A Place You Won't Be Hurt

The Book of Ron · 27 of 48 · 3 minute read

There is a phrase people sometimes say about church: “Come here. This is a place where you won’t be hurt.” I wish that were always true.

One of the greatest hurts I ever carried happened in my late twenties. I attended a large Southern Baptist church. During that time, a group of women in the church decided they would judge me. They spoke among themselves and to others about what they thought of me—about my value, my structure, and different things they believed about my life.

I carried a mark on me that was obvious. I felt shunned, abandoned, and judged. It hurt deeply. In many ways, it was almost traumatic. At that point in my life, because of things that had already occurred, I needed comfort. Instead, I felt rejected and my image was tarnished.

I do not believe those women were malicious people. They were simply judgmental, and we as human beings sometimes do foolish things. Still, the pain was real.

But I stayed.

Over time I found my place there. I began teaching Sunday school. Our church bought property, and my skills became useful. The pastor understood who and what I was. Often he would ask me personally to help with work on the new land.

By God’s grace I was able to build picnic shelters, work on soccer fields, dig and pour overflow runs so water could drain off the fields, and use my equipment to create walking trails so people could enjoy the property while we prayed about the future of the church.

I invested many weekends, much effort, and a great deal of time. I was not trying to prove anything. I simply had the skills and the ability to work for the Lord, and that was reason enough.

One day our church gathered down by a small stream on that property. We had cleared out a temporary area where people could sit and built a simple platform so we could enjoy the land and begin anticipating the day we would break ground for the church.

During that gathering, the pastor called me forward. In front of everyone he presented me with a small plaque and spoke words of appreciation for the work I had done.

Because of the relationship I had with him, that moment meant a great deal to me. It was meaningful, and it was healing in its own quiet way.

Years later, I attended another church.

There I found myself in a small Sunday school class of about ten or twelve people. It was not officially a divorce class, but every person there was divorced. Somehow we had all migrated to that room.

Together we helped each other heal. We talked about our struggles and our pain. We prayed for each other.

The teacher of that class, along with everyone in it, listened to my prayers as I spoke about caring for my granddaughters and about the deep pain I carried from losing Cheryl. Those were hard days for me.

But in that room something remarkable happened.

I was never judged.

Not once.

Instead, I was uplifted. They told me they understood how much I loved my grandchildren. They saw my character as a man. They listened to my prayers and encouraged me in my struggle.

The difference between those two churches was like night and day.

Both existed within the same faith. Both claimed to follow the same Lord. Yet one wounded through judgment, and the other healed through compassion.

When we walk through the doors of a church, we represent something greater than ourselves. We have choices to make.

We can act like Pharisees—quick to criticize, condemn, and judge.

Or we can remember the words of Christ: “He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.”

Let us be firm in our beliefs and values. But let compassion and kindness be poured out on those who walk through the doors of the church. Because many of them arrive carrying wounds we cannot see.

And sometimes the greatest ministry we can offer is simply this:

A place where someone can finally breathe without fear of being hurt again.

There is a companion workbook for this story. Open the workbook (PDF).