What Do We Do with Church Hurt?

Maybe the fact that I wrote my entire college essay on why I was never going back to church means I have no credibility to guide others to church; maybe the fact that I now attend church religiously means my spirituality is unstable, like the river outside of town as opposed to the cornerstone of the church. Yet I believe that as someone who has experienced church hurt both professionally and personally, I can and, in fact, should lead others to God because I get it. I know what it’s like to walk through doors that proclaim, “All are welcomed” but you feel alienated and alone because everyone’s fixated on what you’re wearing instead of the you that’s wearing them. I know what it’s like to hear a preacher say something so traumatic, so triggering that you run like hell out of the sanctuary, trying to stop the stream of tears from cascading down your cheeks. And I know what it’s like to question that if God is really so very good, then why are God’s people so very bad?

If you’ve been battered by the church, betrayed by the alleged-saints, bloodied in the place where you thought, hoped, and prayed for your wounds to have been healed, let me be the first to tell you that I am truly, deeply, grieved by your hurt and am so very sorry. What was said to you, what was done to you, and all that wasn’t yet should have been offered to you was wrong; you did nothing to deserve such suffering. While I can’t take away the sting of those memories, I can offer you the balm mine have found, for no one, on Earth nor in heaven, deserves to take the priceless present of community away from you.

The Exodus

I grew up in church, which was both a blessing and a curse. The former in the sense that I was taught to love my neighbor as myself straight out of the womb and was surrounded by stories upon stories that have served me well in and out of the church walls, from understanding Hebrew and Greek words in my college philosophy class to analyzing and explaining literary allusions to friends in other courses. Most importantly, I was allowed to cultivate my faith publicly, and there was always a team to catch me when I fell, which did a great deal for my confidence as a young girl who struggled with stuttering and self-confidence consistently.

Yet the church also became a curse for me as my age increased, or more accurately, as a developed into a woman, surrounded by White, male pastors who loved using their God, my God, as a weapon to reinforce their politics and societal norms. Do most people of faith vote the way they do because of their beliefs? Yes, absolutely, as they should. I am not referencing the people who emulate Jesus in the world and keep their politics and prejudices within the voting booth; I am referencing those who feel that their finite vision of an infinite God is the sole way to Heaven, and that everyone who doesn’t follow their morals, values, and way of life should be burned in Hell. For it was there, in the church, that my body was publicly shamed for the first time, told to “cover up, quick” after my shirt defied gravity during a handstand contest as a preteen, before I even wore a bra. It was there that I was taught to convert gay people to being straight, taught that if God wanted Adam to be with a man, He wouldn’t have made Eve, which also indoctrinated me with the idea that my greatest value to a man would always be erotically pleasing and stimulating. And it was there that I was laughed at by pastors for asking “too many questions,” that “good girls didn’t speak unless spoken to,” that I could never be as intelligent or eloquent as my male counterparts. By the time I turned sweet sixteen, I was done with being sweet; I was done with playing the good girl role. I just wanted to be me, and I couldn’t in that place. So I walked away from the church and ran straight into who God was to me. After all, Yahweh, literally translates as “I AM Who I AM” or, my favorite, “I WILL BE What I WILL BE.” If God was willing to reveal Himself to me, than I was willing to lose my ideas of who we were to embrace the truth of who we are.

Coming Home

Nearly three years later, I felt the longing to return to church, to have a group to discuss passages with, to sing to God in someplace other than my car. I had spent hours on my knees praying, months pouring over Bible studies that felt like Jesus, and afternoons on the phone with friends figuring out how I defined God. And you know what? I found the God I knew when I was a little kid, the Ray of Light, the Love of Life, the Voice that could be both male and female, the God who doesn’t just know my experiences but has lived them because God was in me all along. God is justice, God is mercy, God is the family member who came into my life at the exact right time. God is the beauty of the sunrise that takes my breathe away every damn time. God is the peace that washes over me when I’ve lost the words to pray, because we are all made imago dei, in the image of God. So when you walk into church, my sibling in Christ, so does God. Hagia Sophia is limitless, thus any box we attempt to fit Her into will always shatter, which is the shrapnel many of us carry in our hearts to this day. But in His Grace, Jesus can remove them and make what was once fragments whole again. For you, like Him, were persecuted by those who were blessed by your presence. Therefore, keep your heart opened to whatever way you feel God speaking to you, and yes, the triggers will come, even in the best of churches. And while simultaneously honoring your resilience and validating your pain, remember that you belong there, too. Not every church is the right fit, yet for there to be a wrong fit, there has to be a right one. So trust your heart, and watch God heal you in more ways than you can ever imagine.