I’m starting to think Catholicism’s idea of confessing our sins to another human being might just be one of those ideas the rest of us could really learn a thing or two from.

I’m not Catholic. In fact, I grew up in a church that, unfortunately, couldn’t even see that Catholics are Christians too and, consequently, taught terrible things about those folks who were actually their brothers and sisters in Christ.

Thankfully, God has allowed me to see that this was just another man-made theological idea I could dismiss with thoughtful study and critical thinking. And now I’m over here thinking about the merits of confession and why so many of us shy away from it.

Don’t get me wrong, here. I’m not equating my ideas on confession with the entire Catholic sacrament. I’m just considering what we might learn from saying our wrongdoing out loud to another person. And why, for so many of us, does admitting we got something wrong feel downright terrifying?

When Gold Star Christianity Makes Confession Feel Dangerous

I’ve talked pretty frequently about how I grew up with what I call “gold-star Christianity.” You might recognize it more as performative religion. This is the theology that makes us believe faith is measured by how well it’s performed, aka how many gold stars I could get on my church sticker chart.

It’s taken me years to unravel that conditioning, and I still struggle with people-pleasing, perfectionism, and peace-keeping. What I’ve not thought much about and definitely not spoken about out loud is why it’s so hard for those of us who have been inundated with this type of teaching to admit when we’re wrong, to accept responsibility fully, and, sometimes even, to issue an apology.

Something happens when you openly share your shortcomings with another human. When you freely open your mouth and say the words out loud: “I screwed up.”

For years, those words terrified me. Openly admitting I screwed up was not one of the categories on my church sticker chart. In fact, admitting I screwed up openly felt like it would cancel out all the gold stars I had earned that week.

So, rather than admit I screwed up, I would think through all the ways to minimize any mistakes I made, to justify my behavior, and to blame other people for my behavior.

Super healthy?

Absolutely not.

Super normal in faith spaces that rely on performance-based theology?

Absolutely.

See, what gold-star Christianity teaches us is the importance of protecting the appearance of goodness. In performative religion, when we fail and admit it, we’ve essentially failed twice — once with the actual failure and again in the damage to our appearance.

What this does in our minds and to our relationships is tsunami-level damage. The harm itself is bad enough, but the minimization, justification, and blame that follow to protect our image are next level.

Why?

I think it comes back to identity.

This is where it gets really sticky. For those of us who have escaped legalism and fundamentalism, we’ve, hopefully, begun to understand and believe that our identity is not determined by our actions. Our identity is not what we do. It is who we are. That doesn’t mean our actions don’t matter or that they don’t reveal something about our character. But our worth was never supposed to be something we earned by getting everything right.

For folks living out gold-star Christianity, identity can become grounded in what they do–in the appearance of goodness. Image management becomes more important than authenticity. And image management requires minimization, justification, and blame-shifting. Because no one is perfect.

So, then, when someone who lives for gold stars messes up, the response isn’t immediately to confess, apologize, and seek repair. It’s to manage their image to preserve their identity.

I understand it well because I lived it for so long.

After sitting with it and thinking it through, I found myself camped out with this question — How did we end up so afraid to admit our failures in churches where we’ve spent so much time talking about grace?

At this point in my life, I’ve probably spent literal years in church services. I’ve heard every sermon and lesson imaginable on grace. I’ve heard pastor after pastor preach that God’s grace is sufficient for us, that it covers our sins, and that it washes us white as snow.

And I’ve also heard pastor after pastor preach about the importance of confession in our walk toward becoming Christians.

Somewhere along the way, though, the importance of continued confession gets lost. While it isn’t preached, it is almost as if confession is seen as a one-time thing: if we confess we’re sinners once, that’s all it takes. We don’t ever have to do it again.

That theology isn’t just faulty, though. It’s dangerous.

It keeps Christians from being able to be honest about their struggles, shortcomings, mistakes, and harmful behavior. It traps them in thinking that when they become Christians, they no longer have to confess those things or else they will be judged and looked down upon.

The irony of this vicious cycle is that it isn’t grounded in Scripture. James 5:16 clearly invites us to confess our sins to another so we may be healed. I think the end of this verse carries just as much weight as the beginning. Yes, we should confess our sins to one another, but we should do it because it is a doorway to healing. In ourselves and with others.

I want to be really clear here—saying the words aloud doesn’t guarantee healing in any way, shape, or form. What it can do, though, is begin the process of healing within our lives and our relationships. Confession opens the door for apology. It lays the groundwork for repentance and repair. There’s a difference, though, between telling someone we trust about a struggle and acknowledging the harm we’ve caused another person. When our actions have hurt someone, admitting what we did is important, but it doesn’t replace an apology, accountability, or changed behavior.

What confession also does, though, is allow for honesty with ourselves and others. It allows us to stop focusing so heavily on image management and instead reclaim our true identities.

I know this because I’ve lived it firsthand. While speaking my flaws out loud was initially terrifying, it ultimately allowed me freedom I never knew existed. It seriously felt like I was shedding an artificial skin when I stopped trying to maintain an image of Christian perfection and started admitting the ways I fail.

But do you know what else happened? I watched as other people in my family and my circle started to feel safe and comfortable doing the exact same thing. They no longer felt the pressure to say and do the “right” thing all the time. They were free to talk about their failures, admit when a situation was terrible, and stop living in the language of Christian platitudes.

It was amazing.

Confession is Only the Beginning

Most of us would probably agree that grace is not simply reserved for the moment of salvation. It’s time we start looking at confession with those same eyes.

Let’s begin to normalize authenticity and honesty in the church when it comes to our shortcomings and failures.

Let’s create spaces in our communities and relationships where people can safely confess their struggles and sins.

And then, let’s sit in the grace that comes with a commitment to growth, healing, repentance, repair, and restoration.

I keep thinking about what changed in my own family and circle when I stopped trying to say and do the right thing all the time. What might change in our churches and communities if more of us felt safe enough to admit we got something wrong?

This isn’t the end of this conversation. In fact, it’s just the beginning. Next week, we’re going to continue this conversation as we tie it back to relational church hurt and what we do when the people who hurt us move on with their lives, testifying to God’s faithfulness to them without ever confessing the harm they did to us.

Reflection Questions

1. When have you been tempted to hide your mistakes rather than confess them out loud? What did the silence cost you? How would things have been different if you had confessed?

2. If you’re being completely honest, how would you describe the foundation of your identity? If you confessed your mistakes, would the foundation crumble? Or would it stay intact?

3. What relationships in your life would benefit from unapologetic honesty? How might they change?

I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.

I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.

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If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place at KristenNeighbarger.com.