Sometimes Justice Trickles In

Last Sunday, I preached about the difference between performative faith and real, justice-driven action. I spoke with conviction—boldly, maybe even a little too boldly—about the need for our actions to go beyond words and into the kind of love that changes systems, speaks truth to power, and uplifts the most vulnerable among us.

And I still believe that.

But this week, something happened that softened the edges of that message.

I got a phone call from an old friend. We haven’t talked in a while. He’s been struggling with addiction. After three hard-fought months in a live-in recovery program, he tried to return to his old life—living alone, working alone, isolating himself in hopes that distance would keep him safe.

But the relapse came anyway.

He didn’t try to hide it. He told me plainly, with a voice full of weariness, that he slipped. That he’s lonely. He feels like he has no community. Part of him believes he doesn’t deserve one. And part of him thinks he doesn’t need one.

Except, as he said with painful honesty, “I came to this awful realization this week... I do. We all do.”

We all need connection.

That conversation has been sitting heavy with me all week. Because while I will always stand by the call to seek justice and love mercy and walk humbly, I’m beginning to see more clearly that justice doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it shows up gently—like a hand on a shoulder or a name remembered. Sometimes it trickles in through the cracks in someone’s life when they thought they were too far gone to be reached.

So this week, I want to say this: our actions don’t always have to be bold to matter. Our justice doesn’t always have to roll like thunder. Sometimes a trickle is enough. A trickle can still bring life.

And here’s where my hope lives right now.

I hope that this community—our community—can be a place of welcome not just for those who walk through our doors with confidence and clarity, but also for those who show up unsure and weary. I hope that when someone walks in feeling like they don’t deserve love, they’ll be met with grace. I hope that when someone says, “I don’t have a community,” they’ll find one here.

Honestly, I hope that for my friend. And I hope that for the hundreds of others like him—the ones living in quiet isolation, in pain they rarely speak out loud. The ones who’ve been burned by churches or feel too ashamed to walk back into one. The ones who just need someone to notice they’re still here.

What if justice looked like being the kind of church that leaves no one outside?

What if, instead of speaking for people on the margins, we just started speaking to them? Not with pity or a plan, but with curiosity and care. With no agenda other than love.

Yes—that is justice.

It’s justice when someone says, “I need help,” and no one turns away.
It’s justice when a community makes space for healing without rushing it.
It’s justice when we practice the kind of hospitality that says, You’re not a project. You’re a person. And you belong here.

We are an amazing community of faith. I’ve seen how you welcome people. I’ve watched you reach out, sit beside strangers, ask questions, share food, and laugh with people you just met. It matters more than you know.

So maybe this is our next call—not to be louder, but to be softer. Not to be showier, but to be steadier. To be a community for those without a community.

That’s the kind of justice I want to be part of. The kind that heals without fanfare. The kind that shows up with casseroles and coffee and conversations on front steps. The kind that isn’t flashy, but is absolutely sacred.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s the kind of justice Jesus practiced too.