On Shame and Confessing

I've written before that I started singing in the church choir at the age of seven. I was not and have not ever been some kind of musical wunderkind; I have a voice that's made for choruses, one that's strong enough and fills in the cracks but which is completely and 100% unremarkable.

Still, in the muddy soup of early childhood memory, this joining the choir thing serves as a useful marker. Most thoughts I can remember having from the pew, when I sat out in the congregation next to my father, are from pre-choir days: the days when I was truly a little girl. There aren't a heaping ton of these early thoughts. Most have simmered out into the vagaries of general impression or supposition, in the way that looking at a picture from childhood over and over distorts your memory. Are you remembering that day, or just thinking about the picture of it? What really happened?

Some stuff, though, remains in the net. Most of what's there are Really Big Things-- good things, scary things, major life events. But occasionally in there is a sharp, in-focus slice of something incredibly mundane.

Here's one such slice-- I remember clearly, while kneeling on the purple kneeler and short enough not to be able to see over the seat in front of me, actually listening to the words of the confession and wondering why it was necessary. I mean, I couldn't think of a single time I had sinned that week. Plenty of other people had been cranky or mean to me, and I'd hit my little brother, but he'd deserved it. I was sin-free, thank you very much-- what were these other people's problems? I sucked on my "keep quiet" lollipop in smug satisfaction.

So, um, yeah.

I blame this on either the arrogance of innocence, or hubris, or some completely confident and unconscious mix of the two-- the sort of things I see my own daughter display when she announces "I can do lots of things well-- everything, in fact," and she means it.

It's as precious and precocious as it is absurd.

But that memory jumps out every so often when, as an adult, I sprint for the confession like I might sprint for the bathroom. My sins loom before me in bas relief, like some sort of internal "Ozymandius", rendering my sense of self-worth a "colossal wreck, boundless and bare." I'm unable to move beyond my inability to think as I should, to act as I should, to love as completely as I should.

To love as completely as I'm loved by God...which is the very definition of beauty, and the reason why falling short in the first place is so depressing. It's also inevitable and the reason the confession is so integral to Morning Prayer.

Here it is:

Almighty and most merciful Father,
we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep,
we have followed too much the devices and desires of our
own hearts,
we have offended against thy holy laws,
we have left undone those things which we ought to
have done,
and we have done those things which we ought not to
have done.
But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us,
spare thou those who confess their faults,
restore thou those who are penitent,
according to thy promises declared unto mankind
in Christ Jesus our Lord;
and grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake,
that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life,
to the glory of thy holy Name. Amen.
--Daily Morning Prayer: Rite One, from The Book of Common Prayer

I say this prayer daily. It is there for me to read and recite with varying degrees of concentration every single ordinary and repeating morning of my ordinary and repeating life. Sometimes I just gloss over it, but sometimes I cling to it like a life preserver.

Sometimes, it's all that keeps me afloat.

It's a sturdy enough boat in and of itself, but I have this tendency to think I need to be dragged underneath it for a while, scraping my back on barnacles, dangerously near the propeller.

This is, of course, a complete misuse. The confession isn't supposed to leave us mired in guilt; it's supposed to help us acknowledge our dependence on God's grace, remain cognizant of his conditionless love, and be aware of those places in our lives that need extra focus and discipline.

We admit to our shortcomings; we have erred, we have strayed, we have offended. And then, at least in Rite I-- and I dare you to argue that there's anything more melodic about the Rite II confession-- there's this holy "but:"

"But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us."

That's not a suggestion or a plea. It's a statement of fact. We regret what has come before, and we exist in God's mercy. We're going to continue to regret plenty, and mercy aplenty awaits in return. Forever and no matter what.

This prayer is the launching pad from guilt into forgiveness and reconciliation. It's a daily reminder of just how incredibly beloved we are, which is pretty much the antithesis of shame.

I used to think that the Office hinged on the confession. If I couldn't keep myself perfectly focused, 100% present in this moment of contrition, I figured I'd failed at the entire enterprise and probably wasn't worthy enough to read through the rest of it. This was pretty much ridiculous. I mean, it's daily prayer. There is no best practice other than to practice in the first place. Increasingly I've come to realize that praying isn't about success or failure; it's about showing up. That doesn't mean that plenty isn't left up to me-- I've got to calm my mind, slow my breathing, and focus my attention-- but then God is right there, stretching to meet me, creating and co-creating alongside both my best efforts and my shittiest ones.

He's got absolutely no interest in making me feel bad about anything. He is fully invested in constantly pulling me toward my best self, and a life more in line with what he wills. That is incredibly freeing, and it is, in the realm of pure human relationship, nonexistent. There is such purity in this love that it makes me want to live up to the examples I've been given in the Bible, and the lives of the Saints, and in Jesus.

I'll never be able to do that, but that's no reason to grind my face in the carpet. Every morning I get to begin again. There is coffee, and confession, and the sweet tension of concentration and distraction as I work to remind myself yet again of my wholeness in the eyes of God.

It pushes me closer to being able to acknowledge that wholeness in myself.