I Believe in the Forgiveness of Sins

Many of the Psalms begin with “superscripts” or titles that refer to the Psalm’s author, genre, or musical setting. Sometimes the superscript provides historical context. In the cluster of Psalms 52–64, all ascribed to David, several are explicitly connected to the period when he was a fugitive from Saul (1 Sam. 19–27). Saul knew that God had rejected him as king because of his disobedience (1 Sam. 15:26) while David enjoyed popular acclaim (1 Sam. 18:6–9) and divine favor (1 Sam. 18:12–16). Saul therefore sought to eliminate him. Yet David remained loyal, refusing on two occasions to kill Saul, who remained the LORD’s anointed (1 Sam. 24:6, 10; 26:9). On both occasions Saul briefly seemed repentant, but then resumed persecuting David.

The Psalms show that David keenly felt the injustice he experienced. Betrayed to Saul by the Ziphites (see 1 Sam. 23:15–20), David laments that “strangers have risen against me; / ruthless men seek my life” (Ps. 54:3). We are reminded of Saul when we read of the pain of betrayal: “My companion stretched out his hand against his friends, / he violated his covenant. / His speech was smooth as butter, / yet war was in his heart; / his words were softer than oil, / yet they were drawn swords” (Ps. 55:20–21). Saul is one of the “bloodthirsty men” who “lie in wait for my life; / … / For no transgression or sin of mine, O LORD, / for no fault of mine, they run and make ready” (Ps. 59:2–4). David’s deep piety also shines through in these Psalms. In the arid wilderness of Judah, David thirsts for God more than for water, for God’s “steadfast love is better than life” (Ps. 63:1, 3). Hiding from Saul in a cave, he sings God’s praises: “Be exalted, O God, above the heavens! / Let your glory be over all the earth!” (Ps. 57:11).

During this time, David accumulated a motley crew of warrior companions. Presumably this crowd was in fairly constant flux. Early on there were about 400 with him (1 Sam. 22:2); later there would be 600 (1 Sam. 27:2; 30:10). Among these, however, there was a group called “the thirty” (their precise number is 37) who were especially mighty. They were David’s closest friends. The words of one of David’s descendants could well have been spoken by him to the Thirty: “You are those who have stayed with me in my trials” (Luke 22:28). One can imagine how moved this elite band would have been as they heard their leader sing his Psalms of innocent suffering for the first time around the campfire. His sufferings had become their own. 

It is only at the end of David’s story that we read the full list of the names of these stalwarts (2 Sam. 23:18–39). The final name on that list is Uriah the Hittite.

Yes, that Uriah the Hittite. The Uriah with whose wife David committed adultery while he was off fighting his king’s battles. The Uriah whom David, with cold calculation, consigned to death (2 Sam. 11).

Reading that name and realizing what it means should be like having an almost-healed wound ripped back open. We see now that David’s betrayal, heartrending and sickening as it already seemed, was even more nightmarish than we knew. David became Saul—no, worse than Saul—to one who had stuck with him through thick and thin. Everything David sang about the godless in Psalms 52–64 could be sung with even greater justice about himself. David became one of those who “hold fast to their evil purpose,” who “talk of laying snares secretly, / thinking, ‘Who can see them?’” (Ps. 64:5)—a line chillingly applicable to David’s plots against Uriah to cover up his own sin. David’s cris de coeur that Uriah must once have heard as he accompanied David in his hardships have become, in effect, Uriah’s songs against David.

And yet we must also notice that in the canonical order these Psalms come immediately after Psalm 51. The superscript of that Psalm says that David wrote it “when Nathan the prophet went to him, after he had gone in to Bathsheba.” That encounter is narrated in 2 Samuel 12. Nathan tells David a parable that opens the king’s eyes to what he has done. David’s response to Nathan is simple: “I have sinned against the LORD” (2 Sam. 12:13). Psalm 51 gives us a deeper look into David’s penitent heart. Taken as a sort of preface to Psalms 52–64, Psalm 51 implicitly acknowledges that David is both the wronged and the wrongdoer in the Psalms that follow. At one level, this points to their prophetic meaning, for Jesus alone will perfectly fulfill the role of the innocent sufferer adumbrated by David. At another, it reminds us that we ourselves are implicated. Have we too played Saul to someone’s David, or David to someone’s Uriah? We have all betrayed Christ (see CCC 598).

Yet we too can admit, “I have sinned against the LORD,” and make the words of Psalm 51 our own. Like David, we can acknowledge our sin. Not because tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner—to understand all is to forgive all—as the unbiblical proverb would have it. No, sin is truly horrific, and admitting it is harrowing. Guilt like David’s in his treatment of Uriah can be—indeed, should be—crushing. David himself sings, “For my iniquities have gone over my head; / like a heavy burden, they are too heavy for me” (Ps. 38:4). But ignoring sin is no solution: David also speaks of the life-sapping effect of bottling up one’s sins (Ps. 32:3–4). 

Thankfully, worshipers of Israel’s God know the secret that he revealed to Moses. God is “[t]he LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness” (Exod. 34:6). And so, unlike Saul, David sings, “I acknowledged my sin to you, / and I did not cover my iniquity” (Ps. 32:5), for God’s “steadfast love” and “abundant mercy” can truly “wash” and “cleanse” us from our sin (Ps. 51:1–2). As 2 Samuel 13–20 makes tragically clear, temporal consequences of our sins may remain. Nonetheless, we really can receive again “the joy of [God’s] salvation” (Ps. 51:12). As the formula for absolution in the Sacrament of Reconciliation puts it, we can receive “pardon and peace.”

“Dogma” is a word that seems to leave a bad taste in the mouths of many, but we would do well to remember that “the forgiveness of sins” is a dogma, a truth that is not known with certainty through unaided human reason but that has been graciously revealed by God. It is not something everyone knows. Not long ago, a friend of mine (we’ll call her Jane) was talking with a fairly new acquaintance (we’ll call her Wendy) who was undergoing terrible personal suffering, and who knew that she was the one at fault for the suffering. Wendy felt she did not deserve Jane’s compassion. Jane responded that in fact none of us deserve compassion, but that God has mercy on us anyway. Wendy’s reply was poignant: “You can’t be real.” This was a beautiful compliment to Jane, but, more deeply, it was a reminder that many do not know the ocean of mercy that God is. It seems like it “can’t be real.” And there are plenty of voices saying it is not. Today’s so-called “cancel culture” openly questions the value and even the possibility of genuine forgiveness. One result, ironically, is greater and greater moral relativism. If sin cannot be forgiven, then it had better be reevaluated as a mistake, a misunderstanding, or perhaps just an outdated taboo that was never really wrong after all. If there is no forgiveness of sins, we cannot bear to face our sins: “like a heavy burden, they are too heavy for me” (Ps. 38:4).

In the Byzantine Christian tradition, Psalm 51 is prayed daily. There is great wisdom in this. Seeing ourselves in David, we can cultivate the paradoxically bold humility and humble boldness of those who simultaneously recognize their own unworthiness and the ocean of God’s mercy, and who extend that mercy to others: “as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive” (Col. 3:13). And we can be strengthened to proclaim to others the dogma expressed in the Apostles’ Creed: “I believe in … the forgiveness of sins.”