For most of my life, I carried wounds that no one could see—wounds buried so deep they shaped the way I thought about everything: God, myself, and others. These weren’t the kind of wounds you bandage or explain away with a story that makes people feel comfortable.
By Dr. Tim Orr
For most of my life, I carried wounds that no one could see—wounds buried so deep they shaped the way I thought about everything: God, myself, and others. These weren’t the kind of wounds you bandage or explain away with a story that makes people feel comfortable. They were quiet, internal gashes caused by rejection, shame, and a nagging sense that something was fundamentally wrong with me. Even as I grew in my Christian faith, there was this haunting whisper that I couldn't seem to escape: You are not enough. You are too broken to be used. God is disappointed in you.
I had learned to mask those thoughts with busyness and spiritual activity. Ministry. Bible study. Leadership roles. Outwardly, I knew the right things to say about God’s grace. Inwardly, I lived like someone on spiritual probation—always one failure away from being disqualified. My theology affirmed forgiveness, but my heart functioned as if God’s love for me was begrudging, reluctant, and paper-thin. I saw the cross as a necessary legal loophole, but not as a place of emotional safety or healing. It was only when I came face to face with the raw beauty of the gospel, especially in my moments of greatest weakness, that things began to shift.
What changed me wasn’t a sermon or a book, though those things helped. It was the voice of the Holy Spirit, gently pressing into my broken places with truth that was both shocking and freeing: “While you were still a sinner, Christ died for you.” (Romans 5:8). I had read that verse countless times, but suddenly it struck a deeper chord. God didn’t wait for me to clean up my act before He extended love to me. He loved me at my lowest, when I was most unlovable. I realized that the cross wasn’t just a transaction to satisfy divine justice—it was the ultimate revelation of affection. Jesus didn’t die for a future version of me. He died for me as I was, fully knowing the weight of my shame, the depth of my failure, and the self-hatred I couldn’t put into words.
That realization shattered the lies I had rehearsed for years. One by one, the gospel began to rewrite the internal script that had dominated my thoughts for so long. The lie that whispered “You’re not enough” was met with the truth of 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” I didn’t need to be enough. Jesus was enough for me—and His sufficiency didn’t diminish in my inadequacy. The lie that insisted “You’ll never change” was overpowered by the promise of 2 Corinthians 5:17: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.” My growth didn’t depend on willpower but on a resurrection power already at work in me. And the most painful lie of all—“God must be disappointed in you”—was silenced by the voice of the Father who, because of Christ, now calls me His beloved.
Still, the healing didn’t come overnight. It came in layers, slowly, sometimes painfully, like scar tissue forming over years of damage. But what made the difference was that, for the first time, I brought my wounds into the light. I stopped pretending I was okay. I stopped running from the parts of me I hated and began to bring them to Jesus. And what I found wasn’t condemnation—it was compassion. He didn’t rush me through the process. He didn’t shame me for being hurt. He sat with me in the pain, showed me His own wounds, and whispered, “These are for you.”
Isaiah 53:5 says, “By His wounds, we are healed.” That verse no longer feels abstract to me. I’ve come to understand that Jesus didn’t just suffer for my sin—He entered into the very experience of rejection, betrayal, abandonment, and injustice. His wounds are proof of His sacrifice and the doorway to my wholeness. The gospel healed me not because it made my pain disappear, but because it gave it meaning. It anchored my worth not in what I had done or failed to do, but in what Jesus had done fully, perfectly, and finally.
Even now, there are days when the old lies creep in. The inner critic still whispers, and sometimes I still listen. But the difference is that I know where to go with those thoughts. I don’t fight them with affirmations or self-help slogans. I fight them with the cross. I remind myself that my wounds no longer define me—I am defined by His. I’m not a project to be fixed. I’m a child who is loved. And the blood-stained cross of Jesus is a permanent reminder that my healing, identity, and future are secured not by what I do but by what He has already done.
So if you’re reading this and carrying your own invisible wounds—emotional pain, self-condemnation, or deep-rooted shame—I want you to know there is hope. You don’t have to hide anymore. You don’t have to carry it alone. The same gospel that healed me is strong enough to heal you. Bring your brokenness to the cross. Let Him speak a better word over your life. You are not too far gone. You are not too messed up. In Christ, you are fully known, deeply loved, and eternally accepted.
Tim serves full-time with Crescent Project as the assistant director of the internship program and area coordinator, where he is also deeply involved in outreach across the UK. A scholar of Islam, Evangelical minister, conference speaker, and interfaith consultant, Tim brings over 30 years of experience in cross-cultural ministry. He holds six academic degrees, including a Doctor of Ministry from Liberty University and a Master’s in Islamic Studies from the Islamic College in London.
In addition to his ministry work, Tim is a research associate with the Congregations and Polarization Project at the Center for the Study of Religion and American Culture at Indiana University Indianapolis. His research interests include Islamic antisemitism, American Evangelicalism, and Islamic feminism. He has spoken at leading universities and mosques throughout the UK—including Oxford University, Imperial College London, and the University of Tehran—and has published widely in peer-reviewed Islamic academic journals. Tim is also the author of four books.