We like to think of ourselves as kind. Compassionate. Generous.
But too often, our compassion is conditional.

It’s easy to show up for people who look like us, think like us, vote like us, worship like us. It’s comfortable to care when the story feels familiar—when we see ourselves reflected in their struggle. But the Gospel doesn’t call us to comfort. It calls us to Christ.

And Christ? He didn’t just sit with the familiar.
He touched the untouchables.
He defended the outcasts.
He healed the ones society avoided.
He saw the invisible.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
— Matthew 25:40

This is not a poetic suggestion. It is a commissioning.
We are responsible—for the stranger, the hurting, the overlooked. For the single mom barely making ends meet. For the refugee who fled violence with nothing but hope in their hands. For the teen who dresses differently, worships differently, who doesn’t quite know where they belong.

We don’t get to opt out.

“If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?”
— 1 John 3:17

Let’s be clear: this is not about guilt.
This is about grace in action.
We love because He first loved us.

And He did not wait until we had it together. He met us in our mess.
That is our model.

So let’s resist the urge to retreat into circles of sameness.
Let’s remember that the Samaritan—the one outsiders scorned—was the only one who stopped to help.
He crossed lines. Broke norms. Loved with his hands and his time and his wallet.

“Go and do likewise,” Jesus said.
— Luke 10:37

Not just for your friends.
Not just when it’s convenient.
But for the hurting. For the forgotten. For the ones no one else sees.

Because every person you pass is someone God handcrafted, someone Jesus died to save, someone the Holy Spirit longs to dwell within.

And if you can be the hands and feet of Christ for even one person today, do it.
Not because they deserve it.
But because He does.

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.

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.

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.

There’s a sacred ache that stirs in the hearts of those who’ve been told to stay silent in the name of peace. For those who have suffered abuse—spiritual, emotional, physical—and were then told by the Church that to speak up would be to “sow division,” that ache deepens. When spiritual authority is used to suppress truth, protect reputation, or shame the wounded into silence, we must pause and ask: whose peace are we preserving?

Too often, survivors are told that speaking out is gossip. That calling abuse what it is would damage the reputation of the Church. That naming their experience would make others “stumble.” But Scripture tells a different story.

Ephesians 5:11 says, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”
Not minimize them.
Not hide them for the sake of appearances.
Not silence them to protect a ministry.

Expose them.

This is not a call to vengeance. It’s a call to truth. Because the Kingdom of God is not built on secrecy—it’s built on light. And light cannot fellowship with darkness.

Calling out abuse isn’t gossip. It’s spiritual obedience.

Jesus Himself did not shy away from naming injustice. He flipped tables when worship was corrupted by greed (Matthew 21:12–13). He publicly confronted religious leaders who burdened others while protecting their own power (Matthew 23). He stood with the wounded and exposed the structures that caused them harm.

When we speak truth—especially the kind that risks rejection or pushes against institutional comfort—we’re not being disloyal to the Church. We’re being faithful to Christ.

Because silence protects the abuser.
But truth sets the captives free.

If your story makes others uncomfortable, it might be because they benefitted from your silence. Maybe your pain threatened the image they wanted to project. Maybe they saw your healing as a disruption instead of a deliverance. But friend, God never called you to protect image—He called you to walk in truth.

And that truth? It might tremble in your throat. It might crack your voice. It might cost you relationships or respectability. But it is holy. It is weighty with heaven’s presence. It echoes the voice of the One who said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to proclaim liberty to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4:18).

You were not created to carry someone else’s secrets so they can maintain control.
You were not created to be a scapegoat for another person’s shame.
You were created to bear God’s image—and to be restored to wholeness.

Let me say it plainly:
You are not divisive for naming what is true.
You are not bitter for saying, “That hurt me.”
You are not destructive for seeking justice.

You are brave.
You are rising.
You are answering the call to walk in the light.

And to the Church? May we listen. May we repent for the times we’ve asked survivors to shield us from discomfort. May we be a place where wounds are not buried but bandaged, where image is not worshiped, but integrity is, and where healing is not hindered by silence, but supported by love.

Jesus is not afraid of the truth.
And neither should we be.

For much of my life, I’ve heard the question — spoken or implied — What’s wrong with you?
Why are you so sensitive? Why can’t you let it go? Why do you keep messing up?

It’s a question that shames before it seeks to understand.
It assumes flaw, not story. Brokenness, not battle.

But there’s a better question. A more faithful one.
A question that reflects the posture of Jesus.

What happened to you?

This question doesn’t excuse harm or sidestep responsibility.
But it does create space for understanding.
It honors the truth that behavior is often a symptom of deeper wounds — that anger may mask fear, that withdrawal may be a shield, that perfectionism may be the last thread someone’s holding to stay upright.

Jesus never started with, What’s wrong with you?
He touched the leper, spoke with the Samaritan woman, wept at Lazarus’ tomb.
He saw through the mess and straight into the ache.
He knew what had happened.
And He responded with compassion, not condemnation.

Isaiah 42:3 reminds us:

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out.”

Jesus sees the bruise. He sees the wick struggling to stay lit.
And instead of scolding the fragility, He nurtures it.
He comes close. He listens. He heals.

When we adopt the question What happened to you?
—we begin to see as He sees.
We move from judgment to curiosity.
From quick labels to holy listening.
From shame to story.

And maybe, just maybe, we begin to offer to others what we ourselves most need:
The assurance that we are not broken beyond repair.
That our pain is not too much.
That we are not problems to fix, but people to love.

If you’ve been asked what’s wrong with you?
Or asked it of yourself…
May you hear another voice rising stronger:
Tell Me your story. I want to know what happened. I will not turn away.

Jesus does not flinch at the truth of our pain.
He enters in. He stays.
And from that place, healing begins.