"My bad."

On coming clean and owning it.

I've found the two most insidious lies about sin to be these:

1. My sin is someone else's fault; and

2. My sin affects only me, and no one else.

I stopped believing both of these whoppers a long time ago—not because anyone told me to, but because they've so consistently proven themselves false. (Logic should negate them too, but I seldom get cooly analytical about my own gone-wrongness. That said, how could a thing not be about me and be only about me, at the same time?)

The book of James says "So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin." Pretty straightforward, no? Not a lot of wiggle room there. It's a very functional definition of an increasingly slippery concept. But hardly anyone admits they were wrong anymore. And if they do, it’s usually when the jig is up—when the lie is no longer useful, or the whole world has already learned the truth.

Until just a few weeks ago, no one with clear knowledge to the contrary was publically willing to say that the 46th President of the United States was severely cognitively challenged during his second term. Even when it became painfully clear that he was. But when there was nothing to be gained from continuing the charade—but much to be gained in book sales—some of the loudest deniers have become confessers. One even named his tell-all book, Original Sin.

This tome explores allegations of a cover-up and details significant concerns about the President’s cognitive and physical decline, based on interviews with over 200 individuals, including many White House insiders.

Until just a few weeks ago, such suspicions were being resoundingly dismissed.

But this bit of after-the-fact investigative journalism contained no apologies, just an “Oops, we missed it.” A spicy litany of “Here’s who lied to us and why.” No “My bad,” or "I'm sorry" or "I was wrong." Without those plain but powerful words nothing much changes. But with them, something can.

When I fail to do what I know is right, the first step toward my restoration is confession. I must say "I was wrong" and "I'm sorry," first to the One I've most offended. I must ask Him for forgiveness so that I may, by the power of Christ's sacrifice on my behalf, receive His ample grace. Let the record show I need this often.

My sin is not removed until I own it. But when I do, the One I love steps in and calls it His. And although this story isn’t new, I'll never get over its power. Ever. Will you?

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

I John 1:9, ESV