My husband Patrick and I sat in the middle of a group of upper–level leaders from the mega church we had called home for over two decades. We’d been invited to share feedback and ask questions of the leadership, something we welcomed over lunch. Maybe they really did want to hear what we had to say.

Prior to that lunchtime meeting, we’d noticed little fissures crack open, particularly in the way the church treated its lay leaders.

On top of feeling micromanaged as weekly life group leaders and veteran teachers, we sensed some yellow flags turned bright red each time we listened to a plagiarized Sunday message—which happened so much that it became our practice to critique the sermon on the ride home from church, something we had never done in the decades prior. Beneath us, our church seemed to shift seismically, and we asked God what he wanted us to do.

At lunch, I asked whether I could be allowed to teach about the pain parents of wayward adult kids went through. I’d written a book about it and felt burdened for parents who struggled. This was not an unprecedented request. I’d been teaching on and off to small groups and large for years, and the lead pastor had asked me to teach on the subject.

“That will never happen,” the leader in front of me said.

Silenced because I never know what to say in those kinds of odd situations, I clammed up. Why couldn’t I serve in the church I’d called home for so many years?

Patrick jumped in and asked if we could help serve their church planting network—since we had been the first missionaries our church had sent overseas as church planters. “I’d love to be able to use our experience.” He mentioned wanting to use his theology master’s degree as well—not in a snarky, stuck–up way, but as confidence–building evidence that he had been theologically trained.

“We will never use you,” the leader replied.

But isn’t there a need? And aren’t we qualified?

The leader looked around the table, cleared his throat, then smiled. “I have thirty guys just like you,” he leveled at Patrick. “And I will never use them.”

We left that lunch feeling dismissed, unseen, and maligned. It took us several months, but eventually we made the painful decision to leave the church we had raised our kids in. In doing so, we were labeled divisive by those we’d once been close to. Our whole group of friends changed in a moment. We lost credibility, camaraderie, and the once–happy feeling that we loved our church.

Church hurt is real. You’re probably reading this booklet because you’ve experienced it in some form. Healing from church hurt is hard—it’s a complicated grief with recurring triggers and tentacles of pain that don’t last only when the hurt occurs. No, it’s a grief that keeps on giving, long after you’ve left the pews. In some cases, church hurt is too mild a term. We’ve heard entire podcasts and read books about the fallout of spiritual abuse and ministry situations where coercive control was the modus operandi of the system. Narcissistic pastors, institutional protectionism, and a glut of church–growth–model missteps can all contribute to a broken exodus from the church.

So what are we to do? How can we navigate the pain of broken relationships, fractured community, deep disappointment, and unmet expectations with grace, intention, and, dare I say, hope? How can we enter back into relationships with Christians when we’ve been so hurt by believers in church?

The purpose of this booklet is to address six crucial questions that will give you a broader understanding of this unwanted phenomenon—whether it helps you identify your own church pain or empowers you to shepherd those who have been maligned and discarded.