From Pharisee's Scorn to Jesus' Grace

The water sloshed back and forth, threatening to soak me from toes to knees. I peddled faster and yet barely moved across the water. My family and I are on vacation, and my husband and I jump into the pedal boat for a peaceful getaway across the water. The conversation has turned to Pastor Adam’s sermon series and our recent thoughts on forgiveness. “So, what is it?” my husband asks. “What is that one thing you have yet to forgive yourself for?” “I’m not sure I can only choose one,” I reply. We go back and forth, sharing moments from our past that weren’t our best. Moments we wish we could take back. Words said in anger and actions not taken to show how valuable someone was to our lives. Shame seeps into our lives like a leaky pedal boat that’s sinking.

Shame thrives in silence and secrecy—it convinces you that your mistakes define who you are. But forgiving yourself is not about pretending you didn’t mess up; it’s about recognizing that being human means being imperfect. Self-forgiveness breaks the cycle of shame by allowing you to face what you’ve done, take responsibility, and still choose compassion over punishment. This choice to forgive is radical. As Adam Hamilton says, “Jesus doesn’t forget our sins. He chooses not to remember them.” The choice is ours to do the same. And that’s the thing. The more we choose to hold on to the shame, the more it slows us down or it sinks us completely.

The woman who anointed Jesus’ feet with oil chose to be bold in the face of shame and judgment. She came carrying the weight of her past—known by her shame, and yet I wonder if anyone in the room knew her name. And in a room full of judgment, she knelt in radical vulnerability. Her tears were not just sorrow; they were surrender. She wasn’t asking to be seen as pure—she was simply reaching for mercy. And Jesus met her not with condemnation, but with affirmation: “Your sins are forgiven.” In that moment, shame lost its grip. She was seen, known, and loved for all that she was. It reminds me that healing begins when I stop hiding and let grace into my most broken places.

I turn to my husband as we pedal our way back to the dock in rhythm, releasing sins and shame to God and choosing forgiveness as our boat cuts across the stillness of the water. At first, the water feels heavy, every push slow and resistant, like the weight of pain and pride dragging behind us. But as we keep going, the ripples begin to smooth out. We realize the distance between where we were and where we’re going is bridged not by force, but by the quiet courage to choose to keep moving. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the journey, but it carries us to a quieter shore—where peace, not resentment and shame, finally meets us.