I always felt like the problem child at church; I was the girl who talked too much and who laughed too loudly. I was the defiant girl who turned her chair around when the teachers showed a “bad” movie. I was the problem child who refused to kick a football from the pulpit into the pews with my peers on Super Bowl Sunday. I was the girl who, when the boys chased and scared the other girls, chased them back. Good little church girls were supposed to be quiet and calm. I was too loud and too opinionated. I climbed trees and played on top of the playground equipment in my dress and bare feet. I always seemed to be doing something wrong because I was the girl who spent over an hour sitting in the hallway outside the classroom for refusing to watch the movie, I was the girl who made the teacher angry for not kicking the football, and I was the girl who was shushed and told to sit still in my chair. I started out as the fun, fearless, happy, and social girl, but by the time I graduated high school, I was a shell of my former self. By 18, all that fire in me was gone, partially to do with my abusive grandfather and father, but also due to religious trauma.

Growing up, I was at the church for  both morning and evening services. On Mondays, we went to another church for an international Bible study program, and on Wednesday evenings, we were back at our church for  AWANA. I was in the children’s choir, serving with my mom in extended care during service. I was homeschooled, which meant I was at co-op one day a week at the church building with the rest of my church’s homeschooled community, and at a different church building for group P.E. for another group class. All of our educational curriculum was based on a Christian perspective, with little to no time for any differing points of view or theories. My whole childhood was spent in different church buildings, surrounded by like-minded believers. I knew nothing of the outside culture or world other than that it was bad and would corrupt me. I do not say this to say all of this was negative or caused trauma, but I say it to lay the foundation for later stories. I do not claim to have the full picture in all of these memories and situations; all I know is what my own ears heard, what I saw with my eyes, and how these events made me feel. These events are told from my perspective and the impact they had on me.

I remember the night well, my Southern Baptist church was hosting a play called “Heaven’s Gates, Hell’s Flames,” a play about everyday people going about their lives, then suddenly they are killed and have heaven’s gates. One family is in a car accident on the way home from church, and the whole family is killed. The mom and daughter are run over in a parking garage. One is the father, who leaves for work and is crushed by a fallen beam on a construction site; two teens are at a party who smoke a joint. All of them find themeselves at heavens gate, the family skips up into heaven all happy, the dad is welcomed to heaven with open arms, then it gets to the mom and daughter, that is when the demons come on stage, they grab the mother and rip her off her screaming daughter, the girl sobs and sobs, then Jesus appears and as if on under a spell she just smiles and skips through heavens gates. The last of the stories is about two friends at a party, and they each smoke weed and drink a beer, then both friends drop dead. They too end up at the gates, one friend runs to Jesus, and the other is dragged off by the demons to hell. As I write this in my thirties, this play still remains the most traumatic thing I have ever watched.  This play was based on fear, fear of randomly dying without being right with Jesus, and fear that if you were telling your friends about Jesus right now, then you might very well be condemning them to hell. I went back and watched this play as an adult ( you can find it on YouTube), and it connected so many dots for me. This play is when fear came into my life, when I started having anxiety about not knowing where mom was at all times, fear of being in a car due to visions of car accidents, fear of ever being anywhere near drugs or alcohol, and most importantly, fear of hell. You see, this night was a big night for me because this was the night I was “saved.” I said the sinner’s prayer, but not out of love for Jesus, but out of fear of hell, but that didn’t seem to matter to anyone, as long as I said it. I would spend the next ten years praying that prayer over and over and over because I was convinced that I didn’t mean it.

This all started when I was twelve,from the time I saw that play,  I was plagued with anxiety and fear. I worried I had done it wrong, accepted Christ wrong somehow, anxious questions filled my mind: What if I didn’t really mean the prayer? What if I don’t truly love Jesus? It says in Matthew 7:23 that there would be people who thought they knew Jesus, but when they got to the gates, Jesus didn’t know them. What if that happened to me? Over and over again, I said the prayer. I didn’t want to tell anyone that I had accepted Christ; did that mean I was ashamed of Him, did that mean I didn’t believe Him? It wasn’t because I was afraid of being bullied or killed for Jesus; I could die for Jesus as I had been taught and told I very well might after Columbine. However, in our church, when someone accepted Christ, you had to go to the front of the church, and the pastors would announce it. Then, you had to stand there while 250+ people walked by and shook your hand to welcome you to the family. If you were lucky, they would put you on the board as well, so those who were sick that Sunday would know. Then, they might also put you in the newsletter if there was room. The thought of all that public attention made me want to die inside. After all that, you still had to back up in front of everyone, climb into the baptistry with a giant spotlight on you while in the ugly blue towel garment and be baptiszied also it had to be one of the pastors that did it, it could not be your chilrdrens diector whom you actually knew, she was a woman thus she could not be a pastor or baptize people. To me, this just seemed like a lot of pain and unnecessary torture. I would rather get baptized in a river like the people in biblical times, and in my t-shirt, not that blue hospital gown thing with just my family and close friends around. I beat myself up because I thought I was ashamed of Christ, now I know I was only embarrassed and shamed by the traditions.

The first time I was shamed by a church tradition was in grade school. It was sunday morning, and I was in class. That morning’s lesson was on tithing, and the teacher went around the circle to ask each one of us publicly if we tithed our allowance. This seemed simple enough to me, I did not recieve an allowence so I could not tithe, when she got to I told her just that, she looked at me stunned then said “do you recieve birthday and christmas money”, I explained to her that Granny sent out a $20 for my birthday each year, she asked me if I had tithed out of that money, and that not doing so was stealing from God.  I was so confused, that was a money so I could buy my own gift. She then  went on to explain how I should be tithing from my birthday money and giving to God what was God’s.  I remember this weird sensation rising in my chest, and I slumped down in my chair. Did not titing mean I was selfish? Was I stealing from God? I became a compulsive tither. If I made $25 helping mom clean houses at 10 years old, then I tithed my $2.50, and if I  made $30 from babysitting the neighbor’s kid at 13, then I tithed that 10%, and yes, I even tithed out of my birthday money, and I would delay buying myself things to give something to the church. Everyone was so proud of what a good, generous girl I was, but it wasn’t from a heart of generosity. I was terrified God would think I was stealing from him or didn’t love Him.

The next time I felt shame was in Awana’s on Wednesday night, it was bring a friend night, a friend who didn’t go to church and didn’t know Jesus. We had to do this in order to complete that weeks homework, well the issue was I was a homeschooled, my friends where all from church, or the homeschool co-ops that met in churches, or from Bible study international, we lived in the a city inside a city that had a church on every block, I litterally lived on church property, on the westside of my house was the church, on the east side was the mission house for off duty missionaries to stay when on sabaticol, on the northside was the church gym and “college house”, there were no kids on my block either. This had been my whole life, so every year when this lesson and homework came up at AWANA, I would take one of my parents for ‘credit, ‘ but this year, this year was different. My teacher scolded me. I tried explaining that all my friends were Christians and homeschooled, and most were members of this very church, but she said I needed to try harder to meet other people because otherwise, how were they supposed to be saved? She implied I wasn’t doing my job as a Christian, even though I have very little opportunity to share my faith.  I quit liking Awana’s after this. I was ashamed and angry and was convinced God was disappointed in me.

Everywhere I went, it seemed like I was somehow being forced into a mold they wanted me to be in. I felt all this pressure to be a good girl. Even with personal decisions that were supposed to be mine. During VBS every year, they would have a day where one of the pastors would come visit us. He would get up on stage and talk about heaven and hell, about salvation and sacrifice, and all of that is well and good, but then he would tell us all to bow our heads and close our eyes, and then he would ask us to raise our hands if we had never accepted Christ. Next, he would tell us that if we raised our hands, we needed to go to the back of the sanctuary, into the lobby, and talk to a teacher. Of course, I had to be good and not tell falsehoods, so I would raise my hand then because none of our eyes were closed, and all my friends would motion me to go back. So year after year, I would walk to the back, and a poor youth worker would ask me if I knew how to accept Jesus. I would then recite multiple acronyms, bible verses, and a prayer to her. She would then look terrified, and I would  ask to go sing “Romans 16:19 says” with my friends. One year, the girl asked me why, if I knew how, why I hadn’t done it yet. I told her I wasn’t ready, and this was my decision. It was my life, and I would commit when and if I was ready.

I remember the day I decided I would never be able to please the church. I was so excited; I had finally met a new friend because a girl moved onto our block. She was a year younger than me and was also homeschooled. She didn’t really like her church; I don’t think they had kids’ activities, so she and I went to an event at mine. I was so happy, finally I was bringing a friend to church! But that joy was short lived, this event was a dinner and fun before a special church service, my friend couldn’t stay late and i had gone to the first night of the service, the other kids started getting rounded up to transition, I went and told our childrens diector bye and she said (in front of my friend) this was supposed to only be for the kids who were going to the service. My 11-year-old heart was deflated. Even when I brought a friend to church, I hadn’t done it right.  I didn’t bring another friend to church until I was 27 years old. All of this was light compared to what happened in my teens and twenties.

Trigger warnings for sexual abuse, rape, domestic violence, and stalking are discussed in the coming stories, dear readers. Be kind to your nervous system.

The first moment I realized I wasn’t a little girl anymore was at a church banquet. It was one of those purity culture banquets to celebrate the end of “faithgirlz” class, a class on being a young woman of God, and of course, sexual purity. Was there a class equivalent for the boys? Nope, but that’s a whole other blog post. For this banquet, I had gotten a new dress, and we got to decorate our family table. Before dinner, there was a ceremony in which I signed a purity pledge to my parents to remain a virgin until I was married. During the ceremony, my father gave a fantastic performance with a speech that I have no doubt my mom wrote. He then placed the “purity ring” on my left hand ring finger to be replaced by a wedding band someday. This was a pivotal moment. I officially became a young woman in the church, but in my father’s eyes, I became a threat. It was the year I turned 12 that things changed. He had always been physically neglectful and completely emotionally disconnected from me, but this was the year he stopped just abusing me through neglect and started truly emotionally and mentally abusing me. Looking back, it’s ironic that the man who, a decade later, would be charged with child pornography, molestation, and sexual assault should be teaching me about purity. This banquet and class was also my stepping stone into the “purity culture” movement, it led me down a dark path rooted in mygonisny and shame that would take me years to untangle.

After this class, I started reading books on purity, courtship, and how to be a good Christian woman. These were books in the Christian living section at the library, books that were sold at Mardel, and books that were endorsed by pastors, so they had to be true, right? These books told me that good Christian women were quiet, mild, reserved, and did not draw attention to themselves. These books told me not to talk too much or give my opinion too loudly. Books that said women should not teach men and that a woman’s place was in the home, that her sole purpose was to support her husband and raise children. Now this is not to say that women who choose not to work and stay home with their kids are bad or shameful, but the books I was reading were telling me that was my ONLY path. There was no room for a woman to serve or fulfill her purpose outside the home; these books implied that there was no point in girls going to college.  That God would never call a woman to serve by becoming a doctor,  lawyer, or therapist. The purity books put the purity of both genders directly on my shoulders, implying that if a man lusted, then a woman caused it. Men were supposed to desire us and to want sex all the time, and it was up to us ladies to both honor God’s design for them but also set the boundaries until marriage. Men were called to lead and women to follow, but when it came to sex, they just couldn’t help themselves and might need the woman to ensure they stayed on track. These messages were so confusing to me, and felt wrong in the beginning, but the books even addressed that, saying it was my rebellious spirit from the sin of Eve to want to take control and rule over men. The solution to my rebellious spirit was to stay at home under my father’s authority until that authority was transferred to a husband. I should always be under the authority and umbrella of protection of a male relative, so I did not lead others to sin the way Eve did. Which was exactly what I planned to do with my life: serve my parents, then serve a husband.

Not long after the purity culture ceremony,  my children’s director suddenly left. As I mentioned, we lived on church property, and one day I rode my bike up and saw her throwing everything into the back of her truck. I don’t even remember if we talked or if I just sat there and watched, but there was no church reception, just an announcement she was no longer on staff and well wishes from the pulpit. My parents didn’t know anything else either.  Due to the abuse by my father and grandfather when my children’s director left, I assumed it was something I had done or that she never really cared about us. I had felt so close to her, had babysat her daughter, and spent so much time with her and she vanished from my life without a trace. It would be almost a decade before anyone would tell me why. That autumn, I was promoted to the youth group, which met in the youth building on campus. We had a large youth population at this church and had just gotten a new youth pastor.

The youth group was super intimidating to a shy homeschooled 12-year-old, especially one with my story. All the youth were gathered at a welcome night, he got up and introduced himself, made a few jokes, then talked about how hot his wife was, not beautiful, not smart, not the love of his life but how hot she was, looking back that was an odd thing to say to  a room full of minors, but at the time we thought it was cute. Apparently, it’s a stereotype for youth pastors in the 2000s to creepily say. However, I liked him for the most part; he was fun and engaging, and he planned fun events for us. I remember following him around the church building during Upwards basketball, and his wife was very involved with the girls. I felt bonded to her quickly. There was a spiritual mentor role open in my heart from the children’s minister who left. So when the youth pastor’s wife made a big effort with us, I was overjoyed and all in. Over the next 2 years, we did lock-ins, laser tag outings, pool parties, and all sorts of fun things. We were ignorant of the storm to come.

It’s Spring of 2009, and I am standing outside the church gym, wandering up and down the long hallway. I wanted to know what was going on; all the parents were in a very urgent meeting, and everyone was tense and on edge. I could feel the stress and worry radiating off all the adults. Something bad had happened, but I didn’t know what, only that our . But now, just a few short years later, I was 14, standing outside a church gym again, wondering why my favorite pastor was gone. I remember one of the children’s workers rounding the corner. I remember him seeing me and  just wrapping her arms around me. I still didn’t understand what was going on, but the physical contact was comforting. The days that followed are a blur. I remember being sat down in the living room, my parents telling me that the youth pastor was in jail for having sex with a 15-year-old. He had been arrested on church property, next door to where we lived, and the girl was the daughter of a family friend. I  remember, I was so confused, then the news reports started. Another southern Baptist church with a sex offender on their staff, church members were being interviewed, and everyone had an opinion. I remember people whispering about a wolf near our little lambs. I remember some people blaming the girl, saying not all 15-year-olds look and act like 15-year-olds. I remember comparisons to King David and Bathsheba. The youth ministry split, and overnight, I lost over  half of my friends. We no longer had enough kids to fill the building, and ended up selling it.

After that, memories get blurry, but I do remember all of us girls who were still allowed to come, sitting around a table with the associate pastor’s wife. She began describing her sexual assault from her teens, then she asked if any of us had been assaulted. Even then, I remember thinking how stupid that was. No teenager was going to admit to that in front of 30 of their peers; we were in the 12-18 age range. We also did not know this pastor or his wife; they were new. I can recall wondering where our Sunday school teachers were, the adults we knew, shouldn’t they have at least been present? Did our parents know this conversation was happening? When I asked my mom about it years later, she didn’t know they were going to have those conversations with no parents around.  A few weeks later, while he was awaiting trial, this accused rapist was allowed to work on remolding a house on church property. I understand the church wanted to help him in some way (I wonder if anyone helped his victim), but there was just one problem: he was working on the house next door to me. I knew this because I was watching him through the cracks in my blinds from the first-story window that faced the neighbor’s house. I knew because I climbed a tree to read my book, and suddenly I was looking down on the sex predator, not 4 yards away from me. Looking back, this still fills me with rage and a sense of deep betrayal. The pastors let him near a girl the same age as his victim. As an adult, I have looked up the news reports from his arrest and trial; he was accused of rape by instrumentation. At the time, he was 30, a year younger than I am as I write this. I asked my mom about this situation, and she doesn’t remember being told he would be working next door to her 14-year-old daughter; maybe the pastors asked my father? Or did they just assume it would be fine?  Either way, the pastors were okay with putting me in danger, and they prioritized a sexual predator’s finances over the safety of a child. I didn’t have words to describe it then, but this was the moment I quit trusting pastors.

Over the next four years in the youth group, I had 4 youth pastors; our group was a revolving door. The next official pastor told me I was serving too much and needed to have fellowship with the other youth more often. As my home life grew darker, I felt less and less like I fit in with my peers. I know this youth minister was probably just tryng to help, but all he did was confuse me. All the other adults praised my “servant’s heart” and that I wasn’t silly and mindless like the other youth.  I didn’t like the youth group because I  was bored. They told us that they had to teach as if everyone was new in case we had any visitors ( which we never did), so those of us who had been in Sunday school for 16+ years heard the same stories following the same Lifeway curriculum every year. There was nothing new or challenging, and the discussion questions were kept superficial. One time, a youth asked the teacher about bullying and how to be meek but safe at school. Our teacher shut the curriculum book, and we talked about how to handle that situation. Some of the kids bonded, learning that others were also being bullied. Later that week, we found out that the teacher had gotten in trouble and had been told to follow the curriculum. I started counting days until I was out of the youth group.

Next, there was another interim. He was alright, but why get attached when he will be gone in 3 months? After that, we got the last youth pastor. I really liked him; he was funny and easy-going. He had a beautiful daughter, and the night he came to visit and introduce himself, I was serving in the nursery; his daughter and I bonded quickly. I had her in my class every sunday evening and often on Wednesdays, soon after I started babysitting for them. This youth minister took more interest in my brother and me; he found ways to make the curriculum more engaging and challenged us to serve in the church. Everything was going well until one day, after I had graduated. He called me into his office, and I can still hear his words clear as day: “You need to be more supportive of your father and his passions.” I remember my whole body turning to ice. I just sat there silently listening to him drone on about respecting and supporting my father, especially when it came to his music. My father, who had just gotten a  bonus at his main job, decided he wanted to play guitar. No one had an issue with that. He was getting a hobby, which was great, but then he came to the store where I worked and argued with my boss over the price of a guitar. He then repeatedly insulted my boss to me when we got home, and was mad at me when I refused to go talk to my boss on his behalf. He finally found a guitar and purchased it, but the pastor did not know that my brother did not have a bed. He was sleeping on the floor or couch; none of that bonus went to family needs; he spent it all on guitar, OSU merch, and chewing tobacco. A few days before my father and I had gotten into an agrument about the situation, he was mad that i didn’t want to listen to him play and wasn’t “happy enough” for him, when I told him I didn’t think it was right for him to spend money on a hobby when brother needed a bed, he told me that if I was so concerned with my brothers sleeping aggraments I could return the new shoes and clothes I bought (for work) and buy him a bed myself. Then, apparently, he went and told the pastor I wasn’t supporting him and was disrespectful.  I did not even try to defend myself, so I sat there staring at the wall behind the youth minister’s head as he went on and on, and I remember thinking, in that moment, I understood that no one would believe me if I revealed what went on at home.

Around my highschool graduation, the church started another service, and I started going to that one to get away from my father, while of course shaming myself for being a bad, ungrateful daughter.   I remember my father started following me around the building, obsessed with where I was and who I was with. He was on staff at the church, so he was always there. I used to hide from him because he would cause so much drama and stress. He would corner me in different hallways and verbally attack me quietly until I got so angry that I would loudly react, and he could play the victim. I tried to talk to a few friends or mentors about it, but I didn’t have the right words to describe it, and the church community didn’t have the right tools to see what was happening. He thought he was invincible, and the sad thing is, he kinda was because no one ever stepped in, no one asked why I was hiding if he came by the classroom. This made me feel so invisible and fed the idea that he was right and his behavior was okay. By this point, he had convinced me that I was a bad daughter, and the “Christian” books I read only told me to respect him more so he would be inspired and could show love to me.  

About a year after the youth pastor incidents, people started acting strangely around me. I thought I was going crazy, a long-time mentor and sunday school teacher would no longer look me in the eye. He ignored me and avoided me; he seemed angry, and I didn’t understand why. My traumatized brain said that he must finally see whatever was fundamentally wrong with me, whatever was evil and wicked, whatever it was that my father saw in me, or maybe I was just losing my mind. Next, women started tensing up when I walked up. I quit getting invites to things, kept hearing whispers, and felt like people were avoiding me. I would go to the bathroom and cry on sunday and Wednesday evenings. I felt that I had done something wrong, but no one would tell me what I had done. Finally, kids started getting pulled from my class and were no longer allowed to hug me or flinch when I touched them. It was like before with that first youth pastor; something was wrong, and no one would tell me what, but I could feel it. I no longer felt welcomed or at home at the church.

In April of 2017, I walked into our house after work, my father was on the phone with a family friend, and I heard from the bathroom that he had been fired from both his primary job and his church job, and had lost us the house that came with it. When we asked him why, he said it was all a conspiracy and people were out to get him.  I also worked for the church, so a meeting was scheduled to talk about my job and the house. At this meeting, we sat in the conference meeting room in the church offices, a room I used to play in. We asked why he had been fired, and we found out he had been harassing and stalking women in the church; all those friends who had been avoiding me quit meeting my eye and acting weird. Suddenly, everything made sense. I felt sick, and my heartbeat pounded in my ears. We told the pastors that we had no idea, then we told them everything: his mental and emotional torture, the abuse, the neglect, the lies he told, his 30-year porn addiction, everything. I watched my mother beg for help, beg to keep our home. She told them she was filing for divorce, that we were leaving him. I talked about how much I loved my job there, I loved the kids, and how traumatic this situation was. I asked for help getting therapy. Pleading with these men who had watched me grow up, who served alongside me. We begged for help, for protection from our church leaders, and we were refused on all fronts. We were losing our home, our primary income, our health insurance, and the only church any of us, including my mother, had ever known.  I watched the ice creep up the walls, I felt my body go numb, and I listened to them. I heard their message loud and clear: “You are on your own.” I bottled that anger so deep because overnight, I became the primary income for our family. I had to help mom and protect my brother.  The salt in the wound was that one of the pastors kept asking my mother over and over again how she didn’t know, and kept telling her she had better go get a job. I wish I could go back in time to ask them if they know what happens to families that try to leave a cornered, violent, and angry man. They have seen how he treats women, how the word “no” meant nothing to him. He was disrespecting and trespassing on other women’s boundaries; what did they think he was doing to his wife’s? To his young adult daughter?  How did they think he was treating the women stuck in his house under his ‘umbrella of authority”? I used to have a fantasy of storming into the church meetings about my life, my home, and my family and making a scene. Making those pastors and community members who had watched me grow up look me in the eye. To scream at the top of my lungs, do you hear me now? Do you see me now? Do you believe me now? I wanted justice; I wanted them to be homeless and desperate.  It was in that moment that I made the unholy agreement to never trust a church or pastor again. I was filled with a rage that I had never known, anger towards the pastors, anger towards the property committee, anger towards the women who knew and didn’t tell me. I have never felt so betrayed and angry. I was angry at everyone: my father, my friends, my pastors, and the community at large. Looking back is even more twisted when I think about the fact that the Pastors and church were more concerned with the former youth pastor who had raped a girl having an income than they were with the abused family escaping domestic violence. I left and silently swore off organized religious institutions for good. It would be 5 years before I could step inside a church building without a panic attack, 5 years before I would give another church a chance, 7 years before I would trust again, before I would let any pastor or leader close to me, and eight years before I would feel safe at church again.

We did it all ourselves, terrified my father would hurt us, we hid the pictures and the family heirlooms, we snuck important documents and things out of the house, box by box.  The scariest part was getting the gun and bullets out of the house. Family friends ( one of the only families who didn’t just vanish and ignore us) had agreed to take us in. Everything was in my father’s name, the car, bank accounts, everything we had to get our freedom and autonomy piece by piece.  Finally, we were out, broken and weary but safe. Only 5 people from that church reached out to us, several to tell us they didn’t believe the accusations. I tried to tell them about who he was behind closed doors, but they were too shocked to hear me, and I was too tired to explain more. I knew the accusations were true. This whole time I was working the maximum hours I could at work, I was being stalked by my own father, who followed me from gas stations and showed up at work. He harassed all of us over text, demanding contact. His family texted us to bully us into talking to him. I was so lost during this time. I had been trained to be a good submissive daughter, and I had been a good girl and an active church member. I had forced myself into the mold, into the “girl they wanted”. I felt guilty by association, like the church wanted to punish me for the sins of my father. Maybe all those teachers, leaders, and books had been right; I was bad at my core, and the pastors finally saw it.

A few weeks later, my church was on the news again, but this time the sex offender was my own father. The statement from the pastors, the church building, and the property being shown. The reports were in the front yard of my childhood home. He had hurt my girls, my girls, the ones whom I had watched their entire lives, the ones I babysat. There are no words to describe the deep hatred for him that took root in me. He called that night, and I told him exactly where he could go and told him to stay away from my family. The pastors knew, they knew at that meeting, and they didn’t tell us. They didn’t ask me if I had been sexually abused or assaulted.  I was angry and cut everyone from that church off as soon as I could. I didn’t see or speak to my father for years after that, until we got word he was dying. My brother and I each went to see him separately, and I was still processing that meeting when his friend/caretaker emailed my brother and me to question our Christianity and commitment to Christ because we weren’t willing to welcome our father back into our lives. He included a very long list of scriptures on honoring your parents and forgiveness. I was shaken, and part of me wondered if he was right.

Religious Trauma is a growing epidemic in our nation; it goes so much deeper than “church hurt”, abuse, assault, and neglect by church leadership. Religious trauma is defined as emotional, psychological, or physical harm as a result of high control, fear-based, shame, legalistic, and manipulative tactics used by a relgious leader, institution, or community. Another definition is neglect or abandonment by relgious leader or community in the face of violence, abuse, natural disaster, or danger.  It is so much deeper than just “church hurt” or conflict among individuals. According to the national issue of health, most clinicians recognize Religious Traumatic Stress Disorder as a form of complex trauma, and there is a push to get it added to the DSM-5. I first learned of this term about a year ago while reading a memoir by Cait West called “The Rift.” It came up again in a psychology book and again in my therapy sessions. Relgious trauma has been one of the hardest parts of my story to recover from. The Lord said not to use his name in vain. Most people think that referring to curse words, but I wonder if he also meant not to use his name to hurt and shame other people. I have hesitated to talk about this because for years I was told to keep quiet, to not give anyone a bad reputation, to not rock the boat, but part of healing from both family abuse trauma and relgious trauma is taking back my voice, it’s telling my story, from my perspective.

It took years, but I have forgiven most of what happened in the stories above. I was angry at God, at the church, and almost swore off men in general in my pain, but through therapy, a healthy church, and pastoral counseling. For years, if I tried to attend a church service, I would have a panic attack or shake uncontrollably. At 27, I found a new church and slowly began to trust again. This is not even all the relgious trauma I acquired growing up, but those are mostly things I was witness to and are not my stories to tell.  I am still unlearning some of the messages and lies from the trauma; in fact, all the trauma is what led me to a very deep crisis of faith, and I will tell that part of the story in the next post. My journey of deconstruction and the journey of finding authentic faith.