Confession (n.) keeps us from becoming unconscious — a known suffering is spared from turning into an unknown one, which torments far more.
A Confession (n.) is mental hygiene: the Catholic is sent to communion to protect himself from immediate experience that might prove too much.
Confession (n.) comes before the transformation in the Mass for a reason: self-examination exposes the selfish claim in every gift so it can be consciously given up.
A Confession (n.) follows the rule of the Greek mysteries: give up what you have, and then you will receive.
A Confession (n.) throws me into the arms of humanity again, freed from the burden of moral exile; private self-knowledge only prolongs the isolation.
A Confession (n.) made with agonizing contrition earned the younger Blumhardt's reply: "Do you think God is interested in your miserable muck?" — he had noted the trick that makes drawing-room confession so attractive.
Confession (n.) relieves because a hidden, jealously guarded secret isolates a person more than anything, and owning it readmits the lost sheep to the human community; it also forms a moral bond with the confessor, a transference.
Confession (n.) is incomplete when it lists "lousy little things of no importance" while the main sins go untold — Jung sent such Catholic patients back to confess properly and earned a papal blessing.
Confession (n.) makes experience real when made to another person, in a way confessing to oneself cannot; without an outside "control," self-searching tends toward arrogance, isolation or sterile brooding, so analysis often serves as a makeshift.