I may not know you but I know something about you.
I know that you’re hurting.
I know that you’ve been bruised and battered and wounded, that you’re reeling from the hits and bloodied from a battle that you didn’t choose.
I know how painful every step is right now, the way that every breath is labored and burning.
I know that right now to move, is to suffer.
More than anything, I know that it is so difficult to comprehend the source of the damage done, that you can hardly make any sense of it.
I know what it is to face the terrible, twisted, faith-shaking truth:
The Church has injured you.
Your experience may be fresh. You may be right in the middle of the trauma right now or it may be an old wound that simply refuses to heal; one that seems to break wide open just when you’ve become whole again, just when you’ve made some peace with the pain.
Whatever the circumstances of your bleeding, my hope for you is the same; that in this incredibly painful path you won’t mistake Jesus for his followers.
My prayer, is that you won’t allow the savagery inflicted upon you by Christians, even those you once looked to as leaders, to define Christ.
The Church isn’t a place, the Church is a people. It’s a community of believers.
At times this is incredibly encouraging, because it illuminates the truth that this faith is housed not in brick and mortar—but in blood and bone.
It means that we don’t visit a building to experience God’s presence, but that we are living, breathing churches who carry that presence with us wherever we go.
We are the physical expression of a spiritual truth.
With this beautiful reality comes an equally frightening one; that when one interacts with the Church in any meaningful way, they do so through the very lives of flawed, broken people as their own life presses-up against them in relationship.
It’s here in close proximity to human frailty that we receive the body blows of judgment, the brutal cuts of hurtful words, the sucker punches of deceit.
For nearly 20 years as a pastor I’ve helped people recovering from the horrible fallout of life in the Church, and sadly I’m quite sure that I’ve inflicted wounds as often as I’ve mended them; many times without my knowledge and too many times with my full consent.
I’ve also felt firsthand what it’s like to be brought to your knees by the disorienting violence of those you hoped would be your shield; to feel the friendly fire of people you thought you were going to live alongside—not go to war with.
I know what it’s like to be shell-shocked at what supposed people of God do to other people.
As someone who understands what you’ve been through even without walking in your shoes, let me say what someone probably should have said a long, long time ago:
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for the ways that people and pastors have let you down and knocked you down.
I’m sorry for the times that Jesus was obscured by those you hoped would help you see him.
I’m sorry at the jacked-up treatment you’ve received; from the petty, selfish, hateful junk that you’ve had thrown at you by ordinary people and professional Christians.
I wish I could take the pain from you, and more importantly I wish I could tell you that this is the last time it will happen but it isn’t; at least not if you still want to be a part this gloriously irregular thing we call The Church—and I hope that you do.
Because even though it comes with all manner of hazards, all kinds of mistreatment, and all sorts of scars, it’s the place where we can most truly touch Divinity. It’s where we can get small, real glimpses of the greater part of who we are as we live in community with others.
It’s right there in the thick of the bloody mess of the Church that we also find flashes of the reckless, sacrificial love that in the smallest way, mirrors the One whose name it bears.
I know you’re hurting.
I’m hurting too.
We can hurt together.
I still believe that it’s worth the hurt.
I still believe that the love of God is more powerful than the violence of His people.
Even with your wounds and your bruises—be encouraged.
