Where Is the Church When It Hurts?
Preface
When I started this series on pain, I never expected that my family and I would be walking through the deepest trial of our lives while writing it.
I won’t go into the details. But if you would—please pray for us.
Because even now, as I write these words, I’m not speaking from a place of theory or theology alone—I’m speaking from the valley. And I need the same truth I’ve preached to others:
God is still God. He is still good. And He will heal this pain.
But let me be clear—this post isn’t about demeaning or attacking the Church.
Far from it.
If I’ve ever experienced the beauty, necessity, and vitality of Christ-centered community, it’s in this season. We’ve felt the love. We’ve been held. We’ve seen glimpses of what it means to be the Body of Christ in action.
This isn’t a critique for the sake of criticism.
This is an invitation—for all of us—to be more like Jesus when people are in pain.
To not rush it.
To not fix it.
To not explain it away.
But to sit in it. To stay.
The Church Was Born in Fire, Not Comfort
The Church began in Acts 2—not with comfort, but with chaos.
The Spirit of God came rushing in with wind and fire.
People spoke in tongues. Believers were cut to the heart.
Thousands were baptized in a day.
But very quickly—pain followed.
Stephen was martyred.
Peter was jailed.
Families were scattered under threat.
And yet… they still gathered.
Not because it was easy.
But because they knew they needed each other.
They shared meals.
Prayed in basements.
Sold what they had to care for the vulnerable among them.
They weren’t impressive.
But they were present.
Today, we’ve gained better systems, production, and programs.
But in some ways, we’ve lost our grip on what made the early Church so powerful:
A willingness to suffer together.
When the Church Becomes a Place of Pain
Here’s what I’ve learned as a pastor, a friend, and someone who’s walked through his own church trauma:
Church hurt doesn’t come from strangers.
It comes from:
The leader you trusted.
The friend you confided in.
The system you believed would protect you.
It comes when sacred spaces feel unsafe.
When you bring your wounds—and are handed silence.
Or worse—blame.
I’ve heard the stories.
I’ve lived some of them.
The woman told to “just forgive” after she disclosed abuse.
The grieving dad who was handed a Bible verse instead of a shoulder.
The young adult who questioned a doctrine and was labeled a troublemaker.
The family who left quietly after being slowly pushed out for not fitting the mold.
This isn’t rare.
But it’s also not what Jesus intended.
And when the Church causes pain instead of healing it, it doesn’t just hurt the person—it distorts their view of God.
What the Church Was Meant to Be
Let’s reclaim the vision.
The Church was never meant to be a museum for the holy.
It was meant to be a hospital for the hurting.
Galatians 6:2 says:
“Carry one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
Romans 12:15 says:
“Mourn with those who mourn.”
1 Corinthians 12:26 says:
“If one part suffers, every part suffers with it.”
That’s not performance.
That’s presence.
We weren’t meant to impress each other.
We were meant to walk alongside one another—especially when life falls apart.
So what does that look like in real time?
It looks like:
Listening more than we speak.
Asking better questions instead of giving fast answers.
Showing up without needing to fix anything.
It looks like grace with skin on.
The Reason It Hurts So Deep
Why does church hurt cut so deep?
Because the pain is personal—and spiritual.
We don’t just grieve the offense—we grieve the betrayal of what the Church was supposed to be.
When a doctor fails you, it’s devastating.
But when a healer becomes the source of harm—it feels almost impossible to recover from.
The Church is meant to represent Jesus.
And when it doesn’t—it shakes the foundation of people’s faith.
That’s why this matters so much.
This isn’t just about bad leadership or policy failures.
It’s about misrepresenting the heart of Christ in ways that fracture souls.
What Healing Could Look Like
Let me offer an alternative.
What if we stopped rushing people to heal?
What if we stopped quoting Scripture before people were ready to hear it?
What if we said things like:
“We’ll walk slowly with you.”
“You can fall apart here.”
“You don’t have to believe everything to belong.”
What if our communities made room for lament?
For unanswered questions?
For doubt that doesn’t disqualify?
Because here’s the truth:
Jesus didn’t rebuke people for their pain.
He didn’t shame them for their tears.
He didn’t lecture the broken—He wept with them.
And He still does.
A Word to the Wounded
If you’re someone who’s been hurt by the Church, I want to say this gently but clearly:
That wasn’t God.
That was someone who mishandled your heart.
Who misused their platform or misunderstood your pain.
But they cannot rewrite God’s character.
Jesus hasn’t turned His back on you.
He still calls you by name.
He still draws near.
And if it’s hard to walk back into a church building? That’s okay.
But don’t walk away from the One who still wants to walk with you.
A Word to the Church
To my fellow pastors, leaders, volunteers, and friends:
This is not the time to be defensive.
It’s the time to be humble.
To repent where we’ve wounded.
To rebuild where we’ve been silent.
To stay with people who are hurting—not as experts, but as companions.
Let’s not rush past pain.
Let’s sit in it.
Because when we draw near to the broken—Jesus does too.
You’re Not Alone
Whether you’re in the middle of grief, disappointment, trauma, or just trying to make sense of why your story unfolded the way it did—please hear this:
You’re not forgotten.
You’re not beyond healing.
You are deeply loved by the Savior who still weeps at gravesides.
And there is still room for you in His family.
Even if it takes time.
Even if you need to heal outside the building for a while.
Even if your journey looks different.
You still belong.
