins. And perhaps you as well. Maybe you grew up in a more orthodox background, maybe a Catholic parish. And so whenever you think of confession, specifically confession of sins, maybe you imagine confession looking like entering into a small space, a dark space, and confessing your sins to a religious leader, to a priest, seeking absolution. Or maybe you grew up in a more low-church background, maybe a more evangelical church setting. And so for you, confession of sin is something that need only happen between you and God—no religious leader or congregational participation needed. And so for you, maybe confession looks like a quiet, wordless prayer.
Or maybe when I say confession, you don't even think about a church setting. Maybe your mind goes to a time where you messed up and you had to own up to that, whether publicly or privately. Flashbacks to, like, junior high, right? Like maybe cheating on a test, or pranking the substitute teacher, ditching school—whether it was, like, noble, and you were like, "I need to just own up to this." Or, in my case, it was like, "I'm going to get caught eventually, so I might as well just confess to whatever thing I did that week," right? And maybe for you, confession—you think about going to somebody else, a teacher, a spouse, a roommate, a friend, and saying, "I messed up."
Or lastly—and maybe this one is just me; it's probably just me—but I'm, like, a sucker for cheesy courtroom dramas. And so I always think—my favorite is Law & Order. I don't know what it is. You've seen one, you've seen them all. But still. And so for me, it's, like, the trope of the smooth-talking lawyer, and he, like, gets the perp real angry, and he tricks them on the stand into confessing to a crime, right? All with, like, 30 seconds left in the episode. Every single time, right? And then the guy's like, "Yeah, I did it, and I'd do it again." And then the bailiff comes, credits, right? Like, that's every single episode. But still, that's what I think about whenever I think about confession.
Anyway, that's where my mind goes. Maybe yours goes somewhere completely different—whether it be religious repentance or relational disappointment or courtroom crimes, whatever it is. Maybe you associate something else. But here's what I find interesting. All of the things that I think about when I say the word confession—and maybe you as well—all of my words and associations are negative. Again, whether it's connected to a sentencing or shame or something else, they are all bad experiences.
But is this right? Is this biblical? Should confession be a negative thing tied to shame and guilt? Or what if—what if there was another way to view this? What if, instead of imprisonment—you know, imprisonment of, like, this shame and this guilt, and tying ourselves, whether it be legally, morally, whatever it is, putting ourselves here—what if confession had more to do with freedom? That's where we're going to go this morning as we look at our psalm that Addie just read for us and move through it line by line.
But first, let's pray together. And I would invite you, if you have anything you're holding—anything physically or mentally even, a phone, a journal, a to-do list, an annoyance, whatever it is—if you just want to put that to the side for a moment.
Lord, we seek you now. Help us to see confession the way that you do. And help us to experience this the way that you offer it. I pray that you speak to me and you speak through me this morning. I pray this in Jesus' name. Amen.
If you have a copy of the Scriptures, we're going to be in Psalm 32. If you want to turn there—the words will be on the screen—and we continue our series as we're working through the Psalms. And we're looking at this beautiful, honest, heartbreaking, hopeful book of poetry and lyrics, the Psalms. A book, of course, about God, but also one—to quote Walter Brueggemann—the Psalms teach us what it means to be human. And so as we look at these psalms—today's is no exception—we look at God, but we also are able to learn more about ourselves: the created and the Creator.
And so Psalm 32 opens, verse 1: "Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered." Notice here the blessed one. The blessed one is described not as the person with the most money or the most popularity, or who is really good-looking, or, like, super successful in their career. No, David opens this psalm describing a blessed person as one who messed up royally and experienced forgiveness. I find that interesting.
Also notice we get a picture of what this forgiveness looks like. It is described as a covering of sin—or maybe your translation uses the word "atonement." This word has legal, judicial meaning: somebody paying your debt, literally serving your time, which would happen in this day and age. If you owed somebody a debt and you could not pay it—you know, Leviticus talks about, like, you injure somebody else's animal and it affects their livelihood, you have to step in and you have to work that off. But let's say that you can't. Maybe you're older, or you have a disability, or for whatever reason you cannot earn that, pay that back. A family member would atone for that—whether that be a son or a grandchild or whoever it is, right? They would step into your place and pay it back. And David experiences something—or someone—covering his debt as well.
Verse 2—notice this is actually taking it even one step further. Not only is there a debt owed, but the payment is still owed to God. However, the one who is paying the debt, we'll see, is also God. It's easy to read this simply as the debt being deleted or wiped away, right? But there is a payment, which we'll see here shortly. There's a difference between forgiveness and atonement. Just because—I don't know—you owe me 20 bucks, and I'm like, "Oh, don't worry about it," right? That is completely different. That debt is wiped away, but the cost, the sacrifice—that is not being taken care of.
Here's a silly example. I, like many of you probably, have student loans. And every time I'm, like, almost paying them off, then I go back to school. It's this thing I keep doing. But I have student loans. And it would be one thing if I got an email from Nelnet, my servicer, that said, "Congratulations, we decided to wipe away all of your student debt." That would be glorious—but probably not going to happen. But let's just imagine, right? Instead of getting that email from your student loan provider—not "your student loans have been wiped away"—but instead, what if you got the email that said, "Hey, Carl here on the second floor, who works for Nelnet, decided to take a second job, and he's working nights, and he is committed to paying your debt for you." If I got that email, I would have some questions, right? First of all, who is Carl? But also, more importantly, why would you do this? Like, why would you possibly take on my debt for me?
Forgiving a debt is one thing, but atoning for it—taking it on yourself—that is, like, out of this world. Some might even call it supernatural. And this is an important detail when it comes to sin and confession. We sing songs all the time about God wiping away our sins, right? And that does come from the Scriptures. And this is true—at least that's what it looks like for us, from our perspective. It's important to note there is a cost. It costs someone something. In many ways, it costs someone everything.
Verse 3 says, "When I kept silent"—back to David—"my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long." If you have ever kept silent like he's describing—as in, not confessed to something, owned up to something—you know exactly what he is describing here. It starts to eat at you. You've heard the old cliché, "The truth will set you free." Well, what are you being set free from? From yourself. Maybe those cheesy courtroom dramas aren't so unrealistic after all, right? I don't know. But still, if you've ever experienced this, where you know you did something—it's perfectly how David describes it. "When I kept silent," it feels like his bones are wasting away. And he's, like, groaning all day long.
It continues, verse 4: "For day and night your hand was heavy on me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer." When the Old Testament writers and the Hebrew Scriptures described the hand of God resting on a person, we might call that the Spirit of God nudging a person. Or if you're like me and you're extra stubborn, maybe more of a push than a nudge, right? This is also our guilt weighing against us, or simply conviction.
Important to note, however: there is a difference between guilt and shame. Guilt is, "I messed up." Shame is, "I am messed up." Or, guilt tells us, "I did a bad thing." Shame whispers in our ear, "I am a bad person." They might look similar on the outside, but they are very different. It's an identity issue as much as it is a sin issue. And the Spirit of God nudges that person, convicts that person—is convicting David here—basically saying, "You weren't created to live like this."
So first, David is silent. It's eating him up inside. Then he feels the hand of God on him. He feels, like, lethargic, beaten down. Like, even physically, it's starting to work its way out of him. And then finally, he can't take it anymore. And here's what he does. Verse 5: "Then I acknowledged my sin to you"—talking to God—"and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, 'I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.' And you forgave the guilt of my sin."
In a moment, we're going to look at David's confession here. But worth noting: you'll notice a couple of different words here. A couple of different words that, on the surface level, might actually seem synonymous. Like, this might seem redundant, but they are not. Before we look at David's confession, let's look at the words that he uses to define it—to define his sin.
In the Hebrew Scriptures, there are three words most commonly used for sinfulness. There's a couple others, but almost every time you see the word "sin" or "sinfulness" in the Old Testament, most of the time it's going to be one of three words. And David uses all three of them. All three are a little different and reveal much, not just about David's mistakes and his fallenness—he also explains exactly what God is covering up here. He uses the words sin, iniquity, and transgression.
The first, sin, is the Hebrew word chata. Chata—it feels like you're trying to clear your throat. You want to try it, don't you? It's okay, go ahead. Chata, right? And it's typically equated to moral failure. But its literal definition is to miss the mark. That's what chata is. And so sometimes in the Scriptures you have the literal usage of that word. Not commonly, but sometimes that's how it's used. For example, there is this group of warriors from the tribes of Israel. They're called the Benjamites. You might be familiar with them. And apparently the Benjamites were incredible warriors—incredibly gifted with all kinds of weapons, arrows, usually, like, slingshots; that was one of their favorites. And they were so good, in fact, that Judges 20:16 says when they attacked a target, they could not chata. They couldn't sin—as in, they couldn't miss the target.
Obviously, this is using the literal definition. The Benjamites were sinful—like, they were human—but they could not miss the target. But how we typically use this word, or find it in Scripture, is the same idea but a very different target. When we sin—when we are mean to our roommates or snap at our coworker or drive a little too aggressively on the freeway or gossip about our neighbor or whatever it is—when we are doing that, we are missing the mark as well. But the target isn't, like, a soda can we're trying to hit with a rock. The target is how God created us to live. And sin means we're missing it. We're missing it in relationship. We're missing it in worship. We're missing it in humanity.
Next, we have that word iniquity. In Hebrew, it's avon. And it means to go astray. Do you see the similarities with this and missing the mark? However, it's not just living the wrong way. It is going the wrong direction. It's a nautical term that sailors would use—a sailor getting turned around and then accidentally, like, going into a storm. This is avon.
But worth noting: often this iniquity is something we're not even aware of. In ancient Jewish culture, there were multiple sacrifices made, many for the sins that you committed that you were aware of. But some of the sacrifices were for the sins that you weren't even aware that you committed. Can you relate to that? Have you ever thought you were doing the right thing, only to find out that you were going in the wrong direction? Or maybe you find out years later you were ignorant of something and its ramifications, and you had no idea at the time.
I remember in college donating to and supporting a nonprofit. And I won't tell you which one, but it was very popular at the time. And I was supporting this thing, only to find out years later that this nonprofit was actually not doing a lot of good. It was actually a nonprofit that was kind of doing some harmful things, whether intentional or not, overseas. They were not helping. And I was funding them. It was, like, five bucks a month, but still—I was, like, funding this, right? I was contributing. This was a sin—going in the wrong direction. And there was iniquity on my part, and on David's too.
And then lastly, we see that word transgressions. The word in Hebrew is pesha. And this is a moral line that you jump over. If sin is living the wrong way, and iniquity is going in the wrong direction, transgression is becoming the wrong person. And it costs us something. It costs us—us. It's almost like a piece of our soul. Like we're handing that over temporarily whenever we actively choose transgression.
See, we often view sin as being the result of being human. We'll even say things when we mess up, like, "Well, I'm not perfect. I'm only human," right? But the picture we see of God's design for humanity—at least his hope for humanity—is one without sin. The Bible starts and ends with a garden, and the last picture we have of this garden within a city is a place where sin does not grow. And we are there, somehow, without sin existing there. And so by leaning into the flesh, our sin, we think that this makes us more human. But in reality, it's often drifting further and further away from what it means to be alive, to be image-bearers, to be human.
I want to also look back at verse 5 here, where we see a great outline of confession. David gives us this perfect outline, example. David just explained to us the three different types of sin, and he gave us the descriptions within it. He says he acknowledged when he missed the mark—that's the word he used, right? He acknowledged it. He did not cover up his tracks when he was going in the wrong direction. And he confessed when he actively and consciously chose to go against God's design for his life, right? These are the sins. Now, here's what he does with them. David's confession—four steps.
The first thing that he does—and this is the invitation we're given as well—is he names his sin. What does he say? "Then I acknowledged my sin to you." I have to say that this is often the hardest part. At least it is for me. Being honest about our shortcomings, owning it, right? It's saying, like, "I think I have anger issues." Or like, "Man, my ego lately—I've been really, really focused on me." Or maybe it's not even me—like, "I've been struggling. I really care a lot about what other people think about me." Or maybe it's like, "Man, I think I'm struggling with prejudice. I've noticed these patterns in my life." Or whatever that thing is. Like, "I'm just angry all the time." Or, "I'm this or that," right? It's naming that sin, whatever it is for us, right? And so that's the first thing that David does: he acknowledges his sin to God.
The next thing he does—notice he doesn't cover it up. He says, "I did not cover up my iniquity." He owns it. He doesn't justify it. He doesn't blame others. "This is my parents' fault." "This is just how I was raised." "She made me angry." "He knew that would trigger me." Whatever it is, right? He doesn't cover it. He doesn't excuse it. And yes—yes, our family of origin plays a part, our history, our habits, 100 percent. Same for David. But he's not blaming or justifying. He's owning it.
The third thing is he brings it to God. He says, "I will confess my transgressions to the Lord." I won't just sit with it, but instead I bring it to God. And the temptation, at least for me, is often to try to fix these things on my own and then go to God. When in reality, the best thing we could do is what David does here, which is invite God into the process, into the mess.
And the last thing, finally, is he experiences forgiveness. He says, "You forgave the guilt of my sin." He experiences this forgiveness, which is really freedom—something David knew a great deal about. David was a man who did a lot of terrible things, made a lot of mistakes in his life, and he hurt—if you know the story of David—he hurt tons of people. And yet, what is his nickname? The man after God's own heart.
And I remember this used to drive me crazy. I would think, like, that guy? Really? Like, yeah, he did a lot of amazing things, but he also did a lot of terrible things. And he gets that nickname? The man after God's own heart? Really? But notice: even though David is, I would say, kind of screwing up often, you'll always find what he is doing constantly—we see this in the Psalms, we see this all over the Scriptures, in the life and history of David—what he's doing is constantly seeking the Lord in his mistakes and his failures. The man after God's own heart is the man who recognizes his need and how great that heart of God's is. This nickname isn't about David's character; it's about David's faith. And more than it being an example of how great David's sin was, I think it's about how great God's forgiveness is.
Verse 6: "Therefore let all the faithful pray to you while you may be found; surely the rising of the mighty waters will not reach them. You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance." So this is where we move from the individual—this is just David and God having a conversation—to the corporate, right? "All the faithful," it says. All shall sing. And notice, they're not just singing songs of praise here, songs of faithfulness. They're all collectively singing songs of deliverance.
And this is something that I think, in my opinion, is one of our deepest flaws—and I would even say sins—of the church today, at least in our modern Western context. Our temptation as a church is this desire, or habit, of pretending that we have all of our stuff together. Maybe I'm just preaching to myself here. But still—this picture we see in the Psalms of brothers and sisters arm in arm, and it says they're praying and singing these songs of deliverance—that's not common in most of the churches I've been a part of. And I'm speaking broadly here. But for most Christians, church is the place where you try to impress people.
And we see in the Scriptures, right, these two kinds of interactions that people had with Jesus. We see the religious leaders, who were dignified—too religious, too vain to recognize how much they needed Jesus. The more religious they seemed, the less they would see Jesus, who was right in front of them. And then you have these people who are, like, at the side of the road. And they can't help it. And they don't care how embarrassing they are being. Like, I read these, and there's a part of me that's like, I would cringe if I was there. And all the social constructs go out the window, with no shame. What do they do? They shout, "Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. I am a sinner." They call out to God. They reach out to God. And because of this, they experience God.
And this is something that I've had to be honest with myself about, and I have to ask myself often: if Jesus walked into the room, would I be the one trying to keep it all together? Or would I be like the woman—if you know that story—who throws herself on the ground, weeping at his feet, calling out my need in desperation? With, like, snot and tears and everything all over my face. My face is all red, and I just can't help myself. Or would I instead offer Jesus my Sunday best—the most polished version of myself?
This is something I think that we could learn a lot about from our brothers and sisters in recovery. Jesus says it's the sick who need a doctor. If you've ever been to a meeting, whether for yourself or a loved one, you know there's, like, no games. There's, like, no BS. There is no pretending. Because there is a need there that is acknowledged in recovery. And the truth is, the church is supposed to be a hospital, not a country club.
This is why we have confession as part of our service every week. And it's why you will see me and the board president and the elders and the worship director and the oldest member of our church and the youngest—all of us invited to participate in that. In that reading, we are all confessing. And the beauty of this is, since we are all invited, no one is looking around, right? No one is looking around at who has tears in their eyes as they're saying this confession, like, "Oh, they must really need it this week," right? Nobody's doing that. And no one is looking around saying, like, "Oh, that guy's on his phone, checking the score from the game," or whatever, right? No one is doing that, because since we are all invited, the barrier comes down between who gets to have their sins absolved and the one who forgives. It is a public and private invitation. And it's a reminder and a picture to show that we are all in need of hope and healing.
Here's the truth. Healing doesn't come from a church without sin. There's no such thing. Healing doesn't come from a church with no sin. Healing comes from a church with no secrets. And this healing is contagious in our communities. These are our testimonies. It's our scars that point to Jesus, not the perfect exterior we try to present to the world.
And so I've had to check myself on this. In the past, when I've led ministries and I've said, "Come as you are," I didn't mean it. I didn't mean come with your addictions and come with your flaws and your struggles and your doubts, your problems, your needs. No, when I said "come as you are," I meant you could wear flip-flops or whatever, right? Like, you don't have to go home and change out of your work clothes. That's what I've meant at times in the past. But not anymore. I mean it. When I say come as you are—whatever you are struggling with, whatever your past looks like, whatever you are holding on to, the ugliest parts of all of us—it might look different for you than for me. But what you and I both have in common is we are both in need of, and recipients of, God's good grace. And so come and sing songs of deliverance along with me.
Let's hop down to verse 10: "Many are the woes of the wicked, but the Lord's unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in him." We keep seeing this picture of being surrounded by God, or covered by God, or shielded by God, right? And this brings up a second picture of what atonement is. Atonement is covering a debt, but it is also covering a person.
Sin—sin makes us feel naked, which is, like, our greatest fear, right? Whatever version of that. So many people admit that, like, their biggest fear—this nightmare that they have—is being on stage, but not just being on stage, but being in their underwear or being naked or something like that, right? But this isn't the only nakedness a person feels. Not just physical vulnerability—there's also the mental and emotional side that comes with it. It's the deepest, darkest parts of us. Parts that we don't even want our best friends or our spouses or God to see. Which is why we often equate sin to being naked.
And when we feel vulnerable, exposed, we all have two options—because we're all going to feel that. When we sin, we can either cover it up—hide it, pretend it isn't there, justify it, whatever it is—cover ourselves up. Like Adam and Eve, if you're familiar with that story, right? Their response after sinning—what is the first thing they do? They go and hide. And then they try to cover themselves up with fig leaves or whatever. But then eventually they bring it to God—or at least God moves towards them. And what does he do in Genesis 3:21? They sin. They're attempting to cover themselves. They hide. And when they finally bring it to God, how does he respond? He covers them. I don't know if he, like, sews them little outfits or whatever. I don't know how that whole scene worked out, right? But we see him covering them. He meets them where they are. When you sin, you can either attempt to cover it yourself, or you can bring it to God, and he will cover you, clothe you, shelter you.
But this takes trust. Confession takes trust. Speaking of vulnerability and trust—I think I shared this once—I think a great picture of this is when I was little. And I don't know if you were in this situation, if you had a similar childhood. But I remember after we would go to, like, the beach or a swimming pool or something, us kids would all be in the parking lot. But we weren't allowed to climb into the car until we changed our clothes. We had, like, sand or chlorine or whatever all over our clothes. And so my mom or my brother or my uncle or whoever would hold up a towel, right? Or maybe you played soccer, you played a sport and you had to change—whatever it was, right? And right there in the middle of the parking lot, they're holding this towel, and I would have to, like, awkwardly get changed before I was allowed back in the car.
And as a kid, I assumed that all that was keeping me from embarrassment and shame and exposure and nakedness—which was, like, my biggest fear as a kid—as I was in public trying to change my clothes, I assumed all that was keeping me from this was the towel covering me. But in reality, it wasn't the towel. It was the hand that was holding it. Which is why trust is required when we feel vulnerable. And without it, you'll never feel comfortable enough to get clean of chlorine or sand or shame or sin.
There's this beautiful picture of this in the Narnia books—of confession and vulnerability and rebirth—if you're familiar with the book The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, one of my favorites. C. S. Lewis wrote it. There's the story of this little boy named Eustace. And I love the opening. It says something like, "There was once a boy named Eustace, and he almost deserved it," which is hilarious. No offense if you know somebody named Eustace.
So there's this boy named Eustace, and at some point he's tempted, and he eventually gives in. And he starts following evil, dark magic. And he sells his innocence for power, and it corrupts him. And over time, this power turns into a harder exterior, until eventually—he keeps changing and evolving—he becomes a dragon. And over and over, the boy tries. He's trying to rip these dragon scales off of him, but he can't. He's not strong enough. And they keep growing back stronger and stronger. And he keeps getting more monstrous. The scales are too much for him. Then finally, at one point in the book, he falls to the ground. He's ready to give up when he turns to Aslan. Aslan is the giant lion who represents Jesus. And it's as if the boy has no other option. He's hit rock bottom. He can either stay a monster, or he can share the ugliest parts of himself with another.
So let me just read this real quick paragraph from C. S. Lewis. It's so good. This is Eustace talking—Eustace the dragon now. "Then the lion said, 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it. The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. Well, eventually he got all the beastly stuff right off, and there I was, smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me—I didn't like that much, for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything, but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious, and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."
This scene always grabs my heart. It reminds me that we can't fix ourselves. This is such a perfect picture of confession, of vulnerability, of trusting, of redemption. And the truth is, sometimes it hurts. Often it hurts. But it always leads to healing.
To quote Tim Keller: to be loved but unknown is superficial, but to be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But here is the message of the gospel: you are fully known and fully loved. The one who knows you the best—the one who knows us the best, who knows us even better than we know ourselves, who knows every single sin that we've ever committed, every ugly thought that we've ever had—the one who knows us the best still loves us the most. And so confession is us trusting God in our nakedness, in our vulnerability, in our sin. And it is trusting that his grace is enough. That his grace is more than enough.
Finally, it concludes with verse 11: "Rejoice in the Lord and be glad, you righteous; sing, all you who are upright in heart!" Which we're going to do here in a moment. We're going to sing. But here's the truth. You can't sing—you can't truly sing—until you acknowledge the hurt that you have experienced. It also helps to acknowledge the hurt that you have caused. And you can't feel righteous, like he talks about in this passage, until you see where you need to be made right. And you also, as he ends it, can't be called upright in heart until you allow the healer of that heart in.
Let's pray together. And as we pray, I'm going to lead us in a prayer that's going to sound really, really familiar to all of us here. And I think sometimes that's the problem. I'm going to pray our prayer of confession that we read every week. And as I do, my encouragement is to see this as an invitation—an invitation to be set free. And instead of hiding from God like Adam and Eve, or even hiding from ourselves, it's acknowledging what our sin is, while also remembering—here's the thing—that our sin is not half as bad as God is good. And instead of choosing to run or hide or justify or fix it on our own, we see a picture of a loving Father who wants to cover us.
And so let's pray. Whatever sin it is we are holding, Holy Spirit, give us the strength and the power and the trust to bring that forward now. So, church, you don't have to join me in reading this like we usually do. But instead, let this be our prayer.
Eternal God, in whom we live and move and have our being, whose face is hidden from us by our sins, and whose mercy we forget in the blindness of our hearts—this is our prayer. Cleanse us. Cleanse us from all our offenses, and deliver us from proud thoughts and vain desires, that with reverent and humble hearts we may draw near to you, Lord, confessing our faults, confiding in your grace, and finding in you our refuge and strength, through Jesus Christ, your Son. Lord, let us see confession not as a burden, but as an invitation to one of the greatest gifts that you offer your children: forgiveness. We pray this in Jesus' name. Amen.