Growing up, one of the highlights of my year was church camp. Our denomination owned a rustic campground nestled in the woods, the kind of place that felt frozen in time. At the center of it all stood a large barn-like structure we called “the Tabernacle.” Surrounded by rows of humble cabins, it was the heartbeat of camp life.
Every summer, we gathered there for a week—young people packed into cabins, worshipping under buzzing lights in the sweltering heat, playing games on the dusty field, staying up late talking about life and faith. It was hot, humid, and spiritually formative. Those weeks shaped my understanding of God, community, and what it meant to belong.
Even now, years later, I sometimes stop by the old campground. It’s a place filled with memories—some joyful, others complicated. One summer evening, I returned and found myself in the Tabernacle once again, sweating through a sermon, seated on a worn wooden pew that held years of stories and worship. That night, my former pastor—someone who had played a significant role in my spiritual upbringing—was the one preaching.
And then, quietly, a friend of mine slipped into the pew behind me. He leaned forward and asked a question that pierced the silence and cut through the summer air:
“What’s it like for you to listen to him speak?”
He didn’t have to elaborate. I knew exactly what he meant.
This was the pastor who, years earlier, had an affair. A man whose fall caused waves of pain in my family and in the wider church community. My father, a leader in the denomination at the time, had helped guide the process of accountability and restoration. It was a difficult, heartbreaking season for everyone involved. And now here this man was, preaching again—restored, respected, even elevated to a senior leadership role.
My friend’s question was honest, even protective: “Does it bother you? Knowing the pain? Seeing him back in this position?”
I turned to him and answered quietly, but with conviction:
“When I see him, when I listen to him, I see grace. God’s grace.”
The Messy Beauty of the Church
The truth is, Christianity is messy. We are not a pristine people with perfect records. We are sinners saved by grace, brought into a story of redemption that often unfolds with painful chapters. And the Church, as the Body of Christ, is tasked not only with preaching grace but living it out—especially when it’s hard.
My former pastor had dealt with his sin. He had confessed. He had submitted to discipline. He had not hidden or excused what he had done. He had repented, grieved, and allowed others to speak into his life. And, ultimately, the Church—imperfect and discerning as it is—decided to restore him.
Not because his gifts were too valuable to lose. Not because he had powerful friends. But because he was a brother in Christ who had fallen and had been willing to walk the road of repentance.
And I saw firsthand how costly that process was. My own father, the man who helped lead the discipline and restoration, bore the emotional weight of those decisions. He had no personal vendetta. Only a deep desire for healing and holiness.
So no, I wasn’t bitter when I saw that man back in the pulpit. I saw something greater.
I saw that we, as a church, had chosen redemption over resentment.
I saw that we had not let failure be the final word.
I saw that grace had won.
What Grace Requires
Grace isn’t blind. It doesn’t deny wrongdoing or minimize pain. It’s not about cheap forgiveness or superficial healing. Grace requires truth. Real repentance. Accountability. Grace demands that sin be dealt with—honestly and thoroughly.
But grace also believes that what God forgives, we should not keep holding over someone’s head.
This is the scandal of the gospel. That people who have messed up deeply can be forgiven completely. That those who fall can be lifted up. That prodigals can come home—and not as servants, but as sons and daughters.
We love the idea of restoration in theory. But when it comes close—when it touches our wounds or disrupts our sense of justice—it can feel threatening. And yet, restoration is what Jesus came to bring.
Think of Peter. He denied Christ three times. Publicly. In the moment Jesus needed him most. But what did the resurrected Jesus do? He reinstated Peter by the fire. He gave him a commission: “Feed my sheep.” He trusted him again.
Jesus didn’t discard Peter. He didn’t say, “You’ve gone too far.” He restored him—and then used him to lead the early Church.
A Church That Conquers
When I looked at that pastor in the Tabernacle that night, I didn’t see scandal. I didn’t see betrayal. I saw a man forgiven. I saw a family made whole. I saw a community that had walked through the fire and come out refined—not destroyed.
He has a good marriage now. He has children who respect him. He’s living a life of integrity. And though the past can’t be undone, the grace of God has rewritten the future.
And that, in itself, is a kind of victory.
We won.
Not because we ignored the pain. Not because we rushed to cover things up. But because we leaned into grace. We allowed the gospel to do what it’s meant to do: heal, redeem, and restore.
The Call to Reflect Christ
The Church has often been accused—sometimes rightly—of shooting its wounded. Of being too quick to judge and too slow to forgive. But if we want to reflect Christ, we must be a people who restore.
Paul writes in Galatians 6:1, “If someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted.” Restoration isn’t weakness. It’s Spirit-led strength.
Our call as believers is not just to call out sin—but to help others walk out of it and into grace. That’s what my father did. That’s what our church did. That’s what Jesus does for each of us.
Conclusion: When Grace Wins
That old Tabernacle still stands, weathered but strong. Just like the Church. Just like the people in it. Marked by time. Scarred by sin. But still here. Still standing. Because grace holds us together.
So when someone asks me how I can listen to that man preach again, I don’t hesitate.
Because I know the story. I lived through the pain. But I’ve also seen the grace.
And when grace wins, we all win.
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