I recently listened to a podcast that is telling the story of women who went to a Yale clinic for fertility treatment and encountered severe pain during a procedure to retrieve eggs. When they told the doctors and nurses that they were feeling everything and that it was excruciating, they were told that they had reached the maximum allowable level of fentanyl and the procedure continued. Several of them went home to experience a level of recovery pain that didn’t make sense to their doctors, caregivers, or friends who had been through the same procedure. Everyone came up with stories to make sense of why the pain existed, stories that had everything to do with the women themselves and not the real issue. The actual problem was that they weren’t receiving the fentanyl at all. A nurse had been stealing the fentanyl and replacing it with saline solution. For some this will feel like a familiar story. What do we do when others fail to acknowledge our pain or when we are told that it is in our head?

I don’t have an easy answer for that. When I listened to the podcast, I felt rage and horror – and I recognized that this felt familiar because of stories from my own life and from those who have shared their experiences with me. Physical pain that no one treated seriously, or diagnosed effectively. Emotional pain that supposedly comes from being too sensitive. Spiritual pain from encountering harmful theologies or faith communities. Someone in grief whose friends have retreated or grown silent just when they need them most. Men who encountered either physical or emotional pain and were told not to be a sissy. Women who took the blame for some form of abuse they received. People of color who internalized oppression. All those studies about medical students being taught that black women don’t feel physical pain the same way white people do – as recently as twenty years ago.

We live in a culture that loves the idea of rising above, of overcoming. And experiences of overcoming a painful situation are wonderful! But a cultural value for gritting our teeth or moving quickly past pain can result in a population that has a low tolerance for stories of pain, for meeting people where they are when they are in pain. If this is your story, I am so sorry. I think God joins you in your grief over this. I think this because of the incarnation. God so loved us that God chose to come and be human with us, to learn from experiences gained from being in a human body that bleeds and trips and falls and gets sick. A human body with bones that break, and hearts that break as well. We never see Christ saying, “It doesn’t hurt that badly” or “maybe this is just in your head.” What we actually see is someone who moves toward those who hurt and chooses to bless them in the midst of their experiences of meekness, broken hearts, illness, despair, and grief. Jesus kept telling them that none of the pain should be any indication that they are not loved, not included within the kingdom of heaven. Their pain should not make them outsiders, because the kingdom of heaven exists for them.

On any given day, it is likely that we will come across someone who is in some kind of pain. What helps us to stay mindful of that reality, and to draw nearer when someone chooses to share their pain with us? For me, it is the gratitude I feel for the people who were with me in my pain, and gratitude for personal experiences of Emmanuel “God with Us.” We were never meant to be alone, and God invites us to be with one another.

For some the Church has, or still is, a place that has caused pain.  If that is true for you, I join Kate Bowler in the following blessing over you, and I welcome sitting with you if you would like to share your story with me.

A Blessing for When Church Breaks Your Heart

Blessed are you standing among the
ruins of a family of faith
that once felt so sturdy,
now turned to dust under your feet.

The certainty you once had, gone.
The community you loved, dissipated.
The hope you held dear, hard to find.

Instead, what’s taken up residence
is the very stuff that seems counter
to what you imagined:

Disappointment. Doubt. Disillusionment. Despair.

In this new landscape, may you practice
the courage to find the others
who make space for your questions
without easy answers,
who celebrate doubt when it makes room
for more faith,
who search high and low for a defiant
hope born amidst despair.

Bless you, dear one.

You who don’t give up wrestling.
Who have eyes to see something new
being rebuilt on top of what was.

Blessed are you who walk away
wounded, yes. But changed.

You are not the bad thing.
You are a gift.
And we love every bit of you.

By Kate Bowler.  That blessing, and other resources for people who have been hurt by church, can be found here.