The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick; who can understand it? “I the Lord search the heart and test the mind, to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his deeds.”
– Jeremiah 17:9
We know the two masters now. First, there’s my Self, the Worst Boss Ever. My Self is a slave driver, whipping me to work harder, punishing me when I fail, complaining and arguing, puffed up with her own importance.
And then there’s the Good Master, always patient, always forgiving, who tells me the truth about my flaws, but gently. The Good Master is humble and hopeful, and he looks out for my best interests even above his own.
I know which master I would rather serve. But how? How do I escape the tyranny of my Self? Isn’t she always there with me? It’s not like I can get away from her. Won’t she always threaten and punish me if I don’t give her what she wants?
Another practice of Lent, besides self-denial, is confession. Acknowledging my sin, facing my weakness, humbling myself before God and bringing him all the evil of my heart.
Why does the church emphasize confession during this season? It seems like a whole month and a half of just beating myself up: saying how terrible I am, not giving myself things that I enjoy–these sound like things that the Worst Boss Ever would do. What is the Good Master up to when he leads us to do these things?
When I was in college, I had to write a paper on Augustine’s Confessions. I chose to focus on the fundamental question behind the premise of the book: What is confession? What exactly did Augustine think he was doing, writing these hundreds of pages of his Confessions? What was the activity that he was engaged in before God? And how was he teaching us to relate to God?
After lots of reading and underlining and highlighting and starring, I came to a pretty simple conclusion, but one that had profound implications for my faith. I argued in my paper that Augustine believed confession was: agreeing with God about the state of his own heart.
Augustine went many places with his book as he wrote it. He told a story about stealing pears when he was young. He told about his education, about his sexual exploits, about his relationship with his parents. He told about hearing the Bible taught for the first time and about his eventual conversion.
But in all those accounts, the crucial act that he performed in writing his story was to offer up the intentions and motivations of his heart and agree with God about what they were.
Too narrow is the house of my soul for you to enter into it: let it be enlarged by you. It lies in ruins; build it up again. I confess and I know that it contains things that offend your eyes. Yet who will cleanse it? Or upon what other than you shall I call? “From my secret sins cleanse me, O Lord, and from those of others spare your servant.”
I believe, and therefore I speak out. Lord, all this you know. Have I not accused myself to you, my God, of my sins, and have you not forgiven the iniquity of my heart? I do not contend in judgment with you who are truth itself. I do not deceive myself, lest my iniquity lie to itself. Therefore, I do not contend in judgment with you, for “if you, O Lord, will mark iniquities: Lord, who shall stand it?”
– Confessions, Book 1, Ch. 6
“I do not contend in judgment with you.” This was crucial in Augustine’s mind: to let God judge his heart. To agree with God’s judgment upon his heart. To say, “my heart contains things that offend your eyes.”
Because after the offense comes the cleansing. After the accusation comes forgiveness.
How does this all relate? What does any of this have to do with the two masters?
It relates because I believe that confession is our primary way of shifting our allegiance from one master to another.
To agree with God’s judgment on my heart: that is the ultimate betrayal of my Self. That is the rebellion. To strip off all the achievements that my Self has been clinging onto and instead say, “My heart is desperately sick. All the good things I’ve achieved–those are just a facade. My true motives were weak and dirty and evil, and they fall so short of the glory God made me for.”
My Self hates confession. She hates the process of tearing down all the cloud castles we’ve worked so hard to build together. She’ll resist it for all she’s worth.
But this is how I serve the Good Master: by agreeing with him. By calling my sin what he calls it. By opening the house of my soul and bringing all of its dirtiness out into the light.
And this is the secret of confession: if I submit to God’s judgment of my sin and agree that what He says about my heart is true, simply because He says it, then yes, I feel judgment for my sin. But then I also submit just as fully to God’s forgiveness of my sin. If I agree with what the Good Master says about my deceitful, wicked heart, then I also receive the benefit of agreeing with him when he pronounces me clean.
This is the purpose of confession. Not to wallow in my sin; not to beat myself up about how evil I am; but to free me from my sin. To embrace forgiveness that comes simply from God’s word, not from anything that I do. I confess, and poof! I’m made clean.
If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
– 1 John 1:9
My Self loves to parade around her achievements so she can feel good. And it might be nice in the moment to bask in the glory of doing something, of having something to point to. But my Self is never satisfied. After one thing is done, she’s always asking for the next thing. And when I make mistakes, she never forgives, not until I earn my way back, dig myself out of the hole.
I prefer the Good Master. He made me by the word of his mouth, and he sustains me in the same way. His word pierces my heart to reveal my sin, but his word washes me clean and makes me new in righteousness. In all of it, it’s his word that does it–the only thing I do is agree with what he says.
The Lowest Place 