(Sin) The One Word Progressive Theology Forgot—And Why It Matters

Confession, Not Recognition: The Missing Key in Progressive Theology

In a previous post, I wrote about what I see as the three fatal flaws in Progressive Christianity. This post argues that by framing all human suffering as the result of external forces, Progressive Christianity neglects the transformative power of personal confession—a core component of the Gospel.

Recently I’ve been reading the book When We Walk By: Forgotten Humanity, Broken Systems, and The Role We Can Play in Ending Homelessness in America. While certainly a compelling and important read, it is the underlying focus or foundation of the authors that I find disagreement with. This speaks to my point about Progressive Christianity being unable to account for sin, especially as the philosophical points underpinning the authors’ ideology have taken root in Progressive Christianity. In a previous post, I wrote about what I see as the three fatal flaws in Progressive Christianity. In this post, I seek to extrapolate more on the second of those fatal flaws: Progressive Christianity can’t account for sin and evil (every wrong is reduced to systemic injustice or power imbalance).

The Problem: Victimhood Without Confession

In the chapter “Stigma, Stereotypes, and Shame,” this line of thinking becomes evident. Sharing a story about a person who became homeless, the authors say, “It is clear there was nothing Ray personally did to deserve homelessness. He became homeless due to very unfortunate circumstances involving a health crisis, job loss, self-imposed social isolation, and refusing to ask for help” (p. 38). The authors then talk about how the resulting feelings of a loss of self-worth snowball and “lead to a multitude of negative outcomes” (p. 40). Their proposed counter the negative stigma and stereotypes is “using person-first language (e.g., ‘people experiencing homelessness,’ not ‘the homeless’)” (p. 47).

This reminds me of similar language shifts in other progressive spaces. For instance, I was surprised to learn that “justice-involved individual” is now a stand-in for convicted felon. Again, to some extent, I get what they are saying. We shouldn’t define people by their worst days—certainly I wouldn’t want to be defined as a failed-job-interviewer (a temptation I know firsthand—not just to name external causes, but to dwell in them, as I’ll share later). But titles like “justice-involved individual” risk removing responsibility, implying that their predicament is something that simply befell them.

While compassionate language matters, it risks fostering a worldview where individuals are seen only as products of circumstance—removing the possibility of personal accountability and, ultimately, transformation.

The Theological Gap

Andrew Root captures this mindset: “Authenticity demands, at some level, recognition. You need others, even the systems and structures of society, to recognize your unique ways of being yourself” (Root, p. 72). This is, in essence, the core argument made by the authors of When We Walk By.

For instance, while Ray (the example from the book) is not responsible for his health-crisis or job loss, the authors detail how multiple times Ray turned down help and downplayed the severity of his challenges. Yes, there is some shame and stigma in being sick and out of work, but the authors' core argument is that when we express care and concern for someone, that will make the difference. Yet, clearly, at least in this instance, people expressed interest for Ray, and he turned it down. This suggests that, alongside external care, an inner readiness—a willingness to acknowledge need—also plays a crucial role in transformation.

I want to be clear—I am not saying that persons experiencing homelessness are less than or undeserving of love and care. All humans are made in the image of God and loved by God. My point is the subtle but significant difference: these authors suggest that people change when they are noticed and honored as their unique selves. This contrasts with Root’s argument, especially in The Church in an Age of Secular Mysticism, where true transformation comes by way of confession.

When I think about the stories in the book, what seemed to keep many on the streets was an inability (or unwillingness) to confess their own brokenness—to admit they were lost and in need of redemption. What if Ray had truly shared with a friend or relative, "I'm really in a tough spot, I don't know what to do, I'm at the end of this rope;" in other words, confession.

Root says it this way: “The faithful know that… renewal comes not from our own effort but as a gift bound to our confession of bankruptcy” (Evangelism in the Age of Despair, p. 50). This confession isn’t about self-condemnation—it’s about opening space for grace to do what striving never can.

Personal Reflection: Confession as the Turning Point

Drawing a parallel from my own life—some time ago, I was in a tough spot, deep in a job search that felt endless, failing repeatedly to get past first interviews. I kept striving, thinking more effort would fix it. But what began my renewal wasn’t landing a job—it was confessing to a friend over lunch how lost and broken I truly was.

Sure, there were some structural issues at play. Non-profit jobs are hard to come by. My resume is full of church-specific jobs, not necessarily aligning with non-profit roles. People didn't seem to be going out of their way to hire white guys. But what I recognized eventually was that these ideas were leading to a shame and bitterness within myself. I was the victim. It was their fault. Sure, all that grumbling made me feel "better" for a time, but I still didn't have a new job. Surely, I had some part to play in all of it.

Andrew Root says it this way: “If all moral shortcomings are bound to sickness, as opposed to sin, then no one can judge” (p. 160). If we are merely victims—of biology, of society—then we are no longer responsible for our actions or attitudes. Change becomes something others must do for us, not something we step into through confession.

Sin as "Attempted Solutions" (Family Systems Theory)

Root’s theological insight aligns with what Family Systems Theory (FST) teaches us on a practical level: unresolved inner patterns often perpetuate our struggles. Pastor and FST expert Steve Cuss often describes how humans often recognize real problems, but our "attempted solutions" make things worse. Cuss talks about how FST experts will teach people how to deal with their attempted solutions rather than their problems because attempted solutions are things they can actually control.

For example, in my job hunt, the problem was my failure to land a job. But my attempted solution? Feel bad about myself, be angry, get more frustrated—all great emotions when preparing for another interview!

Here, the language of personal sin matters. FST teaches us to "control what we can control." If we’re only victims of injustice, we’re dependent on others to fix us. But if we recognize how our attempted solutions contribute to our condition, we reclaim agency—not through striving, but through confession. In Christian terms, this isn’t self-reliance—it’s surrendering control and acknowledging our need for God’s intervention.

The Gospel’s Response: Confession, Not Just Compassion

Much of modern thinking frames us primarily as powerless victims. The Gospel tells us something similar—but with a twist. Society says transformation comes through recognition and dismantling systemic injustice. The Gospel says transformation comes through confession of our brokenness, the death of self, and new life in Christ.

When brokenness is only seen as a product of injustice, we’re left on a never-ending quest to fix the world—a task that becomes overwhelming once we grasp how deep that brokenness runs.

Systemic injustice is real, and addressing it is part of faithful witness. But without addressing the sin within, even the most just society cannot heal the human soul. I’m not advocating ignoring injustice. Like Root suggests in his book Evangelism in an Age of Despair, I've begun to think that real justice work is joining people in their pain—weeping with those who weep, not fixing but being present.

Conclusion: The Path to True Transformation

The difference I’m drawing is small but crucial. If everyone is a victim, change depends on us fixing everything. But if we confess that we cannot fix ourselves or the world—we open the door to grace.

We aren’t just victims of shame. We are participants in sin. And confession is not oppression—it’s liberation.

• Shame is realizing we can’t save ourselves.

• Sin is all the ways we try—and fail—to fix that.

• Confession is where healing begins.

The Gospel doesn’t just tell us we’re loved as we are—it calls us to become more through surrender. Jesus didn’t come merely to affirm us; He came to save us.

If Christianity becomes only therapy and social justice, we leave people validated but stuck. But when we lead people to confession and the cross, we lead them to where shame dies and new life begins.