We talk a lot about spiritual disciplines in church—prayer, fasting, Scripture, Sabbath. Maybe even journaling, silence or retreat. But confession? That one rarely makes the list.
It’s the discipline that makes everyone squirm. It’s the one we avoid, even though the Bible literally tells us it’s where healing begins.
“Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed,” James 5:16 says. It’s pretty straightforward. But most of us would rather do anything else.
We’ll wake up at 6 a.m. to read Leviticus. We’ll fast for 21 days straight. We’ll raise our hands in worship and post aesthetic photos of our quiet time.
But when it comes to sitting across from another person and saying, “Here’s what I did. Here’s where I’m struggling. Here’s what I’m ashamed of”—we go silent.
It’s not just pride. It’s fear.
Fear of being judged. Fear of ruining our reputation. Fear that if people really knew us, they’d walk away.
And let’s be honest: some of us have experienced churches or communities where vulnerability has been used against people.
We’ve learned to keep our cards close. Better to look put together than risk being real.
But confession isn’t about punishment. It’s about freedom.
When we keep everything inside—our sin, our guilt, our secrets—it festers. Psalm 32 puts it plainly: “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away … Then I acknowledged my sin to you … and you forgave the guilt of my sin.”
There’s relief in naming what’s true. There’s peace on the other side of honesty.
We like to say, “It’s between me and God,” and in one sense, that’s true. But Scripture doesn’t let us off the hook that easily.
Confession in the early Church wasn’t a private transaction. It was a communal act—not for public shaming, but for healing and restoration.
There’s something powerful about looking another person in the eye and saying the thing you’ve been carrying in secret—and having them respond with grace.
Pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said, “A man who confesses his sins in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself.”
That’s what confession does. It interrupts isolation.
It reminds us that grace isn’t just a concept—it’s something we can feel. Something we can receive from someone who’s heard the worst and still chooses to stay.
Tim Keller once wrote, “To be loved but not known is comforting, but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved … is what we need more than anything.”
That’s the heart of confession—not shame, but that kind of love. The kind that knows the truth and doesn’t flinch.
That kind of love is also what makes confession so hard. It requires us to drop the act. To stop managing our image.
To tell the truth not just about what we did, but about why we did it.
It’s one thing to admit, “I’ve been dishonest.” It’s another to say, “I’ve been lying because I’m afraid people won’t accept the real me.”
Confession isn’t just about behavior. It’s about the wounds underneath it.
And the more we practice it, the less intimidating it becomes. When confession becomes part of your regular rhythm—not just a panic button you hit after a bad week—it starts to shape you.
It makes you softer. More honest. Less defensive.
You start to notice the small ways you’re drifting. Instead of waiting until things spiral, you bring it to the light sooner.
You start choosing truth instead of hiding.
But confession isn’t something we do with everyone. It’s sacred.
That means being wise about who we talk to—a mentor, a spiritual director, a close friend who’s rooted in grace and truth.
Someone who won’t try to fix you or throw Bible verses at your face, but will listen, pray and remind you that you’re still loved.
That you’re still becoming who God made you to be.
Confession isn’t the most comfortable practice. But it’s one of the most transformative.
Because the truth is, we can’t become who we’re meant to be if we’re still pretending we’re someone we’re not.
We can’t experience grace if we’re still hiding the places that need it most.
1 John 1:9 promises, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us … and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
That’s not a theory. That’s a lifeline.
Pastor Rich Villodas has said, “We can’t be spiritually mature while remaining emotionally immature.” And confession is one of the ways we close that gap.
It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t get applause.
But it’s honest. It’s healing. It’s holy.
So yes, it’s easier to talk about prayer. Or fasting. Or reading through the Bible in a year.
But if we want to grow—really grow—we can’t skip over confession.
It’s where freedom starts. It’s where grace becomes real.
And in a world obsessed with pretending, maybe the most spiritual thing we can do is tell the truth.
