I walked through the doors today with trembling hands.
It was a funeral—one of those quiet, holy spaces where time slows and memories feel louder than words. I hadn’t been back to Flint First Wesleyan in years. Not because they hurt me. Quite the opposite, actually. They had loved me when I could barely lift my head. They had held me when I was coming apart. But shame has a funny way of building invisible walls, doesn’t it? Even when grace is on the other side of the door.
But as soon as I walked in, you know what I found?
Love. Again.
Not love with conditions or disclaimers. Not, “Oh, you’re back? Let’s talk about what you did.” No side-eyes. No pity stares. Just joy. Joy for who I’ve become. Gratitude for what I once shared—even in the middle of my mess. Encouragement for the future.
And it broke me in the best way.
Because it reminded me—again—that this is what the Church is supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we treat people in process. Especially when they’ve been public. Especially when they’ve disappointed us. Especially when we’ve come to expect more from them than maybe they were ever able to give.
Michael Tait, frontman of the Newsboys, recently opened up about his struggles—his humanity, really. And while some people received it with grace, others… well, others wanted more blood. More sorrow. More spectacle. Because apparently, it’s not enough to confess—we also have to perform our pain to a watching world. And even then, it’s never quite enough.
Radio stations are quietly pulling his music. Organizations are distancing themselves to avoid “alignment.” There’s an image to protect, a brand to preserve. So instead of walking with someone through their journey, we cut ties. We shut it down. We play it safe.
But here’s the thing: the Church isn’t supposed to be a PR firm. We’re not here to manage optics—we’re here to offer hope.
To say, “Hey, you’re still welcome at the table, even if you’re bleeding.”
I know this tension too well. I’ve lived it. I’ve made mistakes that cost me. I’ve battled with questions and identity and addiction and shame. And when I couldn’t see a future for myself, Flint First did. When others saw headlines, they saw me. Not a project to fix or a cautionary tale to avoid—but a brother worth staying for.
It wasn’t easy for them. It cost them, honestly. But they never flinched.
And if a small, inner-city church could carry that kind of weight… maybe the bigger Church—the one with the lights and platforms and influence—could learn to do the same? Even if it doesn’t sell well. Even if it gets messy. Even if it means walking with someone longer than feels comfortable.
Think about it: if we defined the heroes of Scripture by their worst years, what would we lose?
We’d delete Moses for murder.
We’d mute David for adultery.
We’d unfollow Peter for denying Jesus three times.
We’d cancel Paul for his years of persecuting Christians.
And yet, their stories are the ones we preach. Their brokenness is what makes the Gospel good.
Why then, when the journey is still unfolding, are we so quick to label someone unredeemable?
I don’t know where this lands for you today. Maybe you’re the one who feels like you’re being written off. Or maybe you’ve caught yourself pulling away from someone because it felt safer. I get it. It’s easier to move on than to stay near the pain.
But grace isn’t safe. It’s costly.
And still—it’s the only way we’re made whole.
So here’s my challenge, for myself and maybe for you too: What if we stopped rushing to conclusions and started making space for transformation? What if we stopped cutting people out and started walking with them in?
What if the Church became the safest place not to have it all together?
If that kind of grace is possible at a small church in Flint, maybe it can ripple out wider than we think. Maybe it can start with me.
And maybe… just maybe… it can start with you, too.
Even if it costs us.
Especially if it costs us.
Because that’s when love really looks like Jesus.