When the Word Becomes a Weapon

Upon my exit from the land of Evangelical Culture, there was one thing that surprised me most. After all that time amid small groups, Bible studies, Bible classes in college, chapel, etc., the pages of my Bible were well worn and I enjoyed digging into the text. But after my departure, things changed. The words themselves were the same, but reading them left me numb. I did not respond to them as I once had. They seemed foreign to me. I struggled to separate the text itself from the hurtful manner in which it had been distorted - distortions that resulted in abuse, control, and oppression. Those distortions now clouded out the true meaning of the texts.

I had never heard anyone talk about this. I wondered if something was wrong with me or if anyone else had experienced this. I do still read my Bible, but it took a new approach to get me there.

Yesterday I can across an article documenting an experience very similar to my own. If you've ever been in that situation, are currently in that situation, or are simply curious, I would encourage you to read it. The article is a bit long, but worth it. Below is the link along with a few excepts I especially enjoyed.


How Do You Study the Bible After Someone Has Bludgeoned You With It? 
(Quick side note: The title totally reminds me of this clip from the movie "Saved!")

"I want the reader to read, hear, and know well that I would have done anything to be able to read and study like I had before the crushing blow of realization of spiritual abuse knocked me flat. I had to develop an entirely new relationship with the Word and Bible Study (based upon purer motives), and this did not come easily or quickly for me."

"I knew that I’d been shaken, but I had no idea how deeply all of this would affect me. I felt like an empty shell of a hypocrite who had started out to worship and serve and know God. My motives and my efforts were good, yet I’d been mixed up in horrible things and with some flawed and dangerous people, serving the church instead of God."

"For all of my diligent study and seeking God, neither my knowledge of the Bible nor the Holy Spirit in me protected me from this terrible harm! It seemed and felt like my whole religious experience had been flawed from the beginning, and I THOUGHT that I WAS standing “in His strength alone!” I’d done everything I knew to do to be wise and true, yet I’d believed a lie. Did I even have any radar? What good had it done me? I’d stumbled, fell, and I’d been hurt. In my black and white thought, it felt like the whole of the journey had been wrong, and it was the foundation for MY EVERYTHING.

The next morning, I picked up my Bible and *BAM*! For the first time in my life, those well-worn pages felt foreign and strange. I knew that book and could quote it and find in it what I could not quote by memory. I’d taken what was given to me and made it my own. Or had I?... At the time, the trauma was too intense for me to think clearly through the self-doubt. I went into an existential panic, unable to figure out what was really real. I knew those verses and I’d known what they meant."

"All I knew was that this Bible felt unsafe because I couldn’t trust myself at all. How did I know anything? I broke out into a cold sweat and wanted to vomit. I knew that Word was my best medicine, but if I couldn’t be sure about what it meant, the meaning I ascribed to the words could potentially be as bad as the poison I’d been ladling down my throat for four years in Mumford and Gothard Land. I’d taken it and had no clue that I’d been drinking something tainted. And then I felt anger that was so intense, I did not even understand it as anger."

"I don’t know how to communicate to you how deeply devastated I was. As I think back on it and having moved through this old pain, I cannot even really connect with the terrible pain anymore myself, a good thing. I mourned as if someone had died, but I wasn’t sure who had died. I think that a huge chunk of my carnal nature died, but a fantasy died too – one I’d lived in for most of my life."

I could go on, but I'll leave some of the article for you to read for yourself.  She goes on to explain what helped her work through it. The idea of this process being one of loss and mourning is one that resonates with me. Although I can't relate to every aspect of what she's saying, it's always comforting to know that this struggle isn't uncommon for those who have left unhealthy religious situations. If this is the journey that you are currently on, I hope you find help or comfort in this and I wish you all the best.

The Emotional Appeal

Did he really just say what I thought he said? I couldn't believe my ears. Here I was sitting in chapel at my Conservative Christian College. It was a Friday "praise chapel" which was all praise and worship rather than a speaker. The student who was leading the worship that day was talking about how easy it can be to go through the motions. He said "I'm sure we all know of the worship format of 2:3:2. Two slow songs to draw everyone in, three upbeat songs to pump them up, and two slower emotional songs to prepare them for the message." My ears perked up immediately. No, I didn't know that. I had no clue that there was a recognized formula for achieving the proper emotional response to your message. As much as I understand the need for leaders to be intentional about structuring a worship service, I couldn't help but feel a little manipulated. (Joel Wentz wrote a great article for Relevant about this very issue that I would highly recommend you read.)

During my time as an American Evangelical, I spent a few years within the more charismatic circles of the movement. A number of my close friends and roommates were involved with such movements, so it started when I began tagging along with them to various events. But there were two very distinct moments that opened my eyes to the issue of emotional manipulation within the church. I'd like to share those stories with you.

A Confession

This year, I'm making a point to attend the Wednesday Lenten prayer services. I don't know if prayer service is the right term, but it's probably the closest. These aren't prayer services in the way most Evangelicals would think of the term. They have a format closer to a regular church service and contain a scripture reading, music, and brief sermon. But their overall focus is to drive you towards prayer and contemplation, providing a period of silence for both. Last night's service was a service of darkness and light, with a candle procession. It was beautiful. But what has stuck with me most was the focus of the sermon the pastor gave.

As I've mentioned, Lent is a season that focuses on forgiveness. It is a time when we seek to forgive and learn what it means to be forgiven. During last night's sermon, the pastor (who is the youth pastor) told the story of a youth camping trip in which one young boy fell behind during the canoe portage as he struggled under the weight of the pack he was carrying. The pastor went back to find him and offered help. The stubborn young man gritted his teeth and stated "I can do it." As he slowly walked with the boy, the pastor asked "What will it take for you to let me help you? What do you have to prove?" He said that at that point he realized that this wasn't just about the pack. It was about all the struggles in this boy's life. It was about being the smallest, being bullied, being overlooked, etc. It was about all the burdens that he carried from the difficulties in his life. The pastor used this as a springboard to exhort the congregation to consider what burdens they are refusing to let go of, even when they are too much to bear.

It really made me think. As with anyone who has been hurt by the church, there are definitely areas in which I struggle to forgive. It's been beneficial to focus on those this Lenten season. (It's one reason I don't give anything up for Lent. I know that I would use the act of giving up sugar or TV to feel as though I was observing the season while I was actually avoiding the difficult act of forgiving those who've hurt me.) But as I started to think about what the larger burdens I carry from my painful exodus from Evangelicalism, I realized that there was one I haven't been acknowledging.

When The Church Is No Longer A Refuge: A Brief Follow Up

The previous post was something that I wrote a few years ago while processing through my decision to leave that particular congregation and heavily influenced my decision to return to a more liturgical tradition. It's a very personal story and not one that I share easily. I was not a soldier or a rape victim. My trauma sprung from involvement in a severe fatal multi-vehicle accident. As such, it's not as understood as trauma caused by more extreme experiences. To be fair, it caught me off guard as well. I wanted to share that story, because I know that there are others who have found themselves in similar circumstances.

I've heard many different stories of people who have left churches and regardless of the reasons, they all seem to share a common theme: the loss of one's sense of safety. For me, once I heard the preacher openly deny the existence of my experiences and saw members of the congregation agreeing with him, I not only felt like I would never be understood, but any sense of emotional security I had was stripped away. I felt vulnerable. I felt as if I could never let anyone know and if they found out I wouldn't be able to bear the pain of having to be accused of not trusting God enough all over again. Ironically, given the bad experiences I'd previously had with a Christian community over the same issue, just the act of going back to a church was a major step for me in trusting God.

I believe that experience was a large part of what led me to a more liturgical tradition (in my case a Lutheran Church, which is what I grew up in). I know that many find liturgy to be bland or dry and some wonder how you can still engage with words you repeat every week. Liturgy doesn't just provide phrases to repeat, it also moves the congregation through the church calendar and establishes the Bible passages to be used for sermon texts each week in accordance. I think liturgy helps to keep us more focused on the person and work of Christ, which is the center of our faith. Most Evangebapticostal churches do not utilize liturgy. In those congregations it is up to the pastor to decide what he/she feels the congregation should hear. Although there is nothing wrong with that, it often leads to pet issues being given prominence. How many of us know of churches where the pastor speaks about tithing/repentance/evangelism/sexual immorality at least once a month? In doing so, think of the percentage of time each year that is being dedicated to more minor theological issues. How is that distorting the behavior of the church?

I love liturgy because it doesn't go off on tangents about where man has failed God or what is wrong in our society. Rather it reminds us of the work and example of Jesus which challenges us to examine our own lives and behavior in light of such.

When I read the Gospels, the only people I see that seemed to feel unwelcome in the presence of Jesus were the fundamentalist religious leaders who couldn't understand why he would associate himself with the "unclean" masses. Their churches, like many of ours today, might as well have had a sign post out front reading, "You must be at least THIS holy to enter." But Jesus never seemed to use a spiritual measuring stick on others before deciding if he would interact with them. We read of him associating with tax collectors, adulterers, the poor, the disabled, the doubtful, and even the judgmental religious leaders themselves. He didn't just preach at them either. We read of him asking thoughtful questions, listening to their responses, and encouraging a dialogue that would make them think about things for themselves. His open arms were not paired with judgemental eyes. All were welcome. Can the same be said of your church?

For those of you who feel unsafe in most churches or in the presence of many Christians but still desire to seek God, don't give up. That's not a true reflection of Christ or what Christianity should be.  There are people and churches that aren't like that. And they are worth finding.

When the Church is No Longer a Refuge: Why I Decided to Leave American Evangelical Culture

I sunk lower and lower into my seat. When I had arrived, I imagined that the unforgiving wooden pew and lack of air conditioning would be the most uncomfortable things I would encounter that evening. Now I would gladly replace every piece of furniture in my house with these very pews if this would just stop. I glanced around and my heart broke even further as I noticed the heads nodding in agreement with the preacher. A few people throughout the congregation were softly proclaiming “Amen” as the words kept flowing from the pulpit. Each one was a knife slicing to my very core.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” I thought. “Maybe I need to listen more carefully. Maybe he’s not saying what I think he’s saying.”

So I listened more intently, trying to focus through the fog of pain I was making a futile attempt to suppress. I hadn’t misheard. The words were exactly what I’d thought they were.

“We rely too much on psychologists, psychiatrists, and drugs. Depression…Schizophrenia…Bi-polar…Anxiety…”

“Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Please stop.” I continued to silently pray. And that’s when the fatal blow came.

“…Post Traumatic Stress…We are not relying on God with these issues. We need to stop turning to psychologists and turn to God.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to make him stop. I wanted to let him know the destructive power of the words he was speaking. I wanted to tell him that he had no idea what it was like to struggle with trauma and have people in the church constantly telling you that if you were really trusting God this wouldn’t be happening. I wanted to tell him that he had absolutely no idea what it felt like to seemingly have your brain rewired in a matter of minutes. I wanted to tell him that sermons like this would make some people feel rejected by the church and ultimately by God. But I didn’t. I sat there frozen to the cold, hard, wooden seat glancing at my watch and hoping that the assault was almost over.

 After twenty minutes, which to me seemed like hours, he reached his conclusion. People around me were still smiling and nodding. The service wrapped up and we were dismissed. I saw a number of members greet the preacher and thank him for the wonderful and convicting sermon he had just delivered. I just hoped to reach the door before anyone stopped me to chat. I grabbed my coat and exited as quickly as I could. I didn’t pause until I was in my car with the engine running.

That’s when all the emotion that I had been holding back suddenly broke free. The tears were unstoppable. I felt absolutely crushed. Regardless of what had happened, people kept reminding me of the importance of attending a church, so I kept trying. But this continued to be the result. I was always taught that the role of the church was to bring healing to those who were hurting. So, that’s where I turned. I had quickly learned that by “those who were hurting” what most churches seemed to mean were unbelievers, teenagers that attended youth events, anyone encountered on a missions trip, and anyone else that would make for a good photo op or board meeting agenda item.  This sermon had only confirmed the harsh lesson that I had been learning over and over again: the majority of churches within American Evangelical Culture were completely unable and/or unwilling to help people work through long term psychological/emotional/mental issues. And in many cases, they denied such issues even exist.

I prayed that no one would suddenly go off their medication based upon that service. I thought of the generation of young soldiers that would be returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, many of whom who would return with mental health issues. I thought of young women working through the shame and trauma of rape, as well as countless other scenarios that could lead to traumatic stress. How would the church respond? And what can be done to help make sure this doesn’t keep happening?

I didn’t have any of those answers. Instead I just kept driving, because I wanted to get as far away as possible from what I’d just experienced. I turned up the radio trying to drown out the echo of his words and raced towards the safety of home.