of planks and specks
of planks and specks
OF PLANKS AND SPECKS
August 16, 2026
There is a strange tension in the Church today. On one hand, we have become increasingly uncomfortable calling anything a speck. We don't want to judge. We don't want to offend. We don't want someone to feel unwelcome or unloved. Those can be good instincts. Christians should be extraordinarily careful about condemnation, and the Church should be a place where broken people are welcomed with open arms.
But sometimes, in our desire to accept people, we begin accepting the very things that are hurting them. A speck in the eye isn't supposed to be there. It irritates, obscures vision, and, if left alone, can cause damage. Jesus never suggests that loving our brother means pretending the speck doesn't exist. At the same time, there is another danger on the opposite side of the road: we can become speck inspectors, constantly examining everyone else's eyes while assuming that our own vision is perfectly clear.
Jesus says in Matthew 7:3, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?”
Sometimes this passage gets reduced to a simple command: “Don't judge.” But Jesus actually says something considerably more challenging. He doesn't tell us that the speck isn't there, nor does He tell us to redefine the speck as something harmless. Surprisingly, He doesn't even tell us to leave it there. Instead, He says, “First take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye” (Matthew 7:5).
Jesus apparently believes there are things in our lives that don't belong there, and that sometimes we need one another's help removing them. That's an important word for a Church that can be tempted to confuse loving people with affirming everything in their lives. If something is harming my brother or sister, loving them cannot mean simply assuring them that everything is fine. Sometimes love helps remove the speck.
There is, however, another way we can misuse Jesus' words. We can take the plank seriously. We examine ourselves, repent, work through some things, and begin to see genuine growth in our lives. Then, almost without realizing it, we conclude, “Okay, I've dealt with my plank. Now I'm qualified to point out everybody else's specks.”
Before long, we're standing across the room shouting, “Hey! You've got a speck!” We may even be right. The speck may actually be there. But Jesus never said, “Once you've removed your plank, you'll be able to point out everyone else's specks.” His words are much more specific: “Then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye.”
That distinction matters. Jesus isn't merely talking about identifying what is wrong with another person. He is talking about helping them remove what is harming them.
Think about Jesus' metaphor literally for a moment. Have you ever helped someone get something out of their eye? You can't do it from across the room. You have to get close—really close. You are approaching one of the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of another person's body, and they have to let you.
If someone suddenly reaches toward your eye, your instinct is to pull away. You blink. You turn your head. You protect yourself. That's why you don't let just anyone touch your eye. If I'm going to let you come that close, I have to trust you. I need to believe that you are trying to help me, that you will be gentle, and that you aren't going to hurt me.
Then I have to do something else: I have to stand still. I have to cooperate with you. I have to trust you enough to let you see something that is bothering me and allow you to get close enough to help remove it.
Suddenly, Jesus' picture of Christian correction looks very different.
Perhaps this is one of the places where we've gone wrong. We've confused identifying specks with removing specks, but they aren't the same thing. It takes very little relationship to identify what we think is wrong with someone. We can do that from a distance. We can do it from a pulpit, on Facebook, in a comment section, or over coffee with someone else. We can even diagnose entire groups of people we've never actually met.
Perhaps sometimes our diagnosis is correct. But being correct about the speck doesn't mean we're helping remove it.
Removal requires something more. It requires proximity, relationship, trust, gentleness, and ultimately cooperation. You cannot chase someone around the room with your finger extended toward their eyeball shouting, “Stand still! Jesus told me to remove this!” At some point, that person has to trust you enough to say, “Okay. Help me.”
That is an enormously different picture from much of what passes for Christian correction.
This may be one of the harder lessons for Christians who care deeply about truth. We sometimes assume that because we're right about something, we have automatically earned the right to speak into someone's life about it. But seeing the speck doesn't necessarily mean you've been invited close enough to touch it.
Truth matters. Holiness matters. Sin matters. But truth doesn't eliminate the need for trust.
If I'm going to let you speak into the sinful, broken, confused, or immature places in my life, I need some reason to believe that you love me. I need to know that you're for me and that I'm more than a problem you're trying to solve. I need to know that you aren't approaching me because correcting me makes you feel righteous.
Sometimes Christians wonder, “Why won't they listen to me? I'm telling them the truth!” Perhaps the problem isn't always the truth we're telling. Perhaps sometimes we haven't earned the proximity required to help.
Paul describes this kind of ministry beautifully in Galatians 6:1: “If someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted.”
Notice the balance. Paul doesn't say to ignore the problem or pretend the speck isn't there. He says to restore the person. But restoration is to happen gently, and the person doing the restoring is simultaneously commanded to watch themselves. In other words, while you're helping with someone else's eye, don't forget that you have eyes too.
That sounds remarkably similar to Jesus. Examine yourself first, and then, if you approach your brother or sister, approach them carefully. The goal isn't exposure, embarrassment, winning an argument, or demonstrating that your theology is better. The goal is restoration.
Something else happens when we get close enough to actually help people: we stop seeing only the speck and begin seeing the person.
From a distance, it is easy to reduce someone to whatever we believe is wrong with them. They become their addiction, their sexual sin, their anger, their bad theology, their broken marriage, their political ideology, their terrible decisions, or their rebellion. The speck becomes the defining feature of the person because, from where we're standing, it's the only thing we're looking at.
But proximity changes things. When I get close, I begin learning their story. I discover wounds I didn't know existed. I hear about fears and disappointments. I begin to understand some of the roads that brought them to where they are. None of this magically transforms sin into righteousness. Compassion doesn't require pretending the speck isn't there. But proximity changes the way I approach it.
From across the room, I might shout, “What's wrong with you?” When I get close, I may find myself asking, “What happened?” And eventually, perhaps, “Can I help?”
The speck hasn't necessarily changed. But I have.
I worry that the Church is increasingly tempted toward two unhealthy extremes. One side says, “There are no specks.” Don't judge, don't challenge, don't call anything sin; simply affirm. But Jesus clearly believed that there are things in our lives that need to be removed. Sin damages us, distorts our vision, hurts others, and grieves the heart of God. Love cannot simply shrug at something that is destroying someone.
The other extreme says, “There are specks everywhere, and somebody needs to point them out!” So we appoint ourselves inspectors. We scan the room, identify the problems, shout our diagnoses from a safe distance, and then wonder why nobody wants us anywhere near their eyes.
Jesus offers another way. Deal honestly with your own eye, and then love your brother or sister enough to get close. Build the kind of relationships in which truth can actually be spoken. Become trustworthy enough to approach vulnerable places and gentle enough that another person is willing to stand still while you help. And throughout the entire process, never forget that you have eyes too.
Before correcting someone, perhaps the first question shouldn't simply be, “Am I right?” That's important, but it isn't enough. We might also need to ask, “Am I close enough?” Does this person know that I love them? Do they trust me? Have I listened to them? Do I know their story? Am I trying to restore them or merely correct them? Can I approach this gently? Would I allow them to get this close to my eye?
And perhaps most importantly: Are they willing to let me help?
Because removing a speck is cooperative. You cannot force someone's eyelids open. You cannot demand vulnerability. You cannot chase someone down and call it restoration. At some point, they have to trust you enough to let you come near. They have to stand still. They have to participate.
Maybe that's something we've missed in Jesus' metaphor. The Church doesn't need to pretend that specks aren't real, but it certainly doesn't need more people shouting about specks from across the room. We need Christians who have spent enough time dealing with their own eyes that they can be trusted near someone else's.
We don't need more speck inspectors.
We need speck removers.
And to remove a speck, you have to get close.
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Mike