By: AmberLi Emery
There is a particular social dynamic I’ve observed over the years, especially in small communities, that I find both fascinating and deeply troubling.
It’s the inconsistency in how we respond to wrongdoing, and how much our personal relationships influence our willingness to hold someone accountable.
I’ve watched communities publicly condemn, ostracize, and relentlessly pursue certain individuals for their wrongdoing, while simultaneously embracing, defending, employing, and maintaining close relationships with others whose documented actions have caused tremendous harm.
And what fascinates me is that the difference doesn’t always appear to be the severity of the wrongdoing.
Sometimes, it seems to be who committed it.
We see this across all kinds of circumstances.
Someone commits a crime and becomes a permanent social outcast. Meanwhile, another individual may have a history of stealing from vulnerable people, embezzling from organizations entrusted with serving the elderly, veterans, or those in need, or abusing positions of financial responsibility, and somehow remains welcome in the very circles where trust and access to resources are freely extended.
One person’s past becomes their permanent identity.
Another person’s past becomes something everyone politely agrees not to discuss.
Why?
I think the answer lies somewhere in the complicated intersection of human psychology, social loyalty, familiarity, and our desire to preserve relationships.
We are often far more willing to confront wrongdoing when doing so costs us nothing personally.
It’s easy to condemn someone we don’t know, don’t particularly like, or have no meaningful relationship with.
It’s considerably harder when the person is our friend, coworker, neighbor, family member, or someone who has spent years building goodwill within our social circles.
Suddenly, our reasoning changes.
We begin considering their circumstances, their personal struggles, the passage of time, the good things they’ve done, and whether they deserve another chance.
And those considerations aren’t necessarily wrong.
People are capable of growth. Rehabilitation is real. Forgiveness matters. Redemption matters.
But here’s where I struggle.
Why are we willing to extend that grace to some people while denying it entirely to others?
Why does one person’s wrongdoing become unforgivable while another person’s becomes understandable?
Why do we demand transparency and accountability from people outside our social circles while quietly overlooking similar, or even more serious, behavior within them?
And perhaps most importantly, why do we sometimes confuse forgiveness with restored trust?
Forgiving someone who has stolen from an organization doesn’t automatically mean they should once again have unrestricted access to its finances.
Believing someone can change doesn’t mean abandoning reasonable safeguards.
Acknowledging that a person has served their sentence doesn’t require us to pretend their actions never happened.
And treating someone with dignity doesn’t require placing vulnerable people in positions where they could be harmed again.
Forgiveness is personal. Trust is earned. Accountability is necessary. And access to positions of responsibility should be based on demonstrated reliability, not popularity.
I think small communities are particularly susceptible to this dynamic because our lives are so interconnected.
The person involved might be our neighbor, our employer, our relative’s friend, someone we attend church with, or someone we’ve known since childhood.
Confronting their behavior can mean confronting an entire network of relationships.
And sometimes, without even realizing it, we begin protecting our social comfort rather than examining our principles.
Psychologists describe aspects of this through concepts such as in-group favoritism, motivated reasoning, and cognitive dissonance.
In simpler terms, we tend to interpret the actions of people we like more generously than those of people we dislike.
We find explanations for our friends.
We find judgments for our enemies.
We remember the good in people we know.
We remember the bad in people we don’t.
And when someone’s wrongdoing conflicts with the positive image we’ve developed of them, we may unconsciously minimize the wrongdoing rather than reconsider our perception of the person.
I don’t believe everyone who maintains a relationship with someone who has committed a crime is necessarily enabling that person. Nor do I believe every individual with a criminal history should be permanently excluded from community life.
That would be neither reasonable nor compassionate.
But there is an enormous difference between offering someone a path toward redemption and continuing to provide opportunities for the same kinds of harm to occur.
There is also a difference between extending grace and selectively abandoning our standards.
A community’s integrity isn’t measured by how loudly it condemns the people it already dislikes. It’s measured by whether it can apply its principles fairly, including when doing so is personally uncomfortable.
And I think that’s where the deeper conversation needs to happen.
Are we actually concerned about accountability?
Are we concerned about protecting vulnerable people?
Are we interested in rehabilitation and second chances?
Or are we sometimes more concerned with maintaining our relationships, preserving our social standing, and avoiding uncomfortable conversations?
These questions aren’t accusations against any particular individual. They’re questions I believe we should all be willing to ask ourselves, myself included.
Because none of us is immune to bias, loyalty, or the desire to see the best in someone we care about.
And none of us has lived a life entirely free of mistakes.
But compassion without discernment can become enabling.
Accountability without compassion can become cruelty.
And selective accountability can become something even more damaging: a system in which the consequences of wrongdoing depend less on the harm caused and more on how well-connected the person responsible happens to be.
I don’t want to live in a community where someone’s popularity determines whether their actions matter.
I want to live in one where people are treated with dignity, where redemption is possible, where victims are not forgotten, where trust is taken seriously, and where the same basic principles apply whether someone is a stranger or a lifelong friend.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable question we can ask ourselves is this:
If the person who committed the wrongdoing were someone I didn’t know, didn’t like, or didn’t personally benefit from knowing, would I still be defending them?
And if the answer is no, perhaps we need to examine whether we’re defending a principle or simply protecting a relationship.
That’s a conversation worth having.
Especially in a small town.
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