To Watch the Light Grow: Hurting & Healing with the Church
It was while driving beneath the towering deciduous tree canopy of Peasley Canyon Road on my way to church on a recent Sunday morning that I had the revelation: These people—my church community—are watching me age. Something akin to a shudder ran through my body. “How vulnerable,” I thought, “To be in one place for so long that the people around you watch as you grow older—they see you change year after year.” The thought terrified me. Quite honestly, it unsettled me to the degree that I began thinking, “Maybe it’s time to start over new.” I had never experienced safety in a church community for as long as this current stretch of seven years and had begun to fear that surely the dam would break soon. As W.B. Yeats once cynically wrote about the terror of the modern age, “Things fall apart; the center does not hold.” If this is true, then I’d rather not be there when the ground drops out from under my feet.
Real community terrifies me. When Drew and I first arrived at our current church, I had every wall up. I didn’t want to be seen or known for who I truly am (although, deep down, of course that is what I wanted. I simply didn’t want to get hurt in the process). My former marriage had ended with a profound betrayal in my former church community by the pastor and elders; I was determined not to make the same mistake twice. These people will not have my heart, I determined seven years ago as I pasted a brave smile on my face and walked through the doors.
Seven years later, “these people” have my heart. They know me, they pray for me, we eat each other’s cooking and attend each other’s weddings, baby showers, and funerals. And it still scares me, because what if this all goes wrong? What if Drew and I never have kids and do our valiant part to build the next generation? What if the church decides that this particular Body-of-Christ experiment isn’t worth it anymore? What then? I don’t have the answers to that, other than to attest that it is indeed vulnerable to commit to a group of people—your life on display—who bear witness to the best and worst parts of you, who have the power to not choose you back, who love you even when you don’t deserve it. In spite of the unexpected goodness and healing I’ve found in our church, I understand why many people simply choose Not Church.
*
Several weeks before my Sunday morning revelation, my podcast co-host Sarah and I interviewed author and pastor Nicholas McDonald about his new book, The Light in our Eyes. His subtitle, “Rediscovering the love, beauty, and freedom of Jesus in an age of disillusionment,” describes the book’s premise, which is that people who have been hurt by the Church (including him), need to see the Light in our eyes—that is, the undeniable presence of Jesus which attests, “Even though the Church has hurt me, there is something here worth fighting for.” Those who are hurting because of what the Church has done in the name of Jesus need to see the real beauty of Jesus reflected in our countenance, even if they never return to church. Following our interview with Nicholas, I wondered if anyone could see the Light in my eyes, or if my eyes were still too clouded with hurt. After church trauma, many survivors wonder, “Was any of that even real?” Church-related wounding creates a profound unsettling that causes the survivor to wonder just what—if anything—of this Jesus business is worth holding on to. As Nicholas has written, the light, beauty, and hope of Jesus reflected in our eyes is the most compelling witness to the One who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. As the Body of Christ, we are irrevocably called to bear witness to the Light we have seen and known, even and especially amidst the dysfunction that comes from beautiful, broken people trying to be the Church in a beautiful, broken world. And that’s something worth holding onto with all of our collective heart, soul, mind, and strength.
*
The same Sunday that I had my fear-induced revelation about the implications of being in a church community for the long haul, Drew and I went out to lunch with an elder and his wife—both of them friends of ours who, seven years ago, were involved in hiring Drew as the minister of our church. After catching up over burritos, our conversation naturally shifted to church-related matters. Someone pointed out that this September marks seven years since Drew and I came to our church, and then—as if it were scripted—our friend turned to me and said, “I wish you could see how much you’ve changed these past seven years.” My heart sank, certain that my growing fears about the vulnerability of aging and changing in community that surfaced on my drive to church that morning were about to come true. I braced myself for whatever came next.
“I wish you could see,” he continued, “the light in your eyes—how much it has grown since the first day we met you.”
Swallowing tears in an earnest attempt not to weep into my burrito, I responded, “That’s very interesting. Because just this morning, I was worrying about how exposed it feels to be part of a community that can see you change. But I guess I never thought about the good parts—about what it means for people to see you grow and heal and flourish.”
Please keep in mind that our friend knew nothing about my recent interview with the author of The Light in Our Eyes, nor had I told him how scared I was to be seen. In the kindest way, my friend simultaneously confirmed my greatest fear and my deepest desire: That I am seen, known, and cared for by a community of people who testify to the Light.
*
This, dear ones, is my brightest and best hope for the Church: that we would stick around long enough to watch the light of hope and healing and beauty—the Light of Jesus—grow in each other’s eyes, and not settle for anything less.
To that end, I’d like to invite you to join me this Tuesday, September 2nd, at 10 a.m. PST for a free webinar called Healing Church Wounds, a conversation among myself and two wise, compassionate leaders hosted by the wonderful folks at Renovaré. If you cannot come, you can still register to watch the recording later.
I hope you do come, because Jesus is our best and only hope for healing church wounds. Most of all, I hope you come because we—the Body—need to see the Light in your eyes.
May it be so.