All May, Some Should, None Must

A reflection on confession, both corporate and personal

One of the most common questions I hear—especially during Lent, but really all year long—is some version of this:

“Why do we confess every Sunday?”

Sometimes it is asked by someone new to the Episcopal Church who is trying to make sense of the rhythm of our worship. Sometimes it comes from a lifelong Episcopalian who suddenly realizes they have been saying the same prayer for years and wonders what it really means. And occasionally, it comes with a bit of nervousness: “Are we supposed to feel bad all the time?”

The short answer is no. The longer answer is much richer, and it gets to the heart of what grace actually looks like in our tradition.

At Christ Church, like in Episcopal parishes everywhere, confession is woven deeply into our common life. Week after week, we kneel together and pray words that begin, “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed.” That prayer is not there by accident. It is there because Anglicans have long understood something profound: honesty is the doorway to grace.

Notice first that we do this together.

This is what we call corporate confession. No one is singled out. No one is asked to stand up and list their failures. Instead, we speak the truth as a community. We acknowledge that we are imperfect people trying to live faithfully. We admit that we have loved poorly, spoken carelessly, ignored suffering, and sometimes chosen comfort over compassion.

Corporate confession reminds us that sin is not just individual; it is relational. It shapes communities and systems and habits we barely notice. When we confess together, we are practicing humility together. We are also practicing mercy together.

And then something remarkable happens.

The priest stands and pronounces absolution—not as a private opinion, but as a declaration of God’s promise: “Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in eternal life.”

That is not conditional language. It is not hesitant. It is not transactional. It is proclamation.

Grace is announced.

This rhythm tells us something essential about Christian life: confession is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of restoration.

In our prayer book, you may notice that confession appears in both Rite I and Rite II, and even the language itself teaches us something about God and about ourselves. Rite I, with its beautiful and traditional cadence, speaks of “erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep” and acknowledges that “there is no health in us.” Rite II expresses the same truth in contemporary language: “We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.”

The theology is the same. The poetry differs. Rite I carries the weight of centuries and the humility of older forms of speech; Rite II meets us in language that sounds like our own voices. Both invite us into the same posture: truthfulness before God.

Neither assumes that God needs convincing to forgive us. Both assume that we need reminding.

But corporate confession is not the only way Anglicans understand reconciliation.

You may have heard the phrase often associated with our tradition: All may, some should, none must. It refers to what the prayer book calls “The Reconciliation of a Penitent,” sometimes known as private confession.

This is not required. It is not frequent for most Episcopalians. But it is available. And for some moments in life, it can be profoundly healing.

There are times when burdens feel too heavy to carry in silence. There are moments when naming something aloud—before God and with a priest as witness—opens a door to freedom that we did not know was possible. Private reconciliation offers space for honesty, prayer, counsel, and the assurance of forgiveness spoken directly and personally.

It is not about shame. It is about liberation.

Anglicans have always resisted turning confession into either spectacle or avoidance. We do not demand it as proof of faithfulness, and we do not ignore it as unnecessary. Instead, we hold it as gift. Available when needed. Grounded in grace. Free from coercion.

And that brings us back to those familiar words: “Most merciful God.”

We begin there because mercy comes first.

We do not approach God hoping to persuade God to be kind. We approach because God already is. The entire Christian story rests on that truth. “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us,” Saint Paul writes (Romans 5:8). Confession is not an attempt to earn what has already been given. It is our response to love we cannot exhaust.

If you listen carefully, you will notice that confession in our liturgy always leads somewhere. It leads to peace. It leads to Eucharist. It leads to restoration of community. We are not meant to remain in self-reproach. We are meant to be reconciled and sent back into the world renewed.

That is why we confess every Sunday.

Not because God is tallying our mistakes. Not because the Church wants to dwell on failure. But because we believe transformation begins with truth and continues with mercy.

In a culture that often swings between denial and condemnation, the Church offers another way. We tell the truth about ourselves without despair. We proclaim grace without illusion. We trust that forgiveness is not the end of responsibility but the beginning of new life.

Lent gives us a particular opportunity to rediscover this gift. It invites us to listen more carefully, to examine our lives more honestly, and to trust more deeply in the mercy that holds us. But confession is not confined to one season. It is the steady rhythm of a people learning to live in grace.

So when you kneel and say those familiar words this Sunday, remember what you are really doing. You are not rehearsing guilt. You are stepping into freedom. You are not earning mercy. You are receiving it. You are not alone in your need. You are surrounded by a community shaped by the same grace.

All may.
Some should.
None must.

But all are invited.

And that invitation, like the mercy it proclaims, never runs out.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +