Church Hurt, Jesus Heals

I’ve debated for a long time whether to share this or if there was a good reason to share it. My story isn’t especially dramatic, but it’s been deeply painful. The longer I live, the more often I hear a story similar to it. Maybe this will help.  Lately, I find myself at the end of my rope when it comes to the church. To be clear, there is a capital “C” church, the body of Christ, and a lower case “c” church, the place, building or organization. I am primarily talking about the “c” here.

I grew up as a pastor’s kid in the South — surrounded by rules but occasionally surprised by grace. Church was my life. It was a family thing. We all served and helped with my father leading and my older brother closely behind. I felt “called” to ministry at thirteen and threw myself into serving how ever I could. Leading worship, discipling others, serving any chance I could get. I believe my first role was to go around the building and turn off all the lights. It felt important. It felt like I was making an impact. It felt like home.

This became even more true as I began to serve in college through a parachurch ministry. I was discovering, growing, and leading in my faith on my own, not just through my father or my brother.

By my mid-20s, I landed a full-time role as a youth pastor in a small church far from home. I loved those students and gave everything I had. The community I had there was one I would go on to miss all of my life. It wasn’t perfect, but it was so good. A few years later, I was offered a position at a large church back across the country. This was the “big show.” A bona fide megachurch hired me. I was leading hundreds of kids and volunteers. My wife and I had two young daughters, and everything seemed to be falling into place. God was good and ministry was only going to get better.

Then, hell broke loose.

I was called to a meeting on a random Tuesday and, without warning or even being spoken to, was handed a non-disclosure agreement. No clear reason. Just “a new direction” the church wanted to go. You see, in the megachurch world, talent trumps character every time. They even told me my character was without question; I just didn’t lead the way they wanted.

The letter was clear, if I wanted severance, I had to stay silent. That meant no communication with the staff, with my volunteers, or any of the parents. At the time, I was only making $18,500 a year (that’s right, full time at a megachurch). I had no choice. I signed it.

That day, I froze. I remember praying for the pastors who let me go. I thought God would fix it quickly. I even believed I’d get a new role at the same church. I didn’t, God was silent.

Six weeks later, we had to leave the city. I moved back to my hometown with no job, no prospects, and no idea what just happened. Years later I would learn that all my anxiety and depression issues stemmed from this event.

I ended up working pest control — crawling under homes, face in the dirt and mud, surrounded by snakes and spiders. For two years it felt like punishment, like I had failed God, and he agreed this is where I belonged.

***

There is a second story here that is important to tell. Stay with me.

My brother is the opposite of me in every way. All the way down to him being skinny while I am … not so skinny. He’s driven, focused, and can out work anyone I’ve ever met. I’m a bit of a dreamer, creative, sensitive, and aloof. Growing up with him as my example to follow was more than overwhelming. I’d never be him. I’d never be as good as he was. I couldn’t measure up. He would consistently lay out constant work plans for my spiritual growth. I would always fall short. To this day, I still have a giant binder he gave me titled How to Be the Best Christian You Can Be. It’s filled with rules and processes for outworking others in salvation. We laugh about it now.

My brother was well-known in a church planting group. In fact, he was on staff at the same church I was fired from. He was an elder and a campus pastor. He grew that campus from 20 people to over 300 in less than a year. But he wanted to plant his own church.

So he met with the elders and asked for support to plant a church. They told him he could go — but they wouldn’t offer any financial or organizational support. He was fired soon after. They removed him quickly and pushed him out. That hurt him deeply.

He began to unravel in his faith in the church and his faith in Jesus. It was painful and raw. He changed. He had been the “law” in my life growing up, driven and exacting. But something shifted in him. Grace found him. A book changed his life, Tullian Tchividjian’s Jesus + Nothing = Everything, and his heart softened.

One day, at his lowest point, I received a call from him. He said, “I want to plant a church — and I want you to lead it with me.” This was a dream come true for me, except I certainly didn’t feel like I could say yes at the time. I told him I wasn’t fit. I am not good enough. I didn’t know if I even believed anymore.

His reply? “That’s exactly why I want you. God only uses unqualified people. We are both unqualified, so let’s go.”

It changed my life.

We found a city that felt like the gates of hell and planted a church there. It became a place for the wounded. People came in limping — some barely hanging on. We offered them grace. Many got better, and once they felt healed, they would find a “better church.” We were never big, but we didn’t care because we were real, authentic, and pointed people to Jesus. Our mission was not to grow in numbers, but to grow in grace and love. We cared for our community for ten years. It was never perfect, but it was good.

Once again, in a new way, everything was going right for me and ministry.

But hurt has a way of finding you.

My brother’s family entered a long, painful season. Eventually, he stepped down as pastor, not due to any failure in his own life. In the aftermath, conversations happened without me — conversations that led to a merger with a new church plant. At our old church, I was an elder, worship leader, and small group leader … and suddenly, I wasn’t.

This past year has been the hardest of my life. I lost my church, my father died from Alzheimer’s, and less than a month later, my father-in-law passed as well. I’ve gone from leading and preaching grace to standing in the crowd, mostly unnoticed. I’ve asked to serve, to help, to lead, but the response has been kind, yet consistent: “We don’t need you.”

The new church says words like “We love you,” but their actions say otherwise. It’s heartbreaking, confusing, and painful. Each Sunday we meet in the building where I spent ten years with my brother caring for the wounded and hurting. Each Sunday is like watching someone date my wife. Every Sunday is a funeral.

I don’t know what’s next. My work outside the church is fulfilling. My family is amazing. But I remain wounded — still wondering why a decade of ministry seems to have led to silence. I’ve once again questioned if I’m simply not good enough for the church, not meant to serve or lead. I’m older but not yet too old. At every turn I feel heartache.

But even in that, I hold on to this: God works with broken people. So maybe each time I go to church, each time I am broken even more, he’s preparing me for something else. Not to have my name in lights, not to preach from a big stage and be the main show, but maybe something more unique and fitting to who I am and what He wants from me.

Maybe I am just something God can point to and say, “You can knock him down, he will break, but I will keep taking those broken pieces and remaking them. He may never be beautiful to you or this world, but he’s my son, I love him, and I’ll keep remaking him each time he’s broken.”

I hold fast to the love and grace of Jesus. In all my pain, I never once felt like God hated me. I spent years thinking he was punishing me, forcing me to crawl under houses and eat dirt. Only to realize he was there with me. He was in the dirt and muck and mire. He never left me. Our church just went from being an old building, or a mega church, or a youth room, to someone’s crawl space. While I never want to go back to the dirt, I think of the times God spoke to me while I was there. How he held me as I wept and loved me back to him.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe each time we think “I’ve arrived” is exactly when God steps in and says “No, my Son arrived for you. All this stuff you keep putting your hope in is literally vapors. I’ve got you. I’ll use you, just not in the way you think.”

Grace flows like a river. Rivers are beautiful and inviting. They look amazing, but if you ever step foot in one, you’ll know they don’t mess around. In an instant you’ll bang into a rock and/or find a tree limb hidden underneath. And so it is with the gospel of grace. You may end up bruised and broken, but that river is healing and loving, and it’s for God’s good.

It’s not easy to do, but ask any rafting instructor and they will tell you that the safest way to travel on a river is to stop fighting, kick your feet up, and let the river take you where it is going.

So, to all those hurt by the church, hurt because life didn’t go the way you planned, confused by where you are, I say, kick your feet up, don’t fight the current, and let grace take you where it’s going. It’s not easy, but it’s the only way to go.