This is the third in a series meant to let the Christian tradition speak for itself, the way it has carried Christians through long winters, confusion, and joy for centuries.
Every act of absolution and mercy in the liturgy is doing (at minimum) three things at once:
it declares what Christ has done,
places that work on specific sinners,
and teaches the Church how to live by mercy.
Absolution isn’t a response to confession. It’s the reason confession exists at all.
Confession names the truth. Absolution speaks the verdict that follows. And that verdict doesn’t rise out of the human heart; it comes down from Christ himself.
God doesn’t ask sinners to search inward for peace. He puts peace where it can be found: in words that can be heard, trusted, and held onto when the conscience shakes.
Scripture is unambiguous about this. After his resurrection, Jesus doesn’t tell his disciples to remind sinners of forgiveness. He breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them” (John 20:22–23). This isn’t encouragement. It’s commission. Forgiveness is no longer locked in heaven. It’s placed in the Church’s mouth.
This is why absolution is spoken aloud. Because forgiveness isn’t discovered by reflection but received by hearing. God doesn’t ask sinners to search inward for peace. He puts peace where it can be found: in words that can be heard, trusted, and held onto when the conscience shakes.
The Church learned this early. In the ancient world, absolution was never treated as a vague reassurance. It was spoken, concrete, and specific. St. John Chrysostom warned his hearers not to measure forgiveness by feeling but by promise. Don’t look at your wounds, he would say, look at the Physician. The healing doesn’t depend on how deeply the patient feels relief, but on whether the cure has been applied.
The words themselves matter. The Greek verb aphíēmi means to release, to send away, to let go. When absolution is spoken, sin isn’t managed or negotiated. It’s dismissed. What was bound is loosed. What accused is silenced. What clung is removed.
Mercy isn’t God lowering his standards. It’s God keeping his promise. Justice isn’t suspended; it’s fulfilled. Christ has borne the sin.
This is why Martin Luther insisted that absolution be kept at the center of the Church’s life. He knew how relentless the accusing conscience could be. He also knew that a sinner cannot forgive himself into peace. Forgiveness must come from outside. The voice of the absolution is the voice of God himself. Not because of the pastor’s worthiness, but because Christ has attached his promise to the words.
Here, the Church learns something vital about mercy. Mercy isn’t God lowering his standards. It’s God keeping his promise. Justice isn’t suspended; it’s fulfilled. Christ has borne the sin. The absolution announces what the cross has already accomplished.
And yet, the liturgy doesn’t move directly from absolution into silence. It teaches the forgiven how to pray.
“Lord, have mercy.”
This prayer – the Kyrie – isn’t spoken by the unforgiven hoping to break through. It’s prayed by the forgiven who still live in a broken world. This cry rises again and again throughout Scripture. Blind men cry it by the roadside (Mark 10:47). Lepers cry it from a distance (Luke 17:13). The Canaanite woman cries it on behalf of her daughter (Matt. 15:22). They cry not because they doubt Christ’s mercy, but because they trust it.
The Church places this prayer immediately after absolution to teach the baptized how to live between forgiveness and resurrection. We are forgiven, but not yet finished. Freed from sin’s guilt, we still carry weakness, sickness, sorrow, and need. Mercy isn’t a one-time event; it’s the air the Christian breathes.
An old bishop of Milan, Ambrose, once observed that the Church learns to pray before she learns to sing. The Kyrie comes first. It’s the simplest prayer the Church knows, and the most enduring. Three words. Endless need. Certain hope.
And heaven answers.
After mercy is cried for, the Church is given a song not her own. “Glory to God in the highest” doesn’t rise out of human emotion. It descends from the mouths of angels (Luke 2:14). The Gloria isn’t the Church congratulating God. It’s heaven’s verdict placed on forgiven sinners: peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Historically, the Church has always understood this movement. Mercy leads to praise. Not the other way around. The Gloria doesn’t replace the Kyrie; it completes it. The forgiven don’t remain silent. They are taught how to rejoice without forgetting the mercy that made rejoicing possible.
This ordering matters. Praise without mercy becomes performance. Mercy without praise forgets the joy of release. The liturgy holds the two together. Absolution steadies the conscience. Mercy trains the heart. Praise lifts the eyes.
And all of this prepares the Church to listen.
The absolved can hear without fear. The mercied can receive without defense. The forgiven are finally free to be addressed by God’s Word without needing to protect themselves.
This is why absolution and mercy endure at the heart of the Divine Service. They don’t exist to soften sin or lower expectations. They exist to keep Christ’s promise where sinners can find it. Spoken. Certain. Repeated. Trusted.
Absolution isn’t God changing his mind about you. It’s God keeping his word for you.
And mercy isn’t weakness. It’s the strength of Christ carried into the mouths of those who still need him, which is to say, all of us.
