Step Five: God Already Knows

Because, for this alcoholic, Step Five isn’t about informing God.

That realization didn’t come to me in a meeting or a workbook. It came to me at Catholic Mass, of all places — during one of those call-and-response moments I used to say on autopilot, when I was a child. A few weeks ago, the response was: “You have searched me, and you know me, Lord.”

I said it. I said it again, I said it again, and one more time.
Then I paused.
Then I thought, Well… that’s inconvenient, but so very true! (I did text it to a few friends, too)

And because it’s true — and I believe it is — then God already knows what I’ve done. Not just the highlight reel or the sanitized version, but the whole thing. No omissions. No footnotes. No explanations about why I was under a lot of stress, or drunk, or mad at so and so at the time.

Then I thought of my program and if God already knows, why does Step Five ask me to admit “to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs”?

Because, for me, Step Five isn’t about giving God new information. It’s about making sure I have the info.

God knows. I’m the one who forgets, minimizes, edits, reframes, or flat-out avoids.

Step Five forces me to stop negotiating with reality. It’s not about shame — it’s about ownership. Saying out loud, with another human being present, “Yes. This is mine. That is part of me.”

Step five isn’t meant to make me feel terrible; it’s meant to hold me accountable.

Early in my sobriety, I returned to the Catholic Church, and I found myself thinking: It’s time for my first confession in forty years. That sentence alone could’ve had me running in the other direction.

Confession and Step Five look similar from a distance. Both involve honesty. Both involve another person. Both involve admitting things I’d rather keep in my head. But they are not the same conversation — and I don’t think they’re meant to be.

In Step Five, the other person isn’t standing in for God. They’re standing with me. The point is to be seen as human, by a human, without collapsing or defending myself. For me, my sponsor, whose Higher Power isn’t even the same God as mine, was the man for this role. 

Confession is different. In the sacrament, the priest isn’t just another person — he’s acting in a specific role, within a specific structure, offering absolution that doesn’t depend on his opinion of me or my storytelling skills.

That’s why, for me, during confession, my priest can’t replace the “Other Person” in Step Five.

But — and this matters — a priest can absolutely be a Fifth Step listener outside the sacrament. In that setting, he’s not absolving. He’s witnessing. He’s listening. He’s helping me stay honest without the conversation becoming transactional. 

Two different conversations. Two different purposes. Both necessary. 

When I finally went to confession, I wasn’t telling the priest anything God didn’t already know. What I was doing was removing my last exit ramp. I was saying the truth without qualifiers.

After I finished, the priest gave me my penance and then added, very calmly, that part of my penance was to say my assigned prayers on my knees. I believe that suggestion landed exactly where it was supposed to.

It didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like a diagnosis. God knew and made it so the priest could see that while my drinking had been knocked flat, my ego was still doing light stretching. Kneeling put that last bit of ego in check! At least for now.

Doing that penance wasn’t for God. God didn’t need convincing. It was for me — because self-forgiveness requires participation.

Then the priest said something else that surprised me. He told me that the closer I grow in my faith, the more aware I’ll likely become of my sins and defects.

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Well, I’m an alcoholic. I’ve done a Fourth Step. I’ve already got about 144 defects if you want to see the list.”

He smiled, but He did not ask for the list. That signaled to me that what I am guilty of isn’t as important as wanting to repent. (drifting into step six)

What he said next stuck with me. He explained that growth doesn’t erase defects — it increases awareness. The light gets brighter. The details sharpen. What once blended into the background becomes visible.

At first, that sounded difficult, because I thought progress was supposed to mean less wrong with me, not a higher-resolution image of it. But that hasn’t been my experience in sobriety either.

Early recovery gave me fewer fires to put out. Ongoing recovery gives me better eyesight to see the defects.

Step Five didn’t make me perfect, and confession didn’t make me spotless. What they gave me was alignment. 

What I say matches what I know. What I know matches how I live. And when it doesn’t, I notice faster — and course-correct sooner. Shame thrives in the dark, but accountability thrives in the light.

God already knew everything on my list. The difference is that now, I do too.

And once I stopped pretending otherwise — once I stood in the truth with another human being, and then again on my knees — I found something I didn’t expect.

Not judgment. Not punishment. But relief.

Because being fully known — by God, by another person, and finally by myself — turns out not to be the threat I feared.

It’s the beginning of freedom.