Some sins are more comfortable than others. (More comfortable to confess, at least.) William Carlos Williams’ poem, “This Is Just to Say,” is a quintessentially endearing confession: I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold It’s not that hard to confess eating the plums. We sheepishly shrug our shoulders, offer a hug or a kiss, buy a few more plums for tomorrow, and move on. But it’s harder to confess the sins on my heart this week. Sins that are not only my own, but make others culpable too. Sins rooted in arrogance and self-centredness (okay, all sins are rooted there), sins that categorically look down on other people simply because they are not like me. I need to confess these sins because I don’t entirely know what to do with them. I need to confess these sins because they are almost ever-present in my life. I need to confess these sins because ev...