I don't know how it works exactly, but something about opening my mouth and admitting what I've done wrong is a crucial step toward healing and reconciliation. It helps me see myself clearly.
In this way, Confession isn't something I do for God. It's something God does for me.
In other words, the secret only has power over you so long as it's a secret.
As a fundamentalist, I adamantly disagreed with the idea of Confession because I thought it meant the priest--not God--forgave sins. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Catholics don't believe this. Only God can forgive sins. [I'm not a theologian, so for a more detailed doctrinal explanation, read this]
"But what if I don't get a chance to go to Confession?" I once asked a priest. "What if I just pray and ask for the Lord's forgiveness? Would I be forgiven?"
"Yes," answered the priest. "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us."
So, why go to Confession? I think one of the main reasons has to do with preparing ourselves to receive the Eucharist. If the Eucharist really is the literal body and blood of Christ, then getting ourselves right with God seems like the least we can do.
And that is part of it for me. But also, there's something deeply personal about my experience with Confession. For one thing, it keeps me honest. It requires me to examine myself, to take a moral inventory of what I have done and what I have failed to do.
This helps me move closer toward what God desires for me: "truth in the innermost being" (Ps. 51:6). The thing is, it's just too easy for me think I can keep myself honest by myself. I have an alarming propensity to lie to myself about my shortcomings. (But I have very little trouble seeing all the shortcomings in others!).
Additionally, audibly confessing my sin acts as a deterrent against future sin. Sometimes just knowing I'm gonna have to have to confess that sin again is enough to keep me from doing it.
Confession also keeps me humble. It is my way of demonstrating that I am powerless to change myself. I cannot become a kinder, more compassionate, just and loving person through my own effort. I need divine intervention.
Confession helps me move beyond myself and into a place of humility. Humility is me saying "I am powerless to change without God's help." The act of confessing my shortcomings makes me feel very small--not in a degrading way--but sorta like putting on glasses and getting the proper perspective about who I am and who God is.
There is much relief in smacking up against the bigness of God. It makes me realize, with a sort of sheepish chuckle, how foolish it is for me to think and act like I'm in control of everything. He's God. It's OK to let Him do His job.
The strange thing is, I don't even really know Who God Is. I grew up with a very distorted view of Him and I still haven't put all the pieces in place. My view of God is partial, at best. Still, it seems that receiving His grace is not dependent on my having all the answers.
Which is to say, I don't know why Confession works. And I guess I don't even really need to know (which is a far cry from my You-Must-Have-All-The-Answers fundamentalist background). It's kinda like driving a car. You might not know anything about how it works, but you press the gas pedal and it goes.
It took a long time for me to get over the mortification I felt upon entering the confessional. Part of me was like: "Why do I need to confess my sins to another person? He's just a sinful human like me!"
I mean, I still get all mortified and embarrassed but I think I'm also beginning to understand that my sin isn't just between me and God. My sin hurts me and it hurts others. And since I've hurt others with my sin, I need others to aid me in my healing.
I used to be worried that the priest would be shocked upon hearing my list of sins. But someone once told me: "Uh. No. They've heard it all."
Again, relief! I'm not some super special sinner. I'm just an average, worn out housewife who needs someone to tell her: "Woman, you are forgiven."
And that's what I hear every single time.
