My Lenten Confessional: Day 1

So I’ve been pushing around topics every which way about my desire to talk about our sins—to get the “big” sins, the “tiny” ones, the public ones, the secret ones out there.  For a while I thought it was the Reformed coming out in me (I do so love to talk about our depravity—how else do we understand the dazzling drenching of grace in our life?). But then I realized it was something else entirely.

Instead of needing to get us all talking about our sins, it seemed the Holy Spirit was prompting me to talk about mine. Or, more specifically, confess them. While I’ve always been good at admitted to being a sinner in general, I’m sometimes fairly lousy about naming the specifics (although, I’m quite adept at naming other people’s specifics. Funny how that works).

So with Lent upon us, I’ve decided not to give up anything (well, actually, I’m also trying to give up complaining about the weather) but instead take up something: the spiritual discipline of confession. I’ve been subjecting myself to the 12-steppers “searching and fearless moral inventory.” And I’ll try to post one of my moral failings every day of Lent. JUICY!!

But to kick it off, it’s less juice, more between God and me.

Confession #1

Dear God,

You and I have a good thing going. Chatty. Like friends. I talk to you in my mind, out loud. All the time. We’ve even got short hand (so glad you understand my raised, shaking fist and those hands help open at my side). The best thing anyone ever said about my writing was that I portray “a very real God, more so than I’ve often encountered in books” and that it’s like “Jesus hangs out with” me.

I was thrilled to hear that my writing reflects what I believe is true. That I see you as very real. And that Jesus indeed hangs out with me.

But alas, in this, I’ve messed up. Too often, I’ve taken for granted that you’re a God willing to stoop down, to hang out, to enter my space. I’ve neglected to see you as the Holy One you are. I’ve neglected to enter your presence with awe and humility and reverence. I’ve not once—not ever, I don’t think—lived in fear of you. I don’t fear you, Lord—in any sense of the word.

Forgive me for not giving you the respect, for not falling on my face in your presence enough. For not spending more time, quaking in your presence, awe-struck at your power and wonder and glory.

But thank you, thank you, thank you, still. For being a God who hangs out with me anyway.