On Confession and Absolution

March 22, 2024

 

 

    Picture with me a church sanctuary; dark walls, carpet, the lights dimmed, worship team with instruments on stage playing a quiet background number, and a large, rough, wooden cross on a stand off a little to the side.  Tears trickle down a number of faces as a line of people walk to the cross with a small piece of paper clutched in their hand.  On it is written their sin, the one that keeps them up at night, the one they fail at time and time again no matter how much they resolve to do better.  One by one they take the paper with that anonymous deep dark secret, and they nail it to the cross, and then file back to their seats, arms raised in worship, having finally rid themselves of that sin by symbolically giving it to Jesus, affixing it physically to the cross.  

    The problem that compelled them to go forward was that they kept on sinning, presumably because they hadn't really given it up, hadn't really let go of it.  But maybe if they could see it placed where it belongs, they could remember that it's covered by what Christ has done on the cross, and that would give them the strength to be victorious in their fight, and at last be free from the habitual sin, and be released from the awful shame of it.  

    That little ceremony was supposed to fix it.  Maybe it worked for others in the room, but for me, it somehow didn't ever "take."  (How could I know that it actually did anything?)  It's a ritual I experienced on at least 2 or 3 occasions, sometimes in a modified form.  Once it was as a guided meditation, where I imagined encountering Jesus in a clearing in the forest, and in my mind's ear hearing Him say that He forgave me.  We were often told to take our sins and lay them at the foot of the cross, and while the nailed-on note tried to make this a physical reality, it was usually meant in a metaphorical way, traveling back in time in a spiritual sense to mentally kneel beneath the cross.  After all, what other way is there?

     If the battle against sin were particularly difficult or serious, there were always accountability groups where others could help in the fight by checking in on you, sharing their own struggles, and keeping you on track.  And attending the weekly Sunday service was another help, where you'd hear practical tips and life principles to give you the how-tos to overcome and live that victorious Christian life.  And if sin persisted after all of that, and your sanctification seemed to have stalled or be moving backwards, then you maybe would question if you're even really a Christian at all.

     There were times in my life when I was plagued with such sins - some large, others smaller and more mundane - but I couldn't seem to shake them.  Day after day I would resolve to do better, and day after day I'd fall flat on my face in failure.  I tried various rituals, tried going forward for prayer at the end of services, I tried counseling, writing to try to sort out and fix what was driving my sin, doing Bible study workbooks designed to help with such things, and confessing the deepest darkest secrets of my heart to another Christian.  Some of those things helped a little and for a time, but most proved to be ultimately useless.  I'd still be wracked with guilt and shame as I continued to fall again and again.  It didn't matter how many times people told me God loved me, that I was forgiven in Christ.  Yes, sure, I'd say, I know that.  But I could just see God looking at me and shaking His head in exasperation.

     

    Now if you will, picture a different scene: bright lights, a large sanctuary with a high ceiling, in the front an altar with a crucifix in the center, and standing before it a man draped in vestments that match the cloth on the altar.  After addressing the congregation, he turns and kneels.  At the same time there is a soft thudding from the pews as people drop to their knees in front of their seats.  In unison and humble contrition, they all say the following:  

    "I, a poor, miserable sinner, confess unto You all my sins and iniquities with which I have ever offended You and justly deserved Your temporal and eternal punishment.  But I am heartily sorry for them and sincerely repent of them, and I pray You of Your boundless mercy and for the sake of the holy, innocent, bitter sufferings and death of Your beloved Son, Jesus Christ, to be gracious and merciful to me, a poor, sinful being." 

    It's a bit of an amazing thing, but every service in the Lutheran church begins with a corporate confession of sin, a public acknowledgement that we come before Christ as sinners, with no merit or worthiness in ourselves.  We acknowledge that, of ourselves, we have no right to approach God, as we have sinned against Him in thought, word, and deed.  

But the amazing thing - and what is in stark contrast to the first scene - is that it doesn't end there.

Then the pastor turns back around to face the congregation, and speaks the following words:

    "Upon this your confession, I, by virtue of my office, as a called and ordained servant of the Word, announce the grace of God unto all of you, and in the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

   Now, this is pretty bold, and maybe more than a little shocking.  The pastor forgives our sins?  What gives him the right?!  

    That's a big topic, and beyond the scope of this blog, but I'll put some links in the To Learn More page, and give you the answer that's found in Luther's Small Catechism:

What is the Office of the Keys?

The Office of the Keys is that special authority which Christ has given to His church on earth to forgive the sins of repentant sinners, but to withhold forgiveness for the unrepentant as long as they do not repent.

Where is this written?

This is what St. John the Evangelist writes in chapter twenty: The Lord Jesus breathed on His disciples and said, "Receive the Holy Spirit.  If you forgive anyone his sins, they are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven." (John 20:22-23)

What do you believe according to these words?

I believe that when the called ministers of Christ deal with us by His divine command, in particular when they exclude openly unrepentant sinners from the Christian congregation and absolve those who repent of their sins and want to do better, this is just as valid and certain, even in heaven, as if Christ our dear Lord dealt with us Himself.

    So when the pastor says, "I forgive you," we are in fact forgiven by God, through the pastor.  The word of forgiveness that we receive does something truly amazing.  It takes our eyes off of ourselves and fixes them on Christ and what He has done for us.  His death cleanses us of our sin, and in exchange we are given the robe of His own righteousness to cover us.  All is accomplished in Him.  Instead of pointing us back to ourselves and our own strivings to do better, to fix things by our own attempts at behavior modification, driving us more and more inward, our attention is focused on the true, eternal solution to our problem of sin. 

    This does not mean that we don't fight against our sin.  Certainly we do that!  The Law of God is good, and we gaze into it as into a mirror, showing us our sin and our great need for repentance.  But that Law can never create the holiness that it demands, but rather illuminates our failure to keep it.  It shows us what a good work is, and what our lives ought to look like, and how we should live, but it also always condemns.  

Dr. Luther said, "When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, 'Repent,' he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance."  Repentance is cyclical.  The Law convicts, in repentance we confess and trust in God's mercy for the sake of Christ, and then try to do better...and inevitably fail.  The Law again convicts, we repent...lather, rinse, repeat.

        So, in the service we have a general confession of sins, but what about those individual sins that continue to plague the conscience? 

 

    Let's picture one more scene:  A private room, a pastor is sitting in a chair facing the side of the room, with a stole draped around his shoulders, signifying the office that he holds.  A small wooden kneeler is positioned facing the side of the pastor, centered at approximately his ear.  And one semi-terrified woman is hesitantly kneeling, trying to get her heart out of her throat and back into her chest where it belongs.  Both have hymnals opened to page 292 where the rite of private confession is found.  After gathering her courage, she speaks what is written there: 

"Pastor, please hear my confession and pronounce forgiveness in order to fulfill God's will."  

"Proceed." 

"I, a poor sinner, plead guilty before God of all sins.  I have lived as if God did not matter and as if I mattered most.  My Lord's name I have not honored as I should; my worship and prayers have faltered.  I have not let His love have its way with me, and so my love for others has failed.  There are those whom I have hurt, and those whom I have failed to help.  What troubles me particularly is that..."  And she proceeds to confess the particular sins that have been plaguing her.

When she is finished speaking, she says, "I am sorry for all of this and ask for grace.  I want to do better."

"God be merciful to you," he says, "and strengthen your faith."  

"Amen."

Now, as important and beneficial as the confession of sins can be, the reason it wasn't discarded by the Reformers is because of what follows, which is the whole point and reason it was retained.

The pastor says, "Do you believe that my forgiveness is God's forgiveness?"

"Yes," she replies.

The pastor then takes hold of the stole - the reminder of the office that authorizes him to do this - and places his hands on her head saying, 

"In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son" (here he makes the sign of the cross, as a reminder of her baptism) "and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen."

 

    There are no conditions, there is nothing to be done or earned.  There is no question, there is no one else - and no one else's sins - that these words could possibly apply to. It is a physical reality; it's her head that that pastor's hands are on, it's her ears that hear the words, coming not from her subjective internal imagination but rather objectively, from outside of her. It's not that those sins aren't forgiven until they are confessed - or that forgiveness is earned by her act of contrition - but the great gift that is given is the infallible and specific word that faith can cling to.  

    The moment slips by her quickly, and everything isn't immediately solved; there are no flashes of light or peals of thunder, everything seems so...ordinary.  But God, through the pastor, has given her His promise that all her sins - yes, even these - are covered by the blood of Christ.  And when they come around again to accuse and condemn, that Word of forgiveness is there, certain and sure, to bring comfort to the stricken conscience.  

    Will she continue to struggle with those sins?  Probably, yes.  Some things will plague us for our whole lives, and be areas of particular weakness.  Our Old Adam - our sin nature - clings to us until we die, and will continue to bring forth rotten fruit. But when she fails, and her sins accuse her anew, she can preach to herself the truth, remembering that moment in time that can never be undone, when God gave His Word that those sins are gone - and He cannot lie.  When all else is muddled, when emotions and intentions and thoughts are all conflicting and tainted, that Word cuts through the fog, providing a lifeline of truth that is unshakable.  And perhaps - perhaps - that knowledge will provide the strength to better resist temptation in the future.