Breaking Bruised Reeds

The community of faith should be a safe place for the struggling, not one that adds to their burden.

A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out,
till he has brought justice through to victory.

Matthew 12:20

There was a brass plaque on the wall of the building, right by the main entrance. Every time I entered, I took note of the words engraved there: A bruised reed he will not break; and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. It was the doorway to a counselor’s office. My counselor’s office.

For much of my life, I never anticipated walking into a counselor’s office for my own sake. It was a move that did not fit the carefully curated image I tried to project - competent, capable, steady, and responsible. I wanted others to think I had it all together, because I believed I was supposed to have it all together. Going to a counselor would be an open admission of failure, exposing the image I maintained as nothing more than a fraudulent cover for my weakness. So, with duct tape made of guilt and spiritual platitudes, I held myself together the best I could, determined to let no one see the growing cracks and leaks beneath the surface. There came a time, however, when the tape no longer held and the whirlpool of anxiety and depression could not be stilled.

So, I made my way to a counselor’s office, ashamed and frustrated by my inability to just be better. Spiritually and emotionally, it felt like an indictment of my faith and the affirmation of God’s disappointment. After all, I thought, God should have been enough for me. Perhaps I judged myself harshly as a means of defense, an attempt to soften the judgment I perceived through the eyes of others. Maybe the sense of inadequacy grew from the soil of my own pride and determination to be fiercely independent. Whatever the complex web of reasons, the path to the counselor’s door was long, hard, and littered with potholes of failure and fear.

Then, on a brass plate outside the door, I read the words: a bruised reed he will not break. These words from the prophet Isaiah, quoted by Jesus in Matthew 12:20, were not unfamiliar to me, but in that moment, they were brand new. This wasn’t a passage colorfully highlighted in my Bible. You wouldn’t find any scribbled notes in the margin. I had no recollection of hearing these words used as a sermon text. I had read them many times, but never really heard them. Now, in a place of vulnerability and weakness, the Spirit promised me - a bruised reed - a reception of grace. In the months that followed, I found a space of safety where I could be my true self, laying down the facade of having it all together. And Christ was there. Not in judgment. Not in disappointment. Not with simplistic platitudes of faith. Jesus met me there in steadfast love, unlimited patience, understanding, and compassion. He met me there with healing grace.

To be honest, as much as I love the church, it was not always helpful in my journey toward healing. That’s not to say there weren’t good, loving people who supported me along the way. There were, and I am grateful for them. But the church, at least in my mind, also seemed to set expectations of me that did not take into account the frailty of my humanity, demanding a semblance of perfection that generated silent judgment or backroom gossip when unmet. It sometimes portrayed a spirituality that made human emotions like anger, anxiety, and hurt a violation of the holy life. And when the church was the direct source of wounds in my life, many I entrusted my story to were quick to dismiss the pain I experienced and even quicker to defend the institution. I was typically met with truisms about keeping my eyes on Jesus and not people, and how everybody gets hurt but you just have to forgive. As true as their words might have been, the spirit in which they were offered felt shallow and insincere to one just wanting the pain to be heard and understood.

Intentional or not, the weight of expectations and the apathy of defensive reactions within the church told me I was the problem. I was a bruised reed because I chose to be, simply unwilling to let go, move on, and trust God. If I truly had faith, and if I really loved the church, my spirit would be undisturbed by the hurt I experienced. If my eyes were fixed on Jesus, I would rise above the anxiety and depression that clung to me. I should have it all together, I should be at peace with everything, and I shouldn’t need a counselor. Maybe that was not the intended message, but it was the message I received because no other narrative was offered. Bruised reeds just needed to own their stuff. And the message deepened the bruise, threatening to snuff out the remaining sparks of a smoldering wick.

The story is not mine alone. It is shared by all those who know what it is to be a bruised reed or smoldering wick, trying to hold it all together with a mask of strength while things crumble internally. To those walking that difficult road, I hope and pray the voice of the Spirit rises above those that would increase your burden. I pray for the grace to truly believe and trust that Jesus is the one who would never break a bruised reed. May the unlimited and unhurried compassion of God meet you at the point of your true self, bringing assurance of your belonging and acceptance as the beloved of God. As you allow yourself to be fully known in the presence of perfect love, may healing begin to bandage the wounds of your spirit. And may you grant yourself grace and patience in the journey, allowing the Good Shepherd to lead you, step by step, toward the still waters of wholeness.

These words, however, also have something to say to us collectively as God’s people. They cast a vision for what the church should be, what it means to live in genuine Christian community. If Jesus tenderly and compassionately cares for bruised reeds and smoldering wicks, then the body of Christ, the church, should embody the same spirit. The church is called to be a place of safety, a place where all can be truly known, loved, and cared for, even in their weakness, woundedness, and hurt. To walk in the way of Jesus means our response to those struggling to hang on should not be trite spiritual cliches or suggestions of not praying enough. It means our first reaction to those hurt by the church should not be defensive justifications of the institution saddled with warnings about forgiveness. We will not flip the tables of responsibility and blame, throwing the weight of judgment on shoulders already overburdened. No, to be the community Jesus calls us to be means the only appropriate response to the bruised reed and smoldering wick is, “I’m sorry. You are loved and I am listening.”

Through the Spirit, a brass plaque with the words “a bruised reed he will not break” became my invitation to healing. If we, collectively, are faithfully embodying the way of Jesus, the plaque on my counselor’s doorway should be, at least in spirit, on the doorway of every church. For the sake of bruised reeds, may it be so.