In 2001, after I had left covenant community I started going to a local Anglican Church. One Sunday, my good friend Sally invited me to join her home group.
“We need mature Christians like you,” she said. “And me and Bob think you’d enjoy it. Everyone comes for dinner first and we usually just end up drinking gin.”
“I’m not a mature Christian” I barked, even though I’d had a conversion experience twenty years earlier when I was sixteen, manifested spiritual gifts and had been leading small groups myself for decades. I winced at the harshness of my reply. I had no idea why I’d reacted so defensively. Sally’s only trying to be nice Jessica. You should be flattered she and Bob are inviting you. Anyway, the gin might be fun.
“No pressure,” Sally said. “Just come once and see how you go.”
“OK,” I replied, but I was dreading all the unfamiliar faces and awkwardness that comes with being a new girl. Plus, I really didn’t want to be in a home group.
The food and the gin bit were OK. I had expected to be interrogated with a million questions, asked to give my testimony, pressured into talking about my spiritual journey. That’s what I had been used to up until then. All eyes on me, smiley faces, nodding heads, questions, questions, questions. In covenant community a shared meal with strangers had a number of unspoken rules (such as there had to be one conversation during the meal, presided over by the most senior person in the household) but as the evening progressed it became clear that this was nothing like anything I’d experienced in community. Nobody was bothered that I was new, and nobody gave me any kind of special attention. I was treated as one of the gang, left to listen to the multiple conversations or join in if I felt like it, feeling welcomed but without any pressure to act in a particular way. People were friendly but didn’t seem to have any agenda.
After the meal Bob made us coffee and tea and we crowded into the lounge, balancing on bean bags and foot stools, squeezing onto sofas. I found a corner on the floor and settled myself for the rest of the evening’s Bible Study. I don’t remember what else was said, or what people’s contributions were. I just remember feeling suddenly furious and panicky. As fiery anger churned my stomach and stung my eyes I wanted to run. I wanted to get out of that room as quickly as I could. Whatever triggered me (and yes, I was triggered although I had no idea at the time that was even a thing) when it came to my turn to speak I was close to tears and raging inside.
“What do you think Jess?” Bob said, smiling at me.
“I’ve got no bloody idea,” I croaked. “This could be in bloody Greek for all I know. It makes no sense to me whatsoever. It’s just gobbledy-gook.”
I swallowed down my hot tears and tried to ignore everyone’s shocked faces, their imagined thoughts rattling my brain:
I thought she was a mature Christian? Isn’t she on the worship team?
Then “God’s voice”, a familiar sound to me, shaking his head:
Jessica you should not be causing others to doubt.
Jessica you should be an example.
Jessica you’re projecting your own rebelliousness onto others.
Jessica you need to get over yourself.
The evening could not have finished quickly enough. I flew out of the house as soon as I could politely get away and ran home with tears pouring down my face. I didn’t go back. I hated myself for being such an outsider, such a bad example to people who were younger in their faith than I supposedly was.
In the years following our family’s departure from covenant community I didn’t realise that I was in spiritual trauma. Generally speaking, many people with experiences like mine tend to walk away from any kind of religious environment when they leave a toxic group, but some do continue to seek connection through churches that are similar to the ones they have left. I was one of those people. Healthy religious/spiritual practise can be life enhancing and helpful and there were positive aspects of faith (a growing sense of peace, a feeling of belonging and familiarity) that kept me connected to church for a long time. Alongside that, however, I was motivated by an underlying fear – fear of losing my faith, fear my kids would grow up out of control, fear of being judged, etc… My new Christian context was healthier, albeit not perfect (what church ever is?) and even though I was undiagnosed for another twenty years I did receive a large amount of healing and recovery in that place. However, not due to that context specifically, but due to lack of education and understanding in the wider Church and because I was still vulnerable and undiagnosed, I also relapsed.
OBSTACLES TO RECOVERY
We all know life can be a b*** and churches are full of people searching for answers. However, the spiritually traumatised person has an added layer of complexity. Imagine a person who has experienced physical or sexual abuse being asked to live in a house that is identical to the one where they went through that abuse. The people in the new house may not be abusive, but if the survivor is being asked to sit on an identical sofa and eat identical food those things are going to be re-traumatising for them. This is how it can feel for a spiritually abused person who chooses to place themselves in a religious context again. Terrifying, confusing and unsafe even though they “choose” to be there.
On top of that many have experienced other types of abuse which have contributed to the spiritual trauma (eg sexual abuse from a church member or emotional abuse from a parent who is a church leader). Another common thread I am noticing among others in recovery is a story that includes the failure of Christian leaders to act or protect when abuse is reported, sometimes including victim blaming and/or spiritualising abuse eg. telling a teenage girl it was her fault she was molested, or encouraging the parent of a sexually abused child to pray for that abuser.
Recovering from spiritual trauma or helping others to is relatively unchartered territory. Not all counsellors and therapists have a full understanding of what spiritual abuse is, in my experience, and certainly churches are ill-equipped to deal with people in recovery, or even identify their own toxic practises. This may be because people in recovery don’t always turn up with vocabulary and understanding and may not wish to speak about it for a variety of reasons. They may be fearful of repercussions or have family members still active in the abusive context; like me they may be unaware of their trauma, or they think what happened to them was normal.
Similarly in my experience, church leaders are sometimes slow/unable to recognise spiritual trauma. They may be confused about what it is or fearful of being disloyal to fellow church leaders or even "to God". Or they may be concerned acknowledging it will lead to a loss of faith for the abused person or believe they need to “defend the Gospel”. In some circumstances, dare I suggest they may see similar traits in their own church and be personally challenged (spiritual abuse doesn’t just happen in cults by the way).
My advice to anyone recognising patterns of behaviour in line with spiritual trauma is to seek specialised help, support and information. Here are some links I have found very helpful.
HOW DO I KNOW IF I’M IN SPIRITUAL TRAUMA?:
If spiritual trauma is so confusing and challenging to recognise how can we spot it in ourselves or others? Here are some general symptoms (ref. Religious trauma: Signs, symptoms, causes, and treatment | therapist.com) :
· Self-hatred – linked to a narrative of unworthiness
· Shame
· Perfectionism
· Hypervigilance (anxiety) – linked to unhealthy fear of god or satan.
· Difficulty with making decisions
· Loneliness and isolation (due to loss of community)
· Lack of boundaries
· Delayed social milestones
· Sexual dysfunction
· Mental health disorders
I can identify with most of the above, but I would add to that list:
· Gaps in knowledge and fear of mainstream culture
· Normalising of fundamentalist / dualistic thinking
· Issues around consent.
Looking back my overriding symptom within the church context was that I appeared to constantly contradict myself (eg: I expressed a strong desire to be part of church life and I also resisted being part of church life). Below I’ve listed some of the behaviours I displayed:
· I was visibly upset by certain music, religious topics, or church-based situations.
· I felt I needed to prove myself in a very driven manner, seeking validation from leadership through dedicated service.
· I lacked boundaries and was always willing to “go the extra mile”.
· I did things that I didn’t want to do or was uncomfortable doing because of “God’s call on my life”
· I seemed very capable on the one hand but had extreme reactions to seemingly innocent church situations or even certain people.
· On the surface I may have appeared to be a bit “out of control”, partying a lot, drinking a lot etc…
· I found it difficult to express how I felt or what I thought and had difficulty making decisions, needing to “hear from God” about every aspect of life.
· I would challenge the leadership on issues of teaching or practise.
· I had a diminished sense of self and struggled to be authentic.
· I sometimes expressed extreme, non-mainstream opinions about the Bible or behaviour and thought these were normal/ widely accepted e.g. I was shocked when the church had a disco, I refused to take communion from a female Vicar etc…
· I was angry much of the time and sometimes came across as trouble making.
· I was unwilling to commit to tithing, joining small groups, etc…or being tied down to any kind of commitment within the church.
· I was prone to over-sharing/ confessing.
· I struggled particularly at church retreats or holidays, or contexts where I couldn’t easily escape.
· I continued to nurture relationships with people from the abusive context I had been in, even though I was sometimes upset and triggered; I defended that context, even when onlookers suggested it had cult-like similarities and didn’t seem healthy.
· I had poor critical thinking skills and didn’t trust my own instinct, intellect or emotions.
· I had difficulty building strong relationships and trusting others.
· I was often unfamiliar with mainstream culture (who the hell was JR, never mind who shot him?)
· I displayed symptoms of depression, anxiety, sleeping issues and grief.
· I was constantly fearful of being judged.
MINIMISING ABUSE
If no obvious criminal behaviour has taken place alongside the spiritual abuse, sometimes victim/survivors and church leaders minimise the experience because they feel it isn’t “serious” or that there is nothing that can be done. There is an expectation that survivors should just move on and get on with things and embrace forgiveness instead of “harbouring bitterness and being defined by their hurt.” I have lost count of the number of survivors who have said “nothing really bad happened to me”, and the number of times I have been told to forgive my abusers. In my situation feeling pressured into forgiving before I was diagnosed resulted in a relapse into old behaviours, thinking and habits that were detrimental to my recovery. I had M.E. for four years and during a conference an inexperienced, well-meaning person attributed my illness to lack of forgiveness. Of course, my physical ailments were linked to the spiritual abuse I had suffered, but what I needed was proper, targeted counselling, not more spiritual confusion and self-blame. Because the “diagnosis” was given in a highly charged spiritual environment by a seemingly wise person, I was triggered, unable to think critically and therefore relapsed from that point on for a number of years. I don’t blame the person, but I do think that if they had been educated in this area the situation would have been avoidable.
Many spiritually traumatised people have spent much of their lives being judged and shamed by others as well as self-blaming on a stratospheric level. This is not fully understood by those who haven’t experienced it. We are used to questioning our every motive, our every thought, our every behaviour, our every prayer, our every feeling, our every instinct, the very essence of ourselves, and more often than not we don’t measure up. I cannot emphasise this enough. It is not a normal level of self-doubt or self-questioning, even if on the surface we appear confident.
Finding friends and church leaders who embrace us as we are, do not seek to tell us what to do or how to behave, do not treat us as inferior or broken or “wild”, can be extremely healing. The people, some Christian, some not, who have expressed appreciation and validation with no strings attached or judgement are the ones who have given me the most permission to find my way through recovery. They have respected my need to figure out my spirituality for myself and haven’t needed to argue or convince me of theirs; they have listened to my opinions and views on faith and not automatically assumed I’m wrong or broken; they haven’t been afraid to listen to my anger and have comforted me, believed me, and supported me when I’ve needed them to; they love me as I am and they have been open to learning from my changing perspectives. For me, this is truly Christian behaviour, even though not all these people have been Christians.
MORE ABOUT RELAPSING
I believe it’s important to understand how vulnerable the spiritually traumatised person really is, especially to continuing practises that are detrimental to their well-being, as well as passing toxic practises onto others. In a similar way that physically abused women might seek out the same partner time and again, I was still attracted to Christian contexts that were similar on the surface to what I had already experienced. I craved belonging and purpose, but my lack of autonomy and sense of self has meant I have been vulnerable to being drawn back into extreme dualistic, black and white thinking because I hadn’t received adequate or targeted counselling. I ignored triggering reactions and physical symptoms (panic attacks etc) during those periods of my life, which eventually became so extreme that I made the decision to step away from church completely, probably one of the best decisions I ever made in terms of recovering authentic spirituality and healing.
On a positive note, I have seen healthy expressions of faith communities over the years that are non-judgemental and inclusive. I sometimes feel if I had understood my fragile spirituality better I would have leaned in for support in a different way, and certainly not have joined the last church I attended in Cheltenham where I live. It was the unhealthiest place for me (and many others) and became the nail in the coffin in terms of formal church attendance.
I believe the Church has a lot to learn in supporting the spiritually abused, not least the fact that victim/survivors may appear to be consensual in terms of participation. The spiritually abused person is not always able to give consent from an authentic or informed place (not dissimilar to a 15-year-old having so-called “consensual sex” with a 38-year-old). Normal church practise can be re-traumatising for us, even exploitative, although we appear to want to participate in it. It took me a long time to realise I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, that I was worthy and welcome. I didn’t realise I could choose not to respond if I felt pressure to do anything except just be. Congregations where this wasn’t the case I simply walked away.
LEAVE SPACE
Finally, here are some pointers for church leaders: If a person’s story sounds like spiritual abuse has taken place, then my advice is to LEAVE SPACE (whilst following safe-guarding reporting protocols). Try not to use religious language or sound definitive with the answers to their questions. LEAVE SPACE for them to come to their own conclusions, even if you disagree. Love them without putting pressure on them to do anything except be themselves. Encourage them to broaden their hobbies and friendships outside church and gently suggest specialised targeted therapy. Try not to inadvertently “love bomb” them out of your own enthusiasm to help them heal. Be aware they may be easily influenced and at the same time find it hard to trust anyone (incredibly, those two things can go together). Don’t be afraid of them “losing their faith”. In fact, if you are educated and curious about this area you could be part of contributing to their spiritual healing.
And I hate that I have to say this: if the spiritually abused person is part of the LGBTQIA+ community (which is sadly common and a whole other blog) – try not to be a prick.
Thanks for reading,
Jess