When Church Hurts: A Journey of Healing

This isn’t a rant.

I’m not here to bash the Church, but I also can’t pretend it didn’t leave bruises. I love Jesus with everything I’ve got, yet some of the people who claimed to speak for Him left scars I’m still healing.

I’ve been silenced and judged. I’ve felt unseen and unworthy. I’ve been misled. I’ve been told that my questions and doubts were a lack of faith. People told me to “pray harder” when I was drowning in depression. Leaders taught me to submit, not to speak up. And all of it was wrapped in Christian language that made me wonder if I was the problem.

It makes me hesitant to go back. Worship can feel hollow. The Bible can feel heavy and hard to read. I don’t trust many Christians anymore. At times, I didn’t even trust God.

Church hurt doesn’t just stay in the past. It lingers. It colors your view of God, even when your mind knows better. It makes you question what “community” should feel like. It makes you cautious, anxious, even defensive. And some days, it makes you feel like your faith is smaller than it really is.

I’m still healing. Slowly. I still flinch at certain phrases. I still feel anxious walking into some church buildings. I still wrestle with trust, with community, with what church even means sometimes. But I’m learning to acknowledge those feelings without letting them define me.

Part of healing is recognizing the difference between honesty and bitterness. Bitterness holds onto pain like power. It feeds on it, letting it shape your view of God, people, and yourself. Healing holds the pain out like a wound and asks God to do something holy with it. To redeem it. To transform it.

It’s okay to love God and still feel cautious about church. It’s okay to question, to step back, to take your time. Faith is not measured by how many Sundays you attend or how quickly you forgive. It’s measured by how real you allow your relationship with God to be, even when it’s messy.

I still believe in Jesus. I still believe in grace. I still believe in the Church as God’s creation, even if it’s imperfect people who hurt one another along the way. And I believe that what I lay on the altar—this hurt, this process, this voice—He will make holy.

If you’re reading this and relating, know this: your pain is valid. Your questions are valid. Your hesitations are valid. And your hope, even when it’s fragile, is valid too. Healing is slow, but every step forward, even the small ones, is sacred.