How Do We Secure
Forgiveness?
Of David. A Maskil—or “wisdom song.” “Maskil” originates from the Hebrew word for “instruct.”
1 Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven,
whose
sin is covered.
2 Happy are
those to whom the LORD imputes no iniquity,
and
in whose spirit there is no deceit.
When we read a novel or watch a movie, we may wonder, “Does this story have a happy ending?” Unless we flip to the last page or fast-forward, we don’t know until we reach the end.
But today’s psalm begins at the end—and it is a “happy” ending, literally. “Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven.”
This beginning-at-the-end approach is a clever teaching device. It sparks curiosity and desire. It invites the question, “How did these happy people find forgiveness? What did they have to do to secure it?” Did it require a show of remorse? Or a series of good deeds? Maybe a sacrifice at the Temple?
3 While I kept silence, my body wasted away
through
my groaning all day long.
4 For day
and night your hand was heavy upon me;
my
strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.
The psalmist expertly builds suspense of our foregoing question—“How do we secure forgiveness?”—by first illustrating the pangs that precede forgiveness. He describes his own experience, which is itself instructive. He does not outsource sin, talking about it as a problem other people have, referring to it in the third-person or in the abstract. He talks about it as his own problem. This psalm is itself a confession. The psalmist is modeling honesty and vulnerability.
He says his real misery began when he kept silent about his sin. He felt his sin in his body. It felt like weakness, like groaning, like a dry heat sapping him of his strength and vitality.
Today, we talk in similar terms about related experiences. How shame can feel like an oppressive heat. How a guilty conscience can weigh us down and weaken our will. How terror can make our mouth go dry.
And if these experiences are far and few between for a person, that does not necessarily mean that he is without sin. Our modern world is filled with distractions, screens everywhere (as near as pocket), buttons we can press to acquire new toys and conveniences, news from every angle to keep us wrapped up in events happening miles away from where we actually are. Denial and self-deception are easier than ever before, with all these distractions promising an escape from what is here, now, in our body.
But while these distractions may numb the pangs of sin and anesthetize a guilty conscience, they ultimately do us a disservice, holding us back from true and lasting relief. Which is where the psalmist goes next…. Finally our suspense will be resolved, and we will hear how forgiveness is received.
5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you,
and
I did not hide my iniquity;
I said,
“I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”
and
you forgave the guilt of my sin.
Receiving forgiveness is astonishingly simple. Its prerequisite is not virtuous deeds that make up for the wrongdoing, or a show of remorse that convinces God you will do better next time, or a special sacrifice that balances the scales. It is honesty.
6 Therefore let all who are faithful
offer
prayer to you;
at a
time of distress, the rush of mighty waters
shall
not reach them.
7 You are a
hiding place for me;
you
preserve me from trouble;
you
surround me with glad cries of deliverance.
Like Psalm 29, which we read last week, our psalm today symbolizes inner chaos through the image of stormy waters. Honesty with God protects us from the storm. God’s forgiveness guards us from the shame and bitterness that can so quickly build up and overwhelm us.
8 I—many commentators suggest that God is the speaker at this point in the psalm—
[I] will instruct you and teach you
the way you should go;
I
will counsel you with my eye upon you.
9 Do not be
like a horse or a mule, without understanding,
whose
temper must be curbed with bit and bridle,
else
it will not stay near you.
If honesty is the first step toward forgiveness and reconnection with God and others, it is not the last step. Verses 8 and 9 point toward walking on a particular “way.”
The earliest Christian manual we have for the instruction of new Christ-followers—called the “Didache” or “The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles”—begins with these words: “There are two ways, one of life and one of death, and there is a great difference between these two ways.” While the psalmist doesn’t go into any details about the way of life, he makes clear a certain precondition, namely willingness, or what we might call “being teachable.” If there’s one thing we learn from Jesus, it is that God does not force us to do anything. It is up to us to follow God.
10 Many are the torments of the wicked,
but
steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the LORD.
11 Be glad
in the LORD and rejoice, O righteous,
and
shout for joy, all you upright in heart.
The psalm concludes in a manner that mirrors how it began. “Many are the torments of the wicked.” As we have seen, these torments are not like-for-like punishments doled out by God on high but are rather the symptoms of a disease. Sin is a wound that festers in silence. It breeds shame, bitterness, and isolation. It gives rise to nightmares, endless rivalry, insatiable greed. It feels like a burning that will not cease, a grinding that continually wears away. No amount of achievement or wealth will bring relief.
By contrast, those who have been honest and entrusted themselves to God, they feel the cool embrace of God’s steadfast love. They are relieved, they are shouting for joy, they are happy.
We’re Only as Sick as
Our Secrets
Earlier this year, I received what may be the strangest theological inquiry I have ever received. A woman had discovered that I was pastor, and she had a burning question to ask. “Can Satan hear our thoughts?” She unpacked her question a bit further, “Is it better for me to pray silently so that Satan won’t hear what’s in my heart?”
The question caught me off guard. I believe that the spirit of Satan is real, but I do not imagine Satan as an invisible figure loitering around, hoping to overhear our spiritual plans so that he may thwart them. To be more specific, I understand the character of Satan in the Bible to be not a one-for-one representation of a person who wanders our world, but rather a handle for understanding the diseased spirit that separates us from God and one another. Satan is the accusing voice, the voice of doubt, the voice of judgment.
But I didn’t feel that explaining this would help the woman where she was, so instead I replied, “I don’t know if Satan can hear our silent thoughts or prayers. But honestly, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Because my faith is that God definitely hears my thoughts and prayers. And my faith is that the power of God’s love is stronger than anything that Satan can throw in its way. If Satan can hear me, he’s no match for God, who definitely hears me.”
And then I thought of this psalm. And I shared it with the woman, telling her that, actually, keeping silent might be the worst of all options. Rather than being a protective measure against Satan’s wiles, it might play directly into Satan’s hand, giving him all the ammunition he needs to destroy a life. Because Psalm 32 suggests that our sin festers in silence. When we live in denial or self-deception—or equally in constant distraction—our secret sins sour into shame and bitterness. They isolate us and weigh us down.
One of my favorite cozy-mystery novelists, Louise Penny, puts her finger on this very phenomenon when she describes murder. The main protagonist of her stories, Chief Inspector Gamache, does not simply investigate for evidence of the crime. He “gather[s] feelings” and “collect[s] emotions.”[1] “Because,” Louise Penny writes, “murder was deeply human. It wasn’t [just] about what people did. No, it was about how they felt, because that’s where it all started. Some feeling that had once been human and natural had [been kept secret]….had turned sour and corrosive…. Armand Gamache found murderers by following the trail of rancid emotions.”[2]
There’s a slogan from the Twelve-Step Tradition that says, “We’re only as sick as our secrets.” Murder begins with a very deep and hidden secret; it is the culmination of a very advanced disease.
Dropping the Mask
Murder is taking things to the extreme, but we have all buried feelings before and hidden the truth from ourselves and others. Neuropsychologist Dr. Anna Lembke reports that the average adult lies at least once every day. Usually they are little lies, so little we might not even recognize them. We might give an excuse for why we’re late, or we might embellish an experience to make ourselves look a little better. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she jokes, “[and] we’ve all got a little smoke coming off our shorts.”[3]
The danger is that these little lies actually work together to make up a mask that we never remove, a constructed false self that hides the real, true self beneath. (The word “hypocrite” that Jesus sometimes used to refer to the dishonest or insincere originally referred to actors or stage players, which is to say, to people who wore masks.) Our psalm today is a reminder that these masks can disconnect us from God and life.
The good news is that these masks can be removed. It is as simple as becoming honest with God.
But…our faith tradition reminds us that becoming honest with God usually takes more than just a silent prayer. We might think we can just keep something between God and ourselves, but we’re probably fooling ourselves. Confession before another human person is an ancient practice of our faith, because our forebears recognized that unless we can let down our mask in front of another person, we’re probably not getting completely honest. One of the desert fathers put it this way: “The more a person conceals his thoughts, the more they multiply and gain strength. But an evil thought, when revealed, is immediately destroyed. If you hide things, they have great power over you, but if you could only speak of them before God, in the presence of another, then they will often wither away, and lose their power.”
I used to think of honesty as something that gets expressed after the fact. After I’ve done the thing I’ve promised not to do. After I’ve slipped up and said something hurtful. After I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. But as I read Psalm 32 and ponder the practice of confession, it becomes clear to me that honesty is more healthily practiced before the fact. That is, by dropping the mask and sharing difficult feelings or experiences before they have time to fester, I am nipping a disease in the bud. Instead of becoming isolated, ashamed, and angry, I reconnect with God, others, and myself.
Sometimes I fear that opening up to another person, even a trusted friend, might entail rejection or at least judgment. “You did what? Said what? Thought what?” But psychological studies have shown that contrary to these fears, showing vulnerability has a tendency to soften the hearts of others and invite them to become more honest and vulnerable themselves. So not only does confession help to heal the wounds that fester in secrecy and silence, but it also strengthens and enlarges the circle of God’s love, making us all a little more authentic, all a little more who God created us to be. “Happy,” indeed, “are those…in whose spirit there is no deceit.”
Prayer
Whose forgiveness is freely offered
To any who would be honest
…
Deliver us from the urge
To cover up or to enhance.
Grant us healing through honesty
And happiness through vulnerability,
That we and others might share
The joy of your steadfast love.
In Christ, who welcomes us just as we are: Amen.
[1] Louise Penny, The Cruelest
Month (New York City: St. Martin’s Press, 2008), 100.
[2] Louise Penny, A Fatal
Grace (New York City: St. Martin’s, 2007), 164.
[3] Anna Lembke, “The Power of Radical Honesty,” narration for an animated video by After Skool, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tw0sskCqrpI, accessed August 12, 2025.
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