A Confession

Does anyone blog anymore? That’s the first question that comes to mind as I warily begin this venture. With the deluge of media that one receives in a day—video streams, podcast, email, news alerts, likes, and tags—who actually spends time reading an online blog? I don’t. Honestly, I don’t. Why read something so informal—a mere amateur’s rambling on their latest dislikes and “informed” opinions—when there is a whole deluge of professional material out their to be read. So, I skip blogs. Thus, I feel that I am committing a form of treachery by venturing out into this medium that I slightly despise (even now I hear some of my friends hissing, “Et tu, Stephen). 

In what way can I justify adding yet another voice to the cacophony of the world wide web? Simple answer: I cannot. Longer answer: I really don’t have any justifications. I don’t believe I have “something good” to say, but I do believe I have “something” to say. And one out of two isn’t bad. 

If you have made it this far, it means that you have walked through the preamble and are justifiably thinking, “Wow, that was a waste of 2 minutes.” But it gets better (worse?). Now is the point where I tell you what I will talk about and you become even more disappointed. Myself. 

Now, wait. Some of you are dangerously close to closing this browser, but hear me out. This isn’t some vain attempt at self-publicity. Nor is this a chance to talk about how amazing my life is—and hey, here’s-some-cool-photos-from-a-vacation-I-went-on-that-you-will-never-be-able-to-experience-because-my-life-is-so-fulfilled-and-you-have-a-9-to-5-job—sort of blog. This is a blog about myself in that it is a confession.

I love that word “confession.” For a variety of reasons it strikes me as beautiful. Not just the sound of it, which starts strong with that voiceless velar plosive (shout out to the linguists, and that’s a hard “K” sound for the rest of us) and ends softly. But the meaning of the word is also beautiful and deep. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as “A formal statement admitting that one is guilty of a crime.” Subsumed under that definition are others. “An acknowledgement that one has done something about which one is ashamed or embarrassed” or “A formal admission of one's sins with repentance and desire of absolution, especially privately to a priest as a religious duty.“ Those may seem a little stuffy, but isn’t our curiosity piqued? We love hearing the embarrassing gossipy details about people’s lives. The foibles and the pitfalls attract us to the nightly news every evening.  

But “confession” means more than just lurid details of our life. The Oxford English Dictionary goes on to tell us that it also means “A statement setting out essential religious doctrine.” And subsumed under that, “The religious body or Church sharing a confession of faith” and “A statement of one's principles.” Pretty amazing that a word can both mean the gritty embarrassing details of my life and also the holy principles of my religious faith. Yet, it seems pretty congruent with the gospel as I understand it: “We’re far worse than we ever imagined” that’s the gritty part; “and far more loved than we could ever dream” that’s the holy religious principle part. 

There’s another thing about this word, “confession.” It’s the title appended to the book by Saint Augustine, a fourth-century Christian from North Africa. Not only is Augustine’s “Confessions” considered the first autobiographical work in the Western canon of literature (and ever since we have been saddled with people writing about their emotions and their lives like the rest of us care, so even this blog as a medium of communication has genealogical roots to Augustine), but it’s a deeply intimate portrayal of one man’s hedonistic pursuits, running from God, and eventual transformation. 17-centuries later, and I still feel connected to Augustine. When he cries, “Lord give me chastity, but not yet.” I think how often I have thought that before going on a particularly promising Tinder date. When he writes, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” I think about all the days and nights I am restless because sex, drink, and wild nights didn’t get me to the next morning with the joy they promised a couple hours before. How’s that for gritty? 

I don’t at all intend to say that this blog is of the same caliber as Augustine’s spiritual classic, but these are my confessions. A place for me to admit those embarrassing foibles of life—there have been many—and a place to view them through the lens of my religious principles—that is, the gospel. Along the way, I feel like I’m in good company. If Saint Augustine can acknowledge in his book his sexual hedonism and that still be read (and snickered over) two-millennia later, then I can bear some of my soul for those who stumble upon here. The goal: for me to share my life and what I have learned (wisdom?), and to hopefully learn from you. Will it be “something good,” I don’t know. But it will be “something.” And one out of two isn’t so bad.