As I Was Saying is a forum for a variety of perspectives to foster faith-related conversations among our readers with the goal of mutual learning, even in disagreement. Apart from articles written by editorial staff, these perspectives do not necessarily reflect the views of The Banner.
He didn’t begin our conversation with a testimony or a victory speech. He started with the list.
Manufacturing meth. Identity theft. Fake IDs. Unauthorized use. The kind of record that makes most people decide they already know how the story ends.
Clark Shepherd didn’t deny any of it. He remembered exactly who he had been—and exactly what it cost.
Today, Clark lives in north Georgia, not far from Chattanooga. He’s sober. Married. Raising kids. Working a steady job. Serving in recovery ministry. On paper, he looks like the kind of man communities say they want to see after a conviction.
But paper, he learned, doesn’t open every door.
Earlier this year, Clark received a pardon from Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee. It mattered. It removed a legal weight that had followed him for years. Friends celebrated. The family rejoiced. From the outside, it looked like the end of a long road.
It wasn’t.
A pardon doesn’t automatically clear a record. It doesn’t erase fees, paperwork, or legal barriers. After the celebration, Clark was told to call the district attorney’s office to figure out what came next.
The answer was familiar: “You’ll need a lawyer.”
For many people trying to rebuild their lives, that’s where progress stops. Expungement can cost thousands of dollars. For families focused on rent, food, and staying afloat, paperwork becomes its own wall.
I told Clark something I’ve learned from years working in criminal justice: a lot of freedom comes down to whether you can afford the forms.
And then something unexpected happened.
A week earlier, I had been on a Christian radio program in Knoxville with attorney T. Scott Jones. As the show ended, we talked casually about redemption and second chances. As we walked out, he said, almost offhandedly, “If you ever come across someone who really needs help clearing their record, I’ll do it pro bono.”
At the time, it was just conversation.
When I read Clark’s name on the pardon list, that conversation became real. I did what I always do—I checked his story, his work, his life. What the state said about him matched what his life showed.
Suddenly, that casual offer became a lifeline.
That’s the part of the story that matters most. Not the pardon. The people.
Clark’s life didn’t change because a document was signed. It changed because, years earlier, people chose to walk with him when he had nothing to offer in return.
Clark told me his addiction began with a simple hunger—to fit in. Marijuana and drinking turned into crack at 16, meth at 18. Then came the needle, the scams, the lies, and the wreckage that followed.
In 2014, he fell asleep in a car outside a Walmart and woke up to police at the window. He didn’t bond out. A high bond kept him inside. Clark calls it the moment that saved his life.
In jail, he started attending Bible studies. At first, he treated faith like a last option. “I’ve tried everything else,” he said. “So I figured I’d try Jesus.”
What changed wasn’t instant. It was steady.
After his release, a pastor handed him a key to the church and trusted him with responsibility most people wouldn’t risk. Clark and his wife became leaders in Celebrate Recovery. They began walking with others at rock bottom, not as experts, but as people who had been there.
When Clark stood before the pardon board, people showed up: his wife, his boss, ministry leaders, even a jail captain who believed in him enough to drive hours just to speak.
That’s when Clark’s voice broke.
“The pardon is great,” he said. “But those people showing up for me—that meant everything.”
Scripture says, “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead” (James 2:17). Clark’s story is what living faith looks like: not applause, but presence.
If the church celebrates redemption, it also has a calling to help it stick. Forgiveness is powerful. Restoration takes time—and it takes people willing to show up long after the moment passes.
The pardon wasn’t the miracle.