As a visitor, you notice everything. Noisy, hacking coughs fill the air, drowning out an already too-loud television blaring out football statistics nobody in this building cares about right now. Cigarette smoke slips through the cracks of the "smoking room" door, mixing in with other more odious smells. Men and women in the hardest moments of their lives are walking the hallways, fighting to get through the next moment, next hour, next day, desperately pleading with whatever their impression of God is for just one more ounce of strength. Some don't even do that. Some just lay curled up under blankets wishing life was over.

     Life is being played for keeps inside these walls. Nurses, orderlies, doctors, security guards, and other staff members are the "good guys," doing often thankless tasks in the hopes that the next little effort they make is the one that pushes a patient from "I can't do this" to "I'm going to do this." Patients are the other "good guys," though you can't always tell it by watching what's happening at the moment. Whether they're in because they have to be or in because they want to be, they are people worth fighting for, people worth noticing and praying for and caring about.

     What goes on inside that facility is terrible and difficult and smelly and terrifying to outsiders, but it's a battle for souls that matter.

     Too often, though, the battles won inside those walls are lost by what's happening outside, among friends and family and coworkers and employers and church members.

     How do we react when somebody's world falls apart? When they make the same mistake for the seventh time? Or the seventieth time? I'm not asking what we say out loud, because most of us are smart enough to mouth the right words, speaking with compassion and humility to appear sensitive and humane. I'm asking what our gut response is; what we're saying to our spouse in the car driving home, or to coworkers gathered around the gossip cubicle, or just to ourselves.

     How do we respond when someone who was successful suddenly fails miserably; someone who preaches righteousness is suddenly unrighteous; someone who was arrogant and uncaring is unexpectedly and suddenly desperately in need of a friend?

     These are the moments when we discover the truth about our faith in Christ. If we're repulsed by the person who's failed, or joyful at the misfortune of the arrogant, or indignant at the suddenly unrighteous, then we know we're still babes in the faith, apparently incapable of handling the core truths of God responsibly. Scripture is full of parables and passages coaching us on how to avoid those kinds of responses to human frailty.

     More than any other subset of humanity, Christians know what second (and even seventh chances) mean. Why would any of us, having been freed from the burden of our sins, ever want to pile on to those who stumble?

     None of us are ever forgiven because we try harder to be good; we can never be good enough no matter how hard we try. Having tasted of that wonderful moment when God takes our sin and "moves it as far as the East is from the West" and "remembers it no more", we more than any other human beings should be leaping at the chance to forgive and be helpful to even the most dramatic of failures of others.

     In fact, the failure to forgive others may be the single biggest indication that we haven't yet tasted true salvation; haven't yet acknowledged it was for our sins that Jesus was put to death.

     When our primary reaction to sin and failure in others is sadness; when we understand that forgiving others is another way to honor God for the massive debt He's wiped from our accounts; when the desire to restore broken lives triumphs over the urge to gloat; then and only then can we know the joy of God working through us instead of working on us.