Grace and the pedophile

A couple weeks ago, the Chicago Tribune reported that a 31-year-old man was arrested for sexually assaulting a 12-year-old boy he met in a chat room. The mug-shot of a big unsmiling Puerto Rican man accompanied a feature article which spared no detail of the disturbing encounter one night in a park last May.

That man is my friend. His name is Ryan. I know him smiling, joking, and crying; not scowling.

Ryan has an incredible life story of redemption and healing from a dark and broken past. But unbeknownst to his community, a hideous part of his past followed him well into his life as a Christian and did its work in secret spaces that nobody was allowed to see.

What the article didn’t say was that after he was found out, arrested, and released, Ryan called me last May to tell me personally what he’d done. (I cried a lot that night.) He then confessed what he’d done to his friends, his pastors, and his employer.

The next few months, I checked in with him periodically. I even took him to lunch. I was horrified by his behavior but knowing his past, I can’t say I was completely surprised. I understood that in his mind, the sexual predator was dissociated from the nurturing uncle and friend. I believe that profound good and evil lived and grew simultaneously within him. So I tried to support him as best I could. I tried to ensure people were checking up on him, keeping him from hiding, keeping him accountable.

But then one day, I quietly checked out. It was after I gave my testimony to a detective. Ryan and I had already butted heads about whether he should turn himself in (he’d been arrested and released once already.) In the end, I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. So I hid.

And I’m ashamed that I did. Because for the last month, I’ve felt a strong compulsion, an urgency to call him, to reconnect, and to offer my care and support. Now I’ve lost my chance. I don’t want to be too hard on myself, but I observed a familiar faintness of heart when faced with this painful evil in someone I love deeply. I was kind to Ryan in the beginning. Maybe too kind. But then I drew away.

By contrast, I know of at least two other friends who raked Ryan over the coals. They were honest with Ryan about their anger, disappointment, and loss of trust. They didn’t shelter Ryan from the relational consequences of his choices. But these same two people called him every day, walked with him through painful transitions, and showed exactly the kind of love and support that Ryan needed… not one that ignored the evil, but one that stood face to face with the evil and refused to run. Those guys are my heroes.

Lots of times grace is seen as a whitewash, a blind eye toward evil. Some people can’t stomach the idea of people like Ryan “getting off the hook” with God. It seems unfair that God would forgive such evil people. But grace isn’t a whitewash, a limp-wristed approach to sin. It’s a courageous resolution to deal with sin, to face evil with ferocious goodness, and to meet the demands of justice head on. Our justice system would never execute Ryan for his crime but some people would. Heck, maybe he deserves it. Maybe we all deserve it. (Or maybe it’s just me.) What I do know is that if you multiply goodness times eternity and call that God, I’m not too hopeful for my defense when facing him. I guess that’s why grace is a good idea for me. Because I’ve screwed people over. I’ve done stupid and downright evil things. And I don’t stand a chance. But I know grace isn’t a whitewash (for me OR Ryan). I believe God looks piercingly at my frightened, corrupted self and settles my debt within himself… just because.