The Cost of Freedom: Remembering the Fallen on Memorial Day

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Today, flags ripple in the breeze, flowers rest on gravestones, and families gather to honor those who gave everything. Memorial Day is more than a long weekend or the unofficial start of summer—it’s a sacred pause. A holy hush. A space carved out in the calendar to remember.

We remember the men and women of the U.S. military who laid down their lives so that we could live freely. Their sacrifice built a bridge over tyranny and fear. They stepped into danger so others wouldn’t have to. They bled and died on foreign soil, in jungles and deserts, in skies and on seas. And today, we honor them not with mere words, but with lives lived in gratitude.

Jesus once said, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). Their love wasn’t abstract—it was embodied, courageous, and costly.

But as followers of Christ, today we also remember another kind of soldier—those who gave their lives not just for a nation, but for the Kingdom.

Across centuries and continents, the faithful have died rather than deny the Name that saves. From Stephen, the first Christian martyr stoned in the streets of Jerusalem, to believers persecuted under Roman emperors… from martyrs of the Reformation to underground church leaders in closed countries today—the blood of the saints has been the seed of the Church.

Hebrews 11 speaks of these heroes: “Others were tortured, refusing to be released so that they might gain an even better resurrection… the world was not worthy of them” (vv. 35, 38). Their faith was their freedom, and they clung to it even unto death.

Today, as we remember fallen soldiers who secured our earthly freedoms, let us also remember the martyrs who secured for us a legacy of spiritual freedom—who handed us the Gospel through the fire of their witness.

May we not waste what they gave.
May we live with conviction that echoes their courage.
May our gratitude fuel action—lives marked by compassion, sacrifice, and deep trust in the One who conquered death.

This Memorial Day, we remember them all. And we thank God for the freedoms they entrusted to us—both the freedom to live, and the freedom to believe.

Grace and Truth: The Sacred Tension We’re Called to Hold

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We live in a world that often swings wildly between extremes—where truth becomes a weapon, or grace becomes license. But the gospel invites us into a deeper, more nuanced space: the holy tension where grace and truth meet and hold hands. It’s the very space where Jesus Himself dwelled.

“For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.”
— John 1:17

From the very beginning of His ministry, Jesus embodied both grace and truth—never compromising one for the other. He called people to repentance, yet knelt beside them in compassion. He named sin, yet covered shame. He was never soft on holiness, and never harsh in love.

But we, being human, struggle to hold both. We tend to drift.

Some of us cling to truth without grace. We become rigid, exacting, confident in our correctness but lacking kindness. We speak as if conviction alone will transform hearts, forgetting that it’s God’s kindness that leads us to repentance (Romans 2:4). Without grace, truth loses its beauty—it becomes something people fear instead of something that sets them free.

Others of us lean into grace without truth. We excuse behaviors that harm, avoid hard conversations, and mistake silence for mercy. But grace without truth becomes sentimentality. It loses its anchor. And slowly, love becomes permissiveness, unable to call us higher or heal what’s broken.

Paul wrestles with this in his letter to the Romans. In Romans 5, he proclaims the breathtaking truth: “Where sin increased, grace increased all the more” (Romans 5:20). What a glorious promise! There is no sin so deep that grace cannot cover it. God’s mercy reaches further than our failures ever could.

But Paul doesn’t stop there. He anticipates our tendency to twist grace into an excuse. And so in Romans 6, he writes:
“What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase? By no means! We are those who have died to sin; how can we live in it any longer?” (Romans 6:1–2)

Grace doesn’t deny truth—it leads us into it.

And truth doesn’t cancel grace—it reveals our desperate need for it.

This is the rhythm of redemption. Not one without the other—but both, held in tension, in love.

When we live in this sacred balance:

  • We don’t have to pretend we have it all together (grace),
  • But we also don’t remain where we are (truth).
  • We are fully known (truth) and fully loved (grace).

This is the kind of love that changes people.

Jesus did not avoid the woman at the well’s story—He named it. Yet He stayed with her, spoke to her, and revealed Himself to her (John 4). He didn’t condemn the woman caught in adultery—but He also said, “Go and sin no more” (John 8:11). He called Zacchaeus down from the tree, dined with him, and watched as grace produced truth—“I will repay what I’ve stolen” (Luke 19).

Grace leads us home.
Truth shows us the way.
Together, they form the path of transformation.

So let us be people who hold both. Who speak with honesty and humility. Who love without condition and also with clarity. Who forgive without enabling and confront without condemnation.

Because that’s the gospel. And that’s our invitation.

“Now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life.”
— Romans 6:22

Grace and truth are not opposites. They are companions in the journey of sanctification.

And in holding them together, we reflect Jesus most fully.

Designed to Rest: The Sacred Rhythm of Recovery

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In a world that glorifies hustle and applauds exhaustion, choosing rest can feel like rebellion. But from the very beginning, rest wasn’t a weakness to overcome—it was a divine gift woven into the fabric of creation.

In Genesis 2, after six days of crafting the universe, God rested. Not because He was weary, but because He was modeling something holy for us: a rhythm of work and restoration, of pouring out and being filled again.

“By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.”
— Genesis 2:2

If the Creator Himself paused, what makes us believe we’re exempt from the need to do the same?

Rest is not a luxury. It is a necessity. It is in rest that our bodies mend, our souls breathe, and our spirits are re-centered in the presence of God. Even Jesus, fully divine and fully human, frequently withdrew from the crowds—not to escape His calling, but to sustain it.

“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”
— Luke 5:16

He knew what we so easily forget: that we cannot pour from an empty cup. Our effectiveness in ministry, relationships, and even our daily tasks hinges not on how much we do, but how deeply we are rooted.

Sabbath was given to us as a delight, not a burden. It’s a sacred pause to remind us that our worth does not depend on what we produce, but on Whose we are.

“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
— Mark 2:27

Rest teaches us trust. When we pause, we declare that the world will not fall apart without us. We acknowledge God’s sovereignty and remember that we are not machines—we are beloved, embodied souls, invited into rhythms of grace.

So today, friend, if you are weary, let this be your permission slip:
Step back. Breathe deeply. Go outside. Say no. Sleep in. Journal. Laugh. Weep. Walk slowly. Let God restore you—not in the margins of your life, but in the center of it.

Because we are not meant to burn out for the sake of faith.
We are meant to abide.

And it is in the abiding—where striving ceases and grace meets us—that true recovery begins.

Be the Reflection: Living the Love You Long For

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We all carry silent prayers—
to be seen,
to be softened toward,
to be safe in someone’s presence.

We crave kindness that doesn’t have to be earned,
gentleness that holds instead of fixes,
words that heal instead of hurry.

And sometimes, the ache of not receiving what we need
tempts us to withhold it from others.
To mirror the cold instead of the light.
To build walls instead of windows.

But Jesus…
He flips the script.
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”
(Matthew 7:12).

Not as performance.
Not as people-pleasing.
But as participation in the Kingdom He’s already begun.

What if we lived that way?
Not waiting to receive,
but becoming what we hope for?

If you long to be met with gentleness—
speak gently, even to those who rush.
If you ache to be noticed—
slow down and notice someone else’s tired eyes.
If you hunger for mercy—
give it lavishly, like bread that never runs out.

Be the kindness you wish someone had given you.
Be the patience you needed when you were learning.
Be the love you prayed for in your loneliest hour.

Not everyone will respond in kind.
Some won’t see you.
Some won’t return what you give.
But the One who sees in secret
will smile—and whisper,
“You are walking like Me.”

Let the world feel a little more like heaven
because you decided not to withhold what was never meant to be hoarded.

Let your life be a reflection
of the very thing you were made for—
Love poured out.
Grace made visible.
Jesus, in the everyday.

When She Tells the Truth: A Church’s Sacred Response to Abuse

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There are moments in the life of a church when heaven holds its breath to see how we will respond.

One of those moments is when a woman courageously comes forward and says, “He abused me.”

These words are never easy. They carry the weight of fear, trauma, shame, and risk. They often come after months—or years—of wrestling, praying, doubting, and pleading with God for the right moment to speak. When she speaks, we must be ready to listen with the ears of Christ, hold space with the heart of the Father, and act with the courage of the Spirit.

The Heart of God Is for the Oppressed

Throughout Scripture, God consistently aligns Himself with the vulnerable. He is “a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble” (Psalm 9:9). Jesus rebuked those who used power to harm and drew near to those who had been cast aside. His ministry was not one of silence in the face of injustice but of truth that sets captives free.

When a woman in our church says she has been abused, she is not bringing division—she is bringing truth into the light. And the Church must be the one place where truth does not have to compete for oxygen. Our response should reflect the character of Christ: protective, clear, compassionate, and just.

What Does a Faithful Response Look Like?

  1. Believe Her, Gently
    Believing doesn’t mean presuming guilt before due process—but it does mean listening without suspicion. We honor her voice by making space for her story without minimizing, dismissing, or demanding perfect details. Jesus never required the woman at the well or the woman who touched His robe to “prove” their worthiness of compassion. He simply saw them.
  2. Ensure Her Safety
    The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to protect the one. If a woman is not safe, spiritually or physically, we must act. This includes helping her access professional trauma-informed support, ensuring she is not forced into harmful encounters, and creating distance from the alleged abuser while investigations take place. Safety is not optional—it is discipleship in action.
  3. Report to Authorities
    Romans 13 calls us to respect governing authorities. When abuse is alleged, the Church must not handle it “in house” alone. We report, cooperate, and follow the law—because justice is not worldly; it’s holy. Delaying or covering up abuse is not grace—it is grave spiritual malpractice.
  4. Hold the Accused Accountable
    If the person accused of abuse is in leadership, the bar of accountability is even higher. 1 Timothy 3 and Titus 1 are clear that leaders must be above reproach. Suspension or removal during an investigation is not a punishment—it’s stewardship of the flock.
  5. Care for the Community
    Abuse affects more than just two people—it ripples through the entire Body. We offer care not just for the survivor, but for the church family who may be confused, grieving, or afraid. Truth-telling, lament, and healing are communal.
  6. Root Ourselves in the Gospel
    The gospel is not threatened by hard truths. In fact, it was born in the tension between suffering and redemption. When we respond with humility and transparency, we bear witness to the kind of love that does not hide in the shadows but walks bravely into the light.

A Call to Be the Church Jesus Envisioned

The Church is not called to protect its image—we are called to protect its people. When we choose compassion over image management, truth over silence, and justice over self-preservation, we become a place of refuge again. A place where survivors can breathe. Where healing can begin. Where Christ is not misrepresented—but clearly seen.

If a woman comes forward in your church with words of pain and courage, remember: this is holy ground. May we remove our shoes, quiet our egos, and listen—because Jesus is very near.

Grace in the Rearview Mirror: On Long Drives and Dinner Tables

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Some days are quiet miracles.

The kind where the sky opens wide in a perfect blue, and the sunlight spills over everything like a blessing. The kind of day that invites a long drive with the windows down, no rush, just the road ahead and the steady hum of peace settling into your bones.

There’s something sacred about those drives—when the world slows down enough for your soul to catch up. No email demands. No urgent noise. Just the rhythm of the tires and the hush of God’s presence riding shotgun.

It’s in those moments that I remember—He leads us beside still waters not only in our suffering, but also in our ordinary, joy-filled days.

And then, just when your heart has settled into stillness, the day ends with the simplest of gifts: a meal with people you love. Laughter rings out. Stories are shared. Silence is welcome, too.

There’s a holiness to it all. Not flashy or loud. Just the kind of holiness that feels like exhale.

Scripture reminds us that Jesus often showed up at dinner tables. He didn’t always preach from a pulpit—sometimes, He just passed the bread and made room for the weary. Long drives and shared dinners may not seem like ministry, but they remind us that presence matters more than performance.

These are the moments that stitch our lives together.
Moments of presence.
Moments of peace.
Moments of love.

So today, I’m thanking God for the beauty of an open road, the warmth of the sun on my arm, and the gift of coming home to a table with people I love.

Even on the simplest days, He meets us.

Before We Point the Finger: A Call to Holy Self-Awareness

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There’s something deeply human about the urge to judge others. We do it without thinking—when someone cuts us off in traffic, when a coworker drops the ball, when a friend makes a choice we don’t understand. Judgment often feels justified. It makes us feel morally safe, even superior. But underneath it, something else may be going on.

Scripture offers a sobering lens:
“You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.”
—Romans 2:1 (NIV)

Paul isn’t mincing words here. He’s not just saying “be nice” or “don’t be critical”—he’s identifying the heart behind our judgment. He’s telling us that what we judge in others often reveals what we have not yet faced in ourselves.

The Mirror of Judgment

Judgment acts like a mirror. When we quickly react to someone else’s flaws, attitudes, or behaviors, it often reflects something unresolved within us. Mental health therapists call this projection—a defense mechanism where we displace uncomfortable feelings or traits onto someone else. But long before psychology gave it a name, Scripture named it as a spiritual danger.

Jesus also addresses this in Matthew 7:3-5:
“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?… First take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

It’s a humbling truth: We often recognize something in someone else because it’s already familiar to us. Maybe not in the exact same form, but in essence—fear, pride, resentment, insecurity, arrogance, control. Our reaction to others may say less about their character and more about the places in us that still need healing.

The Gift of Self-Awareness

This is where holy self-awareness comes in. Self-awareness isn’t self-condemnation. It’s a sacred pause. A willingness to ask, “Lord, is this about them—or is this about me?” It’s an invitation to let the Holy Spirit examine our motives, our hearts, our wounds—and bring them gently into the light.

David prayed this way in Psalm 139:
“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
—Psalm 139:23–24

When we begin with self-reflection rather than self-righteousness, our posture changes. We become learners, not accusers. We become open to transformation, not just eager to correct.

And in that place of humility, something beautiful happens:
We start to grow in grace.

We begin to recognize how deeply we need God’s mercy—how often we’ve been rescued from our own stuck places. That awareness doesn’t shame us. It softens us. It makes us gentler with others, slower to speak, quicker to listen, more inclined to extend the same patience and understanding we’ve received.

From Judgment to Compassion

Judging others creates distance—between people, and between us and God. But compassion bridges that gap. When we see someone acting out of fear, we remember the times we’ve done the same. When we witness pride, we recall our own need for approval. When we encounter control, we remember our own anxiety about surrender.

This doesn’t mean we abandon discernment. Healthy boundaries and wise evaluations are part of spiritual maturity. But there’s a difference between discernment and condemnation. Discernment seeks truth in love. Condemnation protects the ego and avoids the mirror.

When we walk closely with Jesus, He doesn’t give us a gavel—He gives us a towel and basin (John 13:5). He calls us not to sit in judgment, but to kneel in love.

A Gentle Invitation

So today, if you catch yourself criticizing, resenting, or bristling at someone else, pause. Breathe. Ask the Spirit:

  • What might this be revealing about me?
  • Where do I need grace right now?
  • What in me needs healing, not hiding?

Let that moment of self-awareness become a doorway—not into shame, but into freedom. Because when we stop projecting and start reflecting, we begin to live from a place of integrity. A place where God can shape us, gently and truly, from the inside out.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s when we become the kind of people who don’t just talk about grace…
We live it.

Every Part Matters: Living as the Body of Christ

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I haven’t stopped thinking about Pastor Thomas’ sermon this Sunday—how he opened up 1 Corinthians 12 and reminded us that every person in the Church has a role, and that every part of the body is needed. His words are still echoing in my heart, stirring both comfort and conviction.

Sometimes, in the quiet corners of church life—or even in our own inner world—we wonder if what we bring really matters. We see the preachers, the musicians, the leaders on the platform, and we assume those are the vital parts. But Paul’s words in this chapter disrupt that thinking:

“Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.”
— 1 Corinthians 12:27

Not some of you. Not just the outgoing ones, the educated ones, the long-time members, or the ones with easily recognizable gifts. Each one.

God has knit together the Church like a living, breathing organism—each member intentionally placed, each part with a purpose, each person indispensable. And He doesn’t just tolerate our differences. He designed them.

What If I Don’t Feel Like I Belong?

It’s easy to feel like a foot in a room full of hands—useful, maybe, but not celebrated. Or like an ear in a gathering of eyes—necessary, but not central. But Scripture is clear:

“The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you!’” (v.21)
Comparison has no place in the body of Christ. Nor does shame.

Our belonging isn’t rooted in how well we perform. It’s not something we earn. It’s something we inherit as part of God’s family. When you said yes to Jesus, you were given a place. Not a temporary seat at the table—but a vital part in the living body of Christ.

Seeing Others Through This Lens

This truth not only shapes how we see ourselves—it radically changes how we view others. If every person has a role, then we are called to honor every part—not just the ones that feel familiar or impressive to us.

  • The person who shows up early to set out chairs or sweep the floor is just as vital as the one who preaches the sermon.
  • The quiet woman who prays faithfully in her living room is just as necessary as the worship leader on stage.
  • The child with a disability, the single father barely making it, the older member who forgets names but never misses a Sunday—all carry the image of God and are indispensable in the body.

Pastor Thomas reminded us that when one part suffers, the whole body suffers. And when one part is honored, the whole body rejoices (v.26). This is the kind of interdependence we were made for. It’s countercultural. It’s holy.

Letting Go of the Lies

This passage also confronts the subtle lies that whisper in the corners of our hearts:

  • You don’t matter here.
  • Someone else could do this better.
  • You’re too broken to be useful.
  • You’ve missed your chance.

But none of that holds up in the light of 1 Corinthians 12.
God doesn’t measure worth the way the world does. His power is made perfect in weakness. He uses what is unseen to accomplish what is eternal. He delights in the very parts others might overlook.

You are not too much. You are not too little. You are exactly who God designed, in exactly the time and place He appointed, to play a role no one else can.

A Church Where Everyone Is Needed

Imagine a church where this isn’t just theology—it’s culture.
A church where we practice mutual honor.
A church where we call out gifts in one another—not just the loud ones, but the ones that bloom slowly, quietly, in the background.
A church where people know they are needed not because we’re short on volunteers, but because God Himself has woven them into the fabric of the body.

When we live this way, the Church becomes not just an organization or a service—it becomes a living witness of God’s love and creativity.

So Today…

If you’re wondering whether your part matters—it does.
If you’re tempted to believe you’re not needed—you are.
If you feel unseen—God sees you, and the body needs what you bring.

Let’s be a people who remind one another of this truth. Let’s build a community where no part is discarded, no gift is wasted, and no one is left on the sidelines. We weren’t meant to do this alone.

We were made for each other.

Kindness Isn’t Always Nice

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In a culture that prizes politeness, smiles, and keeping the peace, it can be easy to confuse niceness with kindness. The two may look similar from the outside, but at their core, they are very different—and as followers of Christ, we are called to something deeper than surface-level pleasantness.

Niceness often seeks approval.
Kindness seeks alignment with love.

Niceness avoids discomfort.
Kindness is willing to enter discomfort for the sake of truth, healing, and grace.

Nice people don’t rock the boat.
Kind people sometimes flip the boat over if injustice is drowning someone beneath it.

The Fruit We’re Called to Bear

Galatians 5:22–23 lists kindness—not niceness—as a fruit of the Spirit. That’s not an accident. Kindness, in the biblical sense, is active, Spirit-empowered love. It is rooted in compassion and often requires courage. It means showing up with integrity, even when it’s awkward or inconvenient.

Kindness is what moved the Good Samaritan to stop and care for a man beaten and left for dead. It cost him time, resources, and comfort—but he was moved by compassion (Luke 10:25–37). Kindness requires action. It doesn’t simply feel sorry. It does something.

Niceness might have walked by and whispered a prayer.
Kindness crossed the road and bound up wounds.

Niceness Can Be a Mask

Many of us, especially those raised in environments where “good Christian girls” or “strong Christian men” were expected to always smile, always submit, always agree, learned to value niceness above truth. We learned to shrink our voice, sidestep tension, or smooth things over to keep others comfortable.

But Jesus never asked us to be agreeable at the cost of truth.

He challenged the Pharisees. He told the rich young ruler to give up everything. He asked hard things of His disciples. He didn’t perform niceness to be accepted—He embodied truth in love. And love sometimes sounds like:
“No more.”
“That hurt me.”
“I won’t enable this behavior.”
“I’m stepping away.”
Or simply: “I disagree.”

Kindness in Practice

Kindness doesn’t mean being a doormat. It doesn’t mean ignoring red flags, tolerating abuse, or abandoning boundaries. In fact, kindness is what helps us set boundaries and hold them with grace.

Kindness says:

  • “I respect you enough to be honest.”
  • “I love you enough to say what’s hard.”
  • “I see your dignity, and I will not participate in harm.”
  • “I trust the Holy Spirit to work in your heart, even if I step away.”

Whether you are leading a ministry, parenting a child, setting boundaries with a toxic family member, or sitting beside a friend in pain—kindness means showing up with truth, humility, and love.

It means speaking the hard word gently.
It means holding someone accountable without shaming them.
It means being slow to anger, but not passive in the face of harm.

The Church Needs Kindness More Than Niceness

There’s a particular danger when the church confuses niceness with Christlikeness. We silence victims to “keep the peace.” We avoid conflict in the name of unity. We hide broken systems behind friendly smiles. But this is not the gospel.

The gospel doesn’t offer shallow peace. It offers shalom—wholeness, justice, healing. That kind of peace comes through truth, not around it.

The church should be the safest place for people to be seen, known, and told the truth in love—not a place where people are placated or dismissed with pleasantries. That kind of “niceness” doesn’t heal. It hurts.

Jesus didn’t call us to be pleasant. He called us to be peacemakers. And peacemakers—real ones—aren’t afraid to name what’s broken before they begin to mend it.

When You’re Tired of Being Nice

If you’ve grown weary of performing niceness… if you’re learning to use your voice after years of silence… if you’ve confused going along with going the extra mile—take heart.

It is not unchristian to say no.
It is not unloving to speak truth.
It is not sinful to walk away from people or patterns that damage your soul.

Kindness may look like grace. It may look like truth. Often, it looks like both.
Sometimes kindness is a warm meal.
Sometimes it’s a hard conversation.
Sometimes it’s a boundary.
Sometimes it’s walking with someone through their valley—not because it’s convenient, but because love compels you.

Kindness is not always nice.
But it is always loving.

A Closing Prayer

Jesus, You are the perfect embodiment of kindness—full of grace and truth.
Teach us to love like You.
Give us wisdom to know when to speak, and when to be still.
Give us courage to be kind even when it costs us.
Help us shed the need to be nice in order to be faithful.
Let Your Spirit grow kindness in us—strong, rooted, and real.
Amen.

Not Cheap: The Sacred Journey of Forgiveness After Abuse

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In Christian spaces, we speak often—and rightly—of forgiveness. It’s the heartbeat of our faith. A Savior who forgives us, who bore the weight of sin on a cross so we might walk in freedom and grace.

But somewhere along the way, this holy truth has been distorted—flattened into something transactional. Survivors of abuse are too often met with pressure to forgive and forget, to move on, to release and reconcile. And when they can’t—or won’t—just yet, they’re met with spiritual side-eyes or silence.

Let’s be clear: cheap forgiveness is not the way of Jesus.

Cheap forgiveness is what Dietrich Bonhoeffer might call “grace without discipleship, grace without the cross.” It demands something deep and sacred be handed over quickly, without lament, without justice, without truth-telling. It’s forgiveness stripped of its context—of its cost.

And for those who’ve been abused, especially by someone they trusted, forgiveness cannot be forced. It is not owed to anyone. It is not a litmus test for spiritual maturity. It is not something that can be commanded by outsiders looking in.

Forgiveness is a journey. A sacred one. And God is patient with the process.

In Scripture, we see over and over how God makes space for grief and anger. The psalms are filled with cries for justice. Lamentations is literally a book of sorrow. Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of a friend, overturned tables at injustice, and endured betrayal with a heart fully aware of its sting.

If Jesus was not quick to rush the pain, why should we be?

Survivors carry wounds that run deep—into the nervous system, the memory, the soul. Healing takes time. Forgiveness, when it comes, must be real and freely given, not demanded. Not used as a way to silence the truth. Not used as a shortcut to avoid discomfort in a family or a church pew.

True forgiveness is not passive. It is not denial. It is not minimizing harm.
True forgiveness can coexist with boundaries.
It can mean I choose to release vengeance to God, while still saying I will not allow this person access to my life or spirit again.
It can mean I am not ready, and that’s okay.
It can mean I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, and God is still with me.

Because forgiveness is not the first step.
Safety is.
Truth is.
Grief is.
And God honors those.

So if you are walking this road as a survivor, know this: you do not owe cheap forgiveness to anyone.
Your story matters. Your voice matters. Your timing matters.
And if one day, forgiveness becomes part of your healing, let it be because you chose it, not because someone demanded it.

Jesus is not in a hurry with your heart. He knows the cost of wounds, and He walks beside you—not ahead of you, pulling. But beside you, steady and kind.

Forgiveness is sacred ground.
Take off your shoes. Take your time.
Jesus isn’t going anywhere.