Best 314 quotes in «confession quotes» category

Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions.

Psychoanalysis is the confession without absolution.

Prayer is a confession of one's own unworthiness and weakness.

Private confession was not ordered by Christ and was not used by the apostles.

The great modern novel of the comic-pathetic illusion of freedom is Confessions of Zeno .

Ridicule is a public confession of fear.

So much of my life has been about self-effacement, pretense, masquerading, concealment, and indirection.

The great danger is that in the confession of any collective sin, one shall confess the sins of others and forget our own.

The confession of one man humbles all.

The confession of the authority of the Word of God can never be isolated from the saving content of the Word of God.

The end of confession is to tell the truth to and for oneself.

The Irish innovation was to make all confession a completely private affair between penitent and priest - and to make it as repeatable as necessary. (In fact, repetition was encouraged on the theory that, oh well, everyone pretty much sinned just about all the time.)

And sometimes when I tilt my head, in that deep sleep, I realize I forgot to tell you what happened at work, in the thick of, all other rubbish daily stuff. And then I hate to believe, it’s more than 5 hours to hit the snooze, and now suddenly the night seems longer- than any lazy afternoon. I want to talk to you now, before I forget How I have imagined you will react, word by word, And act by act. But I kind of manage dozing off in a few minutes, And I clearly forget it morning, This entire instance. But tonight- when you are asleep, and I am Wide awake like a snake, I don’t say I forgot any Buzz to discuss, but I have this insane gush Of words of tell you I how much I have loved you through. Precisely none of this should be forgotten, So I decide to write this poem and tell you, I am so much in my moment of truth.

There is -- in world affairs -- a steady course to be followed between an assertion of strength that is truculent and a confession of helplessness that is cowardly.

The word fate... is the refuge of every self-confessed failure.

To conceal ignorance is to increase it. An honest confession of it, however, gives ground for the hope that it will diminish some day or the other.

Uncalled for excuses are practical confessions.

We do not always proclaim loudly the most important thing we have to say. Nor do we always privately share it with those closest to us, our intimate friends, those who have been most devotedly ready to receive our confession.

According to Maximus the Confessor in "One Hundred Chapters of Love", the key to directing and increasing one's desire for God is the acquisition of the virtues-which, you'll recall, we described above as noncognitive "dispositions" acquired through practices. So how does one acquire such virtues, such dispositions of desire? Through participation in concrete Christian practices like confession.

A community is not a place where 'desert fathers' are testing themselves - more and more, harder and harder, each on his own. A community is what Saint Paul told us - our differences granted respect by one another, but those differences are not allowed to turn us into loners. You must know when to find your own, quiet moment of solitude. But you must know when to open the door to go with others, and you must know how to open the door. There's not point in opening the door with bitterness and resentment in your heart.

And I didn't choose it, Kat. I chose you.

And you can't see around corners. so you just have to deal with it, and try to stay afloat. And things get tough. And you're supposed to grow up. And it's all a bunch of bullshit. Sorry.

The minister to whom confession is made is the delegate of Christ, Who is the Judge of the living and the dead.

There are, I believe, many more false confessions to murders than true confessions.

The sinner will not confess, nor will the priest receive his confession, if the veil of secrecy is removed.

...the very notion that a candidate should openly solicit votes violated the principled presumption that such behavior itself represented a confession of unworthiness for national office.

The worst of my actions or conditions seem not so ugly unto me as I find it both ugly and base not to dare to avouch for them.

Use of a mentally ill person's involuntary confession is antithetical to the notion of fundamental fairness embodied in the due process clause.

We confess our bad qualities to others out of fear of appearing naive or ridiculous by not being aware of them.

Women's vulnerability confessing their desire to see men as a success object is matched by men's confession of compulsiveness of sexual desire for women.

You know, I've got a confession to make myself. I'm not really a priest, I've just got my shirt on backwards.

Your confession must absolutely agree with the Word of God!

You're not going to get any true confessions out of me," she said. "I'm a Leo, and our thing is changing the subject.

Your success and usefulness in the world is going to be measured by your confession and by the tenacity with which you "hold fast" that confession under all circumstances.

Además, confesar un hecho es dejar de ser el actor para ser el testigo, para ser alguien que lo mira y lo narra y que ya no lo ejecutó.

After writing the letter Sybil lost almost two days. "Coming to," she stumbled across what she had written just before she had dissociated and wrote to Dr. Wilbur as follows: It's just so hard to have to feel, believe, and admit that I do not have conscious control over my selves. It is so much more threatening to have something out of hand than to believe that at any moment I can stop (I started to say "This foolishness") any time I need to. When I wrote the previous letter, I had made up my mind I would show you how I could be very composed and cool and not need to ask you to listen to me nor to explain anything to me nor need any help. By telling you that all this about the multiple personalities was not really true I could show, or so I thought, that I did not need you. Well, it would be easier if it were put on. But the only ruse of which I'm guilty is to have pretended for so long before coming to you that nothing was wrong. Pretending that the personalities did not exist has now caused me to lose about two days.

And merely looking at you, I confessed my love in a million ways.

—And you completely blow me away and rip my world up and everything else, and then you go back to ignoring me.” “I blew you away?” I squeak out before I can stop myself. He stares at me steadily. “You blew everything away.

Artists, especially writers, great writers, are the most honest people I know. There are deep confessions in their words. And if we're strong enough to expose the spaces between them, we find truths there also.

A sin confessed, a guilt cleared by grace.

Arturo Bandini was pretty sure that he wouldn't go to hell when he died. The way to hell was the committing of mortal sin. He had committed many, he believed, but the confessional had saved him. He always got to confession on time — that is, before he died. And he knocked on wood whenever he thought of it — he always would get there on time — before he died. So Arturo was pretty sure he wouldn't go to hell when he died. For two reasons. The confessional, and the fact that he was a fast runner.

As he still groped for that one moment, Father Dowling began to think that the whole city for years had been whispering its story to him out of the darkness in snatches, in a huge confessional where he could not see the faces…

Confession breaks the power of canceled sin. It also heals the broken heart.

A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish.

Before I could reply, he had picked me up, literally swept me off my feet, and kissed me. And afterwards, when I tried to speak, he silenced me in much the same manner. It was a shock (but not at all distasteful) to be so caught up. Later - when he at last set me down - he handled me more gently. He took of my glasses and told me that he loved me.

But peace, too, is a living thing and like all life it must wax and wane, accommodate, withstand trials, and undergo changes. Such was the case with the peace Josephus Famulus enjoyed. It was unstable, visible one moment, gone the next, sometimes near as a candle carried in the hand, sometimes as remote as a star in the wintry sky. And in time a new and special kind of sin and temptation more and more often made life difficult for him. It was not a strong, passionate emotion such as indignation or a sudden rush of instinctual urges. Rather, it seemed to be the opposite. It was a feeling very easy to bear in its initial stages, for it was scarcely perceptible; a condition without any real pain or deprivation, a slack, luke-warm, tedious state of the soul which could only be described in negative terms as a vanishing, a waning, and finally a complete absence of joy. There are days when the sun does not shine and the rain does not pour, but the sky sinks quietly into itself, wraps itself up, is gray but not black, sultry, but not with the tension of an imminent thunderstorm. Gradually, Joseph's days became like this as he approached old age. Less and less could he distinguish the mornings from the evenings, feast days from ordinary days, hours of rapture from hours of dejection. Everything ran sluggishly long in limp tedium and joylessness. This is old age, he thought sadly. He was sad because he had expected aging and the gradual extinction of his passions to bring a brightening and easing of his life, to take him a step nearer to harmony and mature peace of soul, and now age seemed to be disappointing and cheating him by offering nothing but this weary, gray, joyless emptiness, this feeling of chronic satiation. Above all he felt sated: by sheer existence, by breathing, by sleep at night, by life in his cave on the edge of the little oasis, by the eternal round of evenings and mornings, by the passing of travelers and pilgrims, camel riders and donkey riders, and most of all by the people who came to visit him, by those foolish, anxious, and childishly credulous people who had this craving to tell him about their lives, their sins and their fears, their temptations and self-accusations. Sometimes it all seemed to him like the small spring of water that collected in its stone basin in the oasis, flowed through grass for a while, forming a small brook, and then flowed on out into the desert sands, where after a brief course it dried up and vanished. Similarly, all these confessions, these inventories of sins, these lives, these torments of conscience, big and small, serious and vain, all of them came pouring into his ear, by the dozens, by the hundreds, more and more of them. But his ear was not dead like the desert sands. His ear was alive and could not drink, swallow, and absorb forever. It felt fatigued, abused, glutted. It longed for the flow and splashing of words, confessions, anxieties, charges, self-condemnations to cease; it longed for peace, death, and stillness to take the place of this endless flow.

But the second she opened her eyes and looked at me, I knew. She was either going to be the death of me . . . or she was going to be the one who finally brought me back to life.

Concert pianists get to be quite chummy with dead composers. They can't help it. Classical music isn't just music. It's a personal diary. An uncensored confession in the dead of night. A baring of the soul. Take a modern example. Florence and the Machine? In the song 'Cosmic Love,' she catalogs the way in which the world has gone dark, distorting her, when she, a rather intense young woman, was left bereft by a love affair. 'The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out.

Confession and repentance might be described as the negative side of submission; this involves getting rid of everything which hinders God’s control over our lives. Yielding to God might be described as the positive side . . . placing ourselves totally into the hands of God.

Confession is an act of violence against the unoffending.