What is Your Confession?

What is Your Confession? A Sermon based on Psalm 51:1-12
The drive from Casper across almost three hundred miles of open prairie toward the Grand Tetons in western Wyoming winds through some of the most spectacular scenery I’ve ever seen. Aside from antelope, deer and even occasional bison, the road twists and turns through rock formations that read like the geological history of creation. One of the most unusual sights, though, is an occasional boulder, sitting alone, abandoned in the middle of the open prairie. You have to wonder how it got there; it couldn’t have “just happened.” There has to be a story. As it turns out, there is. Thousands of years ago when God was using glaciers to sculpt the landscape and even carve the mountains, the glaciers would occasionally hoist these mammoth, two story house-sized blocks of granite onto their icy backs and transport them hundreds of miles. Then, as the glaciers finally melted, the boulders found themselves forever stranded in the open prairie. When you’re cruising through the Old Testament, you may discover that this 51st Psalm stands out like a boulder, out of place, on the open prairie of Israel’s history. When God was sculpting Israel’s faith story, he used David to write these words, thousands of years ago. David, the king of Israel, wrote these words. Here was a man who, in his time, was one of the most powerful men in the known world. Armies marched to his command; he had the power of life and death in his very hands. Yet, here he is groveling in shame, begging for mercy, pleading for help. The 51st Psalm stands out of place like a boulder of humility on the open range of power and pride. A boulder that has a story behind it. The story is about a day when David saw a woman taking a bath and decided to take her for himself. She had a name, Bathsheba, her husband, Uriah, was a soldier in David’s army. Like adultery most often happens, someone trusted and close betrays. Marital history and a soldier’s loyalty aside, David liked what he saw; he took Bathsheba to his bed and sent Uriah to his death. After all, he was king. He was entitled, right? Along comes Nathan, a prophet sent by God, to help David rethink the way he was living. Nathan tells David a parable about a wealthy man who uses his power to abuse a poor man. David, believing the story to be true and about someone else, demands that justice be done and the man sent to his death. Nathan, speaking on God’s behalf, says to David, “‘you are the man!’” This was your story. Good preaching does that. It tells you your own story in the context of God’s story. It reframes the meaning of your sin in the context of God’s faithfulness. Nathan reminds David of the history of God’s faithfulness to him, then confronts David with his betrayal of that faithfulness David was willing to betray in order to gratify his lust, even to the point of having a man murdered (2 Samuel 12:7). Something about Nathan’s words strike a chord of conscience with David and what happens next changes David’s life. There were going to be human consequences for his sin, like there always are. Some of them would break David’s heart. But, what also transformed this horrible sin into an avenue of God’s grace begins with a confession David makes to his God. A confession, in two parts, recorded for us in the 51st Psalm that begins with David admitting, it’s my sin. No blaming of anyone else for his misery. No explaining it away. No justifying it. No blaming it on the way he was raised. No press releases claiming “I did not have sex with that woman!” Not even, like his distant parent in sin, Adam, a pointing of the finger at someone else for his moral collapse, “‘the woman . . . (Genesis 3:12).’” What changed David’s life from a course bent on self-destruction to one that discovered the mercy of God, began with his acceptance of his responsibility for who he was, where he was, what he’d done. It’s “my transgressions . . . my iniquity . . . my sin.” It’s my sin, David says. In fact, David exhausts the vocabulary of sin to describe his sense of shame. The act, “sin”; the intention, “transgression”; the nature of his heart, bent toward sin, “iniquity,” all of it, David confesses are his. In all of this, something remarkable is happening. David is having a conversation with his heavenly Father about the deepest, darkest secret of his life. We will know we are making true spiritual progress when we can not only talk openly with God about the darkest secrets of our soul but do so even as we are accepting personal responsibility for our moral failures. Nancy, Cameron and I went whitewater rafting on the Snake River just outside of Jackson, Wyoming just a couple of weeks ago. I’d pay the cost three times over again for the memories we made. We traveled about twelve miles down the river on an eight-person raft. At one point, Cameron laid back and filled his hair with water and then slung it, dog-like, spraying everyone in the boat with icy bullets. This water is runoff snowmelt. Even in July, falling into the Snake River is like falling into a slushy. Cameron had his fun. Then, the river guide had his. For payback, the guide just pushed Cameron backwards over the edge of the raft, into the water. On his way down, Cameron grabbed the nearest thing he could. The nearest “thing” happened to be Nancy. Cameron was only half a back flip ahead of Nancy as they both went over into the water. To say the least, when she came up, Nancy was looking for whoever was responsible, even as she began to turn a pale shade of blue. Whoever was responsible had already swum under the boat to the other side, looking for safe haven from anyone who would offer it. Every now and then, someone pulls us down. We’re truly in the wrong place at the wrong time and we’re the victims of someone else’s choice for us to go under. More often than not, when we fall, it’s because we made the wrong the choice, the poor choice. And, more often than not, we do so because we felt entitled. Someone owed us. It was our turn. We’ve paid our dues. Everyone else is doing it. David took Bathsheba because he felt entitled and people literally paid with their lives. The worst mistakes I’ve ever made were the first split second after I decided I was entitled to what I wanted, when I wanted it, the way I wanted it. How about you? One of the best things about this vacation was getting to read four books. One of them, A Death in Texas, was about the lynching of James Byrd in Jasper in the summer of 1998. In writing the book, Dina Temple-Raston did more than just rehearse the stuff that made the headlines. She traced the roots of James Byrd’s death back to its roots deep in East Texas racism that dates back to the Civil War and beyond. James Byrd was murdered for a lot of reasons. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, pulled down by the evil intentions of men too high on alcohol and graduates all of the failed attempt at human reform called the Texas Prison system. But, he was also murdered because three white men thought they were entitled to do what they wanted, when they wanted, because someone else was to blame for the misery, namely, African-Americans. It’s beginning to sound like Baylor basketball player Patrick Denehhey lost his life because someone else felt entitled, needed someone to blame for their misery. By far, the most difficult and dangerous people are those who walk around with a chip of entitlement on their shoulder. Nathan’s message to King David, “you’re not entitled to anything.” Listen to Nathan’s words, on behalf of God, to David. “‘It is I who anointed you king over Israel, it is I who delivered you from the hand of Saul. I also gave you your master’s house and your master’s wives into your care, and I gave you the house of Israel and Judah; and if that had been too little, I would have added to you many more things like these (2 Samuel 12:7-8)!’” What started David on the road to recovery was Nathan’s brutal honesty in reminding him that his life, all of it, was the gift of God. The best friends we’ll ever have are those who help us reframe our attitude about life from one of entitlement to one of humble gratitude to the God who gave us our lives as a sacred trust. Words that are harder to say than any we’ve ever uttered may keep us from drowning in a river of self-indulgence. It’s my sin. It’s my lie. It’s my lust, my anger, my greed. His thinking reframed, David confessed, it’s my sin. It’s my sin was David’s first confession to his God, which led to his second, God, you are my only hope. There is no way of knowing for certain exactly how long it was between the time Nathan confronted David and David penned the words of the 51st Psalm. But, whether it was hours or days, during the interlude, it sounds like David became physically ill with grief and guilt. David sounds like he’s genuinely frightened that God is going to walk away. “Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me.” There is no greater fear than the fear of abandonment. Yet, is anything more physically debilitating than the weight of secret guilt? It takes an enormous amount of energy to carry our sin with us on down the road. Life-draining energy. Why don’t we tell our secrets? Because we’re afraid we’ll be abandoned if the truth is known. What if we knew we could tell God anything and, no matter what, he wouldn’t walk away? David had nothing to lose. Long before there anything like the science of holistic health, David sensed the connection between the load of his heartbreaking guilt and its backbreaking affect on his body. He pleads with God, “‘let the bones that you have crushed rejoice.’” We aren’t making much spiritual progress until we can have an honest conversation with God about our most private sins. David’s confession to God was that God was his only hope of forgiveness, of hope, even of physical relief from the pain inflicted by moral failure. While driving through Yellowstone National Park, we took a detour off the main road only to discover the most spectacular waterfalls, the Lower Falls of the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. Cameron actually saw it first and, had he not pointed it out, we might have missed it. There are no words to describe its beauty. Even the very best pictures don’t tell the whole truth. The drop on these falls is twice that of Niagara Falls. I stood there, lost for words. The thought occurred to me. For thousands of years before I was born the river that creates those falls has been coursing its way through God’s creation. If Jesus lingers, for thousands after I’m gone, it still will be. Over and over again, the water comes, and falls, it’s beauty never diminishing. The words of the gospel hymn penned by Robert Robinson in the 18th century came to mind, “Come Thou Fount of every blessing, ‘Tune my heart to sing Thy grace; Streams of mercy, never ceasing, Call for songs of loudest praise.” Streams of God’s mercy, washing over his, washing away his sin, that’s what David said was his only hope. Don’t deal with me, he pleaded with God, on the basis of my failures. Deal with me, please, “according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy.” Have you ever felt like saying that to God? I’m lost without you. My only hope is if you deal with me, not according to my failures, but according to your unending love. You are my only hope. I am lost without you, blindly, hopelessly, eternally lost. If you don’t take my sin away, I won’t survive. Have mercy, dear God, on me. On the last day of our vacation, Laura and Lane Smothers took us on a boat ride on a reservoir near Casper. At one point, we turned up into a canyon. The inlet was narrow, the canyon walls shot 400-500 feet vertically straight up on either side. In the walls of the canyon, you could read the story of creation in layer upon layer of rock from virtually every known period of time. As we floated along, I realized how small I am in comparison to all of God’s creation. And, I was reminded that I belong to him. This is his world, not mine. My life is his, not mine. Whatever repentance is, like David experienced, it begins with that confession. I am not entitled to anything but the joy that comes on the other side of confessing, “It’s my sin. You are my God.” What is your confession?
Glen Schmucker, Pastor	August 3, 2003
Copyright © 2003, Glen Schmucker