Learning to Love People Well

It was one of those long days of ministry that leaves a permanent mark on your memory.

I had been invited to preach in the far North of England. The drive alone was nearly ten hours—miles of winding roads, gray skies, and plenty of time to think. By the time I arrived, I had only a few minutes to gather my thoughts and step into the small sanctuary. There was no time to learn the heartbeat of the congregation or build rapport with the pastor. It was simply: walk in, open the Word, and trust God.

The sanctuary held about fifty people. Once, the church had been much larger, but like many congregations, it had declined over the years. Still, the Spirit was present. When I gave the invitation to follow Christ, several people responded, their hearts wide open. I could feel it—eternity had shifted for those precious souls.

Then came the moment that tested me.

A woman approached the pastor and me with her little boy at her side. She wore a very short skirt and a low-cut blouse—the kind of outfit that made some of the religious folks shift nervously in their seats. But her eyes were wet with tears, and her voice trembled with sincerity.

“What does this mean for me?” she asked.

The pastor replied, “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then poured out her heart. “I’m a single mother. I’m struggling to provide for my son. I work as a cocktail waitress. Does this mean I have to quit my job? Because if I do, how will I pay my bills?”

Before I could say a word, the pastor answered firmly: “Yes. You will need to quit your job.”

I watched the hope drain from her face. Despair replaced joy. Fear replaced faith.

And in that moment, a painful truth hit me: as Christians, we often mean well… but we don’t always love well.

I am passionate about God’s truth. His Word is unshakable, eternal, life-giving. But I am also passionate about people. And sometimes, those two passions feel like they’re in tension.

I often remind our church:

   •   Truth without grace is mean.

   •   Grace without truth is meaningless.

Some wield truth like a hammer, breaking people down but never building them up. Others overextend grace, offering acceptance without challenge—yet grace without truth has no power to transform.

And then there’s the cultural confusion of “my truth.” We hear it everywhere: “You have your truth, I have mine.” But Scripture warns us that the most dangerous lies are the ones we tell ourselves.

Paul wrote:

“They have said no to the Truth; they have refused to believe it and love it and let it save them. So God will allow them to believe lies with all their hearts…” (2 Thessalonians 2:11–12, TLB)

We see life not as it is—but as we are. Pain, bias, fear, and desire color our perceptions. That’s why Jesus points us back to His Word:

“You are truly my disciples if you remain faithful to my teachings. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NLT)

Consider John 8, when the Pharisees dragged a woman caught in adultery before Jesus. The Law was clear—death by stoning. Truth demanded judgment.

But Jesus said:

“All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” (John 8:7, NLT)

One by one, the accusers slipped away. Then Jesus turned to her:

“Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” (John 8:11, NLT)

Grace and truth—woven together. He didn’t condemn her, but He also didn’t excuse her sin.

I looked at the young mother and said gently, “Can I give you another perspective? Is there anyone in that lounge you work in who needs what you just experienced today?”

Her eyes lit up. “Absolutely everyone.”

“Then here’s what I suggest,” I said. “Be baptized. Dedicate your child. And invite everyone you know.”

And she did. When she stood in the water and her little boy was dedicated, dozens of her friends and coworkers were in the congregation. That day, nearly fifty people gave their lives to Christ.

A year later, I returned. She found me again, this time radiant and joyful. She was dressed modestly, her eyes shining.

“You look so happy,” I said.

She smiled. “I don’t work as a cocktail waitress anymore. A few months after I was baptized, God opened a new door. I have a wonderful job now. My son is thriving. My life is completely different.”

That experience taught me a lesson I’ve never forgotten: people don’t transform overnight. If she had been forced to quit her job immediately, despair might have crushed her fragile new faith. But given room to grow, grace and truth worked together, and her life blossomed.

We will always encounter people who don’t look like us, talk like us, or act like us. Some will carry visible wounds, addictions, or lifestyles that make us uncomfortable.

If we lead with truth but forget grace, we’ll drive them away.

If we lead with grace but forget truth, we’ll never see lasting transformation.

But when we hold both—grace and truth—we reflect Jesus.

Because transformation doesn’t happen in a single moment. It happens in the tension of grace and truth, lived out over time.

That young mother’s story reminds me still:

We often mean well… but we don’t always love well.

And if we want to be like Jesus, we must learn to love people well.