Gracefully Broken- From "Church Hurt" to Radical Forgiveness Ch.1

What does the phrase "church hurt" mean?

When I hear the phrase "church hurt" I cringe. I always have. Until one day, in late 2018, I realized I may be walking around with some remanence of such a phrase. You see, I've always hated when people described a wrong that was done to them inside the church walls as such. When I think of church I think of something sacred, holy, just, and true. I never wanted something so precious to be in the same sentence as the word hurt. We are the church, the body of Christ. How could the word church and hurt coincide in the same sentence? Just mentioning the two together could give the impression to unbelievers that we (Christians) don't know how to love. How could the message of Jesus be true or worth following if we can't seem to worship together without hurting each other? Romans 2:24 NKJ says, "For the name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles" because of believers who are like this.

So, does "church hurt" exist?

No.

People hurt people.

Now, this isn't a blog to bash anyone because I'm grown and what I allow, I am accountable for. This seven chapter trip down memory lane is meant to shed light on the risks we take when we put people on a pedestal, as if they are without error. This journey is also to help those who have delt with hurtful situations to move on and continue with God's plan and purpose for their life. Being hurt by people shouldn't halt your progress. It didn't stop Jesus. It shouldn't stop you.

Chapter 1: The Beginning

There's no better place to start than as far back as my faith will take me. I remember in the late 80's, early Saturday mornings--gospel music blaring-- Rev. F.C. Barnes, "Rough Side of the Mountain" filled the house. Cleaning was the goal, but my brother, Joe, and I basked in the ethereal atmosphere of my mom's powerful chorus to one of her favorite songs. Although the stage was set for praise, our childish nature propelled us into arguments that are laughable today.

Joe clapping to the rhythmic beat was suddenly interrupted with, "You don't clap to church music." He then interrupting my bopping head and swaying shoulders with, "You don't dance to church music."

Either way we were locked in and enjoying every song as we wiped down the walls and baseboards at the tender ages of four and six.

Going to church was a grand occasion in our home. My dad wasn't one to get all dressed up for such an occasion, but my mom made sure we were styling and profiling every Sunday. As we became preteens and teens, my mom ensured we went to church on Wednesdays, sometimes Thursdays, and Sundays. To make those long service hours pass quicker, my sister, Mandy, and I would compete to find the scriptures the pastor called out in church. Because of my competitive nature, I'd sit in our room with the door closed, memorizing the books of the Bible to show off my skills in the next service. She never did beat me, no matter how hard she tried.

As time passed on, we moved from my childhood church to a small Baptist church in the mid 90's. I would get saved and baptized at the age of 12 along with my sister, at the age of 15. This churched was comprised of about 25 people and this was only when it was a packed on Sunday. Three of my aunts, an uncle by marriage, my mom, my self, and my sister were among the 25. Joe would come on occasion, when Momma made him, but most Wednesdays and some Sundays she allowed him to stay home.

Momma was a smoker, but she had a voice and everyone knew it. My other aunts did too, but there was something about my mom's voice that would move me to tears, especially when she would sing, Sam Cooke and the Soul Stirrers "Touch the Hem of His Garment."

We loved this church. It was our entire world up to the day a car accident rendered us without transportation. The pastor's daughter would pick us up for church, until they all decided it wasn't a good idea anymore.