Why Don't We Confess Our Sins Anymore?

I honestly can’t remember the last time I admitted a sin out loud in a group setting. I say sorry plenty in private—especially to my wife—but in front of a roomful of fellow Christians? It’s been a long time.

And that’s strange, isn’t it? The Church is supposed to be the safest place to be honest—built on grace, full of people who know we all need it. So why does vulnerability feel so risky?

It’s a real tension, and one I think every follower of Jesus needs to wrestle with. We all know the routine: someone asks how you're doing and the automatic response is, “I’m fine.” Even when you're not.

That kind of culture creates two major problems. First, it reinforces the idea inside the church that we need to perform—keep smiling, keep pretending. Second, it acts as a barrier for those on the outside. People look in and think, “I could never be part of that. Everyone there is perfect.”

But here’s the truth: nobody’s fine. Not really.

I was in a team meeting not long ago, and we went around sharing what was going on in our lives. I was honestly shocked by the amount of pain and struggle people were carrying—mental health issues, relational brokenness, financial stress, and deep disappointment. It reminded me just how wide the gap can be between how people appear and what’s actually going on inside.

Life is heavy for a lot of us, more often than not.

And yet, as believers, we often still feel pressure to hide. If you're operating on the world's terms—where love and approval are transactional—then hiding makes sense. You protect your image because deep down, you fear that if people really knew you, they wouldn’t love you.

But the gospel flips all of that on its head. The foundation of our faith is grace. Unmerited, undeserved, unearned grace. Romans says, “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” He didn’t wait for us to clean ourselves up. He saw the full extent of our mess and loved us anyway.

That kind of love should make us the most honest people in the world. The most real. If our acceptance is based on what Jesus has done, not what we do, then what’s left to hide? The church should be a place where people feel safe to say, “Here’s what I’m really going through,” and be met with compassion, not condemnation.

We often say that the deepest human need is to be fully known and fully loved. Only God can do that perfectly, but the church should reflect it powerfully. And yet, we often fall short. I think part of it is pride. It hurts to admit we’re not okay. We may know we’re not perfect, but we still cling to the illusion. Sometimes, if we're being honest, we like feeling superior. “Sure, I’ve got issues... but not like them.” And so we stay guarded. We compare. We hide.

But Jesus told a story about a servant who was forgiven a massive debt—like, life-ruining, unpayable—and immediately went out and demanded payment from someone who owed him a few bucks. That’s us when we receive grace but refuse to extend it. That’s us when we hide our mess and judge others for theirs.

Still, we’ve got to watch the other extreme too. Vulnerability is good, but vulnerability without transformation becomes another kind of trap. Paul tackles this in Romans 6 when he says, “Should we keep on sinning so that grace may increase? Absolutely not!” Our brokenness isn’t something to glorify. It’s something to be freed from.

If someone you love is drinking poison, you’re grateful when they admit it—but you don’t hand them another glass. You say, “Thank you for being honest. Now let’s deal with this.”

That’s what the church should be. A place where we come exactly as we are, and are loved no matter what—but also a place where we fight for each other’s freedom. Not shame, not celebration, but truth in love. Real love, real growth.

So let’s be a people known not for how polished we are, but for how honest we are—how deeply we understand grace, how fiercely we love, and how committed we are to helping each other become more like Jesus.

Because that’s what the world is looking for. And that’s who we’re called to be.