If The CHurch is a Place for Broken People, Why Are We hiding?
As a pastor’s wife and a Christian counselor in private practice, I have a unique vantage point: I hear and see things behind closed doors. Things that no one else, or very few people, know.
From this front-row seat, I’ve noticed something worth calling attention to: a connection between what’s happening in church and the rise in Christian counseling.
Before I unpack this, let me first say there are many good and important reasons people seek counseling. I am not suggesting otherwise. Remember I am a counselor!
My indictment here is not on counseling but the church.
I’ve noticed that people often come to me for counseling because, despite being part of a church, a small group, and having good friends, they don’t feel they have anyone with whom they can safely share their struggles. I’m not even talking about major mental health issues or the most difficult of circumstances, though it would be wonderful if people could share those too. What I’m primarily referring to are more common struggles—anxiety, anger, impatience, jealousy, feeling like a failure. Things we might expect to share in small groups or over lunch with a friend.
I’ve been curious about why this isn’t happening*. If church small groups are designed for sharing life vulnerably, what is keeping us from being vulnerable?
And what I hear, again and again, is this:
“Everyone else has it all together.”
Of course, that isn’t actually true. But from her perspective, it is.
She looks around and sees other Christians who seem to have unwavering faith and victory over sin. Friends who appear to have it all together—balancing all the things while never losing it on their kids. Friends with happy marriages and kids who always seem to obey.
So rather than admitting to each other, “I’m overwhelmed,” “I feel lonely in my marriage,” or “I’m struggling to believe God is good,” we either stay quiet or share in a neatly packaged up way that keeps people from really knowing.
Shame doesn’t permit us to say what is actually true.
Shame also keeps us on the treadmill of performance, something I’ve talked about herebefore. We work hard to keep any cracks in our life from showing. We talk the talk and walk the walk that a Christian “should,” so no one suspects anything is wrong.
The first time I personally experienced the heartbreaking confusion of this façade was when a friend I spent a lot of time with every week, seemingly out of the blue, left her husband.
Why had she not shared there was trouble? Could things have been different if she had?
Years later, I know this wasn’t just how it was with her. Secrecy and shame have a way of keeping us isolated. Even more so when in our Christian circles no one shares their real struggles, we are left thinking, “It’s only me.”
And along with shame comes fear: If anyone knew what was going on in my heart and home, I would be judged.
It makes sense, then, why people prefer the nonjudgmental safety of a counselor.
But where I see one root of the problem may surprise you: Christian preaching and teaching that emphasizes law over grace.
Law-based teaching focuses on our performance. The gospel of grace focuses on Jesus’s performance for us.
It is not that how we live doesn’t matter. It does. But we can easily begin to base God’s view of us—and our view of ourselves and others—on how victorious our lives appear. But for the believer, our standing before God does not rise or fall on our performance. From start to finish, it is Christ’s work for us.
He is the one who justifies us, making us right before God. And he is the one who sanctifies us, growing us in Christ-likeness from one degree to the next, until glory.
Because of indwelling sin, we will continue to struggle with temptation and sin. Like Paul, we find ourselves doing what we do not want to do (Romans 7:15-20). But the fact a battle exists, and our sin grieves us, is evidence of the Spirit’s work within us. We do not have to fear that God is shaking his head at us in disappointment.
Law-based teaching drives fear. We are never sure if we have done enough, so we stay hyper-focused on what we are doing—and how we are doing compared to others.
This fear of not measuring is what puts us on the treadmill, always striving to be and do more, as if our standing before God depends on our performance rather than Jesus’s.
On the other hand, when we deem ourselves to be doing well—again, based on our performance—it’s not surprising self-righteousness and judgment rise up. We begin to critique others by the same measure: their outward performance.
If you’ve been around someone like this, you know it. You always feel like you are under a watchful, judging eye.
And when this is the teaching and preaching that we sit under, struggling believers leave feeling like failures.
Our thoughts become consumed with what we need to do: have more faith, be more disciplined, pray more, be a better spouse, love my neighbor better.
All these are good things—things we are called to as believers. But the law has no power to produce this within us. We may try, in our own effort, but our obedience becomes driven by duty and the hope of finally becoming “good enough,” rather than relief in the reassurance that we are already accepted by God because of Christ.
Gospel preaching reminds us that Christ’s perfect obedience is credited to imperfect people. His righteousness is ours. His finished work, not our performance, is our standing before God.
And it is in the hearing of who Jesus is for us that our affection for him grows, transformation begins to take place, and we experience freedom and rest.
And when we truly understand that we are fully accepted because of Christ, shame begins to lose its grip.
Masks become unnecessary. Confession becomes possible. Burdens can be lifted.
Imagine what would happen if the gospel of grace was faithfully proclaimed in our churches.
Imagine congregations where people could admit weakness without fear of judgment. Small groups where confession was normal, burdens were shared, and prayer requests went below the surface. Churches where believers rested in Christ’s finished work instead of striving to prove themselves.
What if the church became the place where people didn’t have to pretend they had it all together? As it should be!
I suspect many people who seek counseling primarily because they have nowhere safe to be known could experience something they desperately need within the ordinary life of the church: the freedom to be known without having to pretend.
Again, I’m not saying counseling doesn’t have its place. But I can’t help wondering how many people wouldn’t feel so alone if the church more consistently lived out what it proclaims: that sinners are welcomed by grace, not by performance.
When the gospel is not only believed but embodied, the church becomes what it was always meant to be: a community where broken people don’t have to pretend anymore.
A place where “I’m overwhelmed” doesn’t make us a failure.
Where “I’m struggling” isn’t cause for judgment.
Where “I don’t know how I’m going to make it” doesn’t make us a lesser Christian, but is met with, “Me neither. Let’s pray.”
Maybe then, some of the things I hear behind closed doors would be talked openly about among friends. Maybe people would discover that the church really can be a safe place to be known—not because we have it all together but because Jesus has freed us.
I imagine that is what it would look like if the gospel of grace was preeminent.