When the Apology Never Comes
The only good things I see on social media these days are AI-generated cat videos.
Can I get an amen?
If I just limited my time on those Meta platforms to watching these hilariously ridiculous videos, my time would be much better spent. I wouldn’t close the apps completely annoyed and questioning what is up, what is down, and where God is in all of this.
Unfortunately, I get sucked in way too often. And I see things I can’t unsee that I have to sit with for far too long to process.
Sometimes they’re reposts, sometimes they’re awkward pictures, and sometimes they’re testimonies from those in pastoral leadership who have caused harm and destroyed tables without acknowledgment or apology.
Those are the ones that stop me in my tracks.
I don’t really know what to do with them. Part of me is hurt that they still haven’t apologized or attempted repair, part of me is angry they’re publicly testifying without confession or remorse, and part of me is struggling with the knowledge that God’s grace and restoration are accessible to everyone.
Maybe you’ve been here too. Maybe you’re watching the people who hurt you move on, claim their happiness, and testify about all the ways God has been faithful to them while you’re still trying to rebuild from the bulldozer they took to your table.
When the People Who Hurt You Move On
Since I’ve been sorting through the rubble and rebuilding after relational church hurt, I’ve found myself sitting in this tension more often than I’d like.
The sarcastic, slightly cynical side of me wants to look at the person who caused the harm and say, “That’s great. I’m glad you experienced God’s grace, strength, and protection. But did the people you bulldozed in the process never come up during these conversations with God?”
Because seriously. My head understands the grace, but my heart still hurts because there was no confession, no apology, no repair. Nothing. That seems like it should be a vital part of the testimony here, and it is conveniently getting left out.
I’m not questioning whether God can be faithful to someone who has caused harm. I’m questioning a very public testimony that leaves out responsibility toward the people who have been harmed.
And whether it’s days, months, or years after the harm occurred, witnessing these testimonies can be extremely disorienting. I’ve had some distance from the harm myself, but seeing a public testimony tore at a wound that was still healing and maybe even added a little more hurt on top of it.
We can be on our healing journey, trying to fight our way out of the rubble, and think we’re starting to see which way is up and which is down again. Then the person who harmed us starts speaking publicly as if they were the victim, and we’re thrust right back into the rubble.
It’s like we’re living that hurt and heartache all over again.
When Grace Becomes Part of the Performance
Last week, I wrote about why gold-star Christianity makes it so hard for us to admit we’re wrong.
I won’t rehash the whole thing here, but the gist is that when we spend our lives in performative religious systems, admitting we’ve screwed up can feel like failing twice. First, there’s the actual mistake. Then there’s the damage to the image we’ve worked so hard to maintain. And for those of us raised in gold-star Christianity, our image can become pretty tangled up with our identity.
Now, think about what happens when that kind of conditioning accompanies pastoral leadership. For some leaders, admitting wrongdoing may feel like it threatens their identity, reputation, authority, and all those gold stars they’ve spent years collecting. That doesn’t excuse their behavior. But it may be part of the reason some leaders can offer public testimonies while never acknowledging the people they’ve harmed.
Because somehow, the person who caused the harm can publicly testify to how they’ve become both the victim and the overcomer, but they conveniently leave off the role of villain. They publicly celebrate grace without ever publicly acknowledging the harm they caused.
And that’s where I think we need to look a little more closely at what’s happening with all this talk about grace.
There’s a difference between genuinely experiencing grace and using grace language to protect an image. When harm is ignored and the testimony is highlighted instead, we need to pay attention to how the story is being told and, perhaps more importantly, what’s being left out.
When grace is used this way, it becomes another part of the performance, restoring a reputation without any of the necessary accountability.
What Do We Do with Grace?
This is where things get complicated for me.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to reconcile my belief that God’s grace is available to everyone with my desire to see the people who caused harm take responsibility for their actions.
And I keep coming back to something important — we can’t celebrate grace while accusing people who are requesting accountability of lacking grace.
There’s a difference between God extending grace and someone responding to that grace with repentance. A public testimony about God’s faithfulness is a claim about God’s character. It doesn’t necessarily tell us whether the person giving that testimony has acknowledged their wrongdoing or attempted to repair the damage.
God can extend grace to someone who has caused harm. That doesn’t mean the person has repented, and it doesn’t erase their responsibility for the damage they’ve caused.
We can believe God has been faithful to someone who harmed us without pretending they’ve made things right. We can hope they experience forgiveness and restoration without automatically restoring the relationship or returning them to a position of leadership.
Grace makes restoration possible, but it doesn’t erase the need for confession, repentance, accountability, and repair.
When the Apology Never Comes
Understanding all of this might help us make sense of what we’re experiencing, but it doesn’t make the hurt disappear. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: We simply can’t control other people or expect them to respond the way we would.
I think that’s the hardest part of all of this.
We can pray for grace and healing for the people who have harmed us. We can hope they get healthy. We can wish things were different. But we can’t make any of those things happen. We can’t make someone confess, acknowledge the damage they caused, or do the work of repentance and repair.
Your hurt is real even without an admission, and your healing doesn’t have to depend entirely on someone else’s confession. You can rebuild your table even if the apology never comes. It’s probably going to look different. Some chairs are probably gone, and you’ll never be the same.
But as you rebuild, there can be room for grief alongside boundaries, understanding, and authenticity. And maybe part of rebuilding is finally accepting that the people who bulldozed your table don’t have to participate in putting it back together.
Reflection Questions
How have you handled situations where someone who hurt you moved on without acknowledging the harm?
Where have you struggled to distinguish extending grace from restoring a relationship?
What boundaries might you need to protect the table you’re rebuilding?
I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
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If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place at KristenNeighbarger.com.
