My story of spiritual abuse

The tragic reality of wolves among sheep ⛪️

Embraced by community

In early 2017, I learn that a longstanding nightmare has become reality. A jar of family secrets is pried open, and with no preparation, pain oozes over. Life will never look the same. That fall, I move to Georgia, seeking a safe haven for my uncontained grief. I ache for belonging, comfort, and direction.

As a Christian, I assume the ideal place to remake my life is among a community of believers. I waste no time and visit a church the first Sunday in my new state. This church is known for being transcultural, and as an Asian American who often feels misplaced, there isn’t a warmer invitation. The racial and ethnic diversity of the congregation draws me in. From start to finish, the sermon is compelling, sprinkled with phrases like if we’re being honest, followed by admissions of our humanness. We are reminded of a good and holy God. The senior pastor’s theological intelligence and spirit-filled passion are undeniable, a refreshing pair of traits. Since my first visit is so invigorating and unlike anything I’ve witnessed, I don’t think to visit elsewhere.

Anonymity doesn’t last long. Somehow, the mid-service “greet your neighbor” moments aren’t all sweat and mumbling. I meet friends in these short minutes—a first for me. People love being at the church, mingling long after the service concludes. We go out for lunch and get to know one another. They show me new pockets of the city. I even catch someone’s attention, and he and I become fast friends. I sign a 30+ page handbook and become a church member, agreeing to abide by a lengthy set of standards. I start volunteering with the kids and it’s a real delight. Sundays are the brightest day of my week.

I befriend more church members and quickly find myself enfolded into what they call a “spiritual family.” Though the word family is laden with sadness, I let these new experiences and interactions reshape its meaning. It feels redemptive to share life’s joys and sorrows together. When my station wagon breaks down, I’m given a sedan. When I try new treatment for chronic illness, they raise money. When I doubt myself, they name the good that they see. I watch their children, drop off groceries, leave them letters, pray for them in earnest. This interdependent life is beautiful, threaded with a mutual giving and receiving, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I’m an Enneagram Type 2 with a history in vocational ministry.¹ So it makes sense when six months in, I start working at the church as an unpaid intern. My time is split between administrative work and starting a disability ministry. When I share with staff why disabled people should experience belonging and access more opportunities in our church, I get mixed reactions. Some are supportive. Others don’t see a need for change. We already have those parking spots out back, they say. I try to educate and foster awareness, approaching this dear ministry vision and each step with care. My manager, an associate pastor, gives guidance on next steps. He says I must create a proposal—a pitch to show the senior pastor and board why the ministry matters. I spend months putting one together, learning the art of persuasion because I hear this is what it will take.

Just a little intern

When I begin my internship, I’m vulnerable, deferential, and insecure. I remind myself I’m a lowly staff member, just thankful to be included and given a chance at ministry. I do almost anything I’m asked because I believe it’s good for my character. Although I’m not in the healthiest position to lead, I offer my honest best. People describe me as sweet. So, so sweet.

As a lifelong rule-follower, I quickly learn the dos and don’ts of the work culture. Top of the list? Never approach or greet [senior pastor] in the hallway. He has a lot going on. It’s an odd rule, considering it hadn’t been a problem before joining staff. But I don’t want to hinder God’s work upstairs, so I do as I’m told. When he walks by and compliments my looks, I say nothing.

In all-hands meetings, we learn leadership principles and participate in interesting discussions with our tables. There’s always something new for me to ponder, and I like that. My internship team helps me spot and utilize my strengths. It’s been a while since I felt intelligent or capable, so the encouragement from my peers and manager means a lot.

The senior pastor usually leads our meetings, and I notice he is different than when onstage. He says he can command a room with his presence and charisma, and he’s right. Maybe that’s why few say anything when he makes crass remarks about people on his team and in his care. His jokes turn to sex—so often, sex—and I’m instructed earmuffs, Erika! He tells the others we don’t want sweet little Erika to hear, do we? If I overhear, I’m told not to Google terms later. In my naïveté, I think this is kindness. After all, he says the church values women. And in a denomination historically full of white men, my presence as a Japanese woman must confirm this is true. I try to be less “uptight” and tolerate his flippant words, but I’m not among those who chime in. Only the male staff from his boys’ club do.

To my surprise, I’m invited to meetings for scripture interpretation. Those in attendance are to read the Bible together, discuss critical parts of the text, and help prepare upcoming sermons. The minds in that room are smart—quicker than many—and I’m ready to learn from them. I’m cautioned to stay quiet unless called on, and I understand. I’m just lucky to be here.

As we vote on quippy sentences for the senior pastor’s teachings, I realize his priority is the “Sunday show.” Whatever gets the people here! he says. This work is part of a marketing strategy, elevated above the sacred text or our service to others. I watch as seedling sermons grow into a harvest ready for public consumption. It doesn’t feel right pruning one-liners and hooks till they impress. I keep quiet as instructed, then get reprimanded for not speaking up enough. I’m laughed at, told if I don’t share my opinion, they’ll get in trouble for “not valuing women.”

Imagine my increased confusion when one meeting, the senior pastor tells me (and no one else) where to sit. I obey and take my seat, facing him. While others read their Bibles, I catch him staring me up and down. He flexes his pecs and smirks. I pretend I don’t see, appalled at the behavior and too nervous to call him out. This won’t be the only time.

When I’m not in meetings, I spend most of my hours alone, steeped in researching a theology of hospitality and disability. My notes and thoughts and heart reach new margins. Eventually, I start interviewing disabled church members and their families. In these discussions, I focus on listening to their stories and ideas. We think about what avenues can be created for care and connection at the church, but I’m torn. By now, I’m aware Sunday services are a product. The sincerity and unity from stage is mostly for looks, polished hundreds of times over. Behind it all is a bully and his struggling, submissive staff. How could I welcome families to a sanctuary like this?

People in the Sunday aisles trust us to guide them towards truth. They scribble their private needs and doubts and fears onto prayer cards. They move towards the altar at the end of a morning, sharing their burdens. From time to time, I hear the senior pastor tattling rumored details from a card. People’s personal lives are preyed on and even laughed at by the leader they likely trust the most. I’m at a loss on what to do. Challenging the man with spiritual authority isn’t an option. I would be seen as too sensitive or stepping out of line. And besides, who would listen to an intern?

Unexpectedly, my manager resigns from the church and the senior pastor becomes my new boss. Under his leadership, what I witness and experience worsens. After taking a risk and surfacing my concerns to certain staff members, I’m led to believe it’s “just the trauma talking” from my past. They remind me I’m lucky to be there. So many women would want to be in your position.² I wonder if I’m speaking nonsense.

Finding my backbone

If our bodies have smoke detectors, then mine is incessant with beeping. Some might call this the Holy Spirit, others would say intuition. Whatever it is, knowing the truth of my church feels like a forbidden secret.

I finally have candid conversations with a former therapist and people close to me. They validate my experience and point out the mistreatment from my senior pastor and a few others within the church. I learn other staff members share rising concerns and their own stories of harassment. We walk around in fear, nervous systems frayed and fragile, wondering what to do next. I pull away from optional meetings, blaming it on burnout.

At the height of my discomfort, I’m offered a full-time position at the church. The salary and responsibilities might’ve gleamed with promise nine months before, but now, there is no luster. I perceive the out-of-nowhere opportunity is to keep me quiet and dependent, a tiny pawn in a complex game. When I turn down the offer, it surprises and infuriates the senior pastor. Speaking to me in whispers, he looks me up and down from his seat, spreads his legs, and asks, Erika, am I trustworthy to you? The whole thing—the question, his posture, that tone—makes me want to puke. He knows I’m not doing well and asks if he can process with me. It seems he wants a window into my emotional life, and I refuse to give it. Process what? I ask. In response, he raises his voice and arms, shouting that he just wants to be my pastor. The meeting rollercoasters till the end, when he extends an open invitation to come for dinner and to cry with him whenever I need.³ I have no interest in such a thing.

The next day, I visit a gym with a newer friend—an associate pastor’s wife—and run into the senior pastor and his wife. (Later, I find out this isn’t his usual gym, but he’d learned I’d be there and showed up.) He gives pointers as I attempt to work out and stares as I try squats for the first time, saying things like you’re a natural. Near the end of my workout, he comes over and whispers, I can’t wait to watch you get swole, and my face burns with disgust. He asks me to join for dinner, and I decline. The whole scene feels like a strange short film. What is happening?

A week or two after, he approaches me in between Sunday services, stating he has personal and professional things to talk about. For the professional, he asks me to return to the optional meetings because he values what I have to say. A faint flicker of courage leads me forward, and I tell him the meetings aren’t for me and that I hadn’t felt valued. He asks me to “prayerfully reconsider,” but I tell him I won’t, my mind is made up. Even with my resistance, he shifts the conversation, whispering, when do we get to cry together? I tell him there’s nothing to cry about and he responds with I was hoping to cry with you… you just need to release your tears. I don’t need or want comfort from this married man, spiritual leader, and CEO.⁴

I notice he moves on to praising me in public and berating me in private. Eventually, he mocks me in front of the whole staff, making fun of what I’d shared during a church-wide prayer gathering. Just the night before, live from stage, he’d thanked me in front of the congregation, affirming my words. I’m not sure what to expect when I show up to work or worship. Am I respected, hated, or both?

Somehow, my backbone strengthens, giving me an unforeseen bravery. As the absurdity increases, I gain more clarity. I know what I need to do.

The idea makes me feel sick. I think up all of my worst fears—losing my reputation, community, ministry, and almost-relationship with the worship pastor’s brother. Since I’m generally well-liked, I tell myself the fears are unrealistic and irrational, but I can’t let them go. I could silently walk away, let everyone think I’d had a mental and emotional crisis, and move on. It’s not so easy, though. I imagine another woman in my place—maybe a timid intern, wounded by her father, doubtful of herself, ripe for manipulation. I want to protect her.

So I give my two weeks’ notice to the senior pastor. In that same conversation, he pushes for clarity, asking if I felt he’d “wedged his way into my life.” It’s the same phrase I’d used the day before when confiding in a church friend who I thought held my trust. I share how uncomfortable he’s made me feel and he says he never meant it that way. I can’t know for certain, but his lines sound perfectly rehearsed. Each statement is a classic portrayal of gaslighting and playing the victim. (Although I don’t see this with precision at the time, it’s obvious when I look back.)

At one point, he mentions this might sound weird, but I’ve watched you from afar and I see your light has dimmed. When I bring up how he’d made fun of me in front of the staff, he says that was me simply trying to lean in close to you. And later, with zero lead-up, he says to me with pride in his voice that he’s never doubted his love or marriage to his wife. I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is: good for you, I guess?

When there isn’t much else to say, I offer to help with the transition for a week, but he says it wouldn’t be wise for me. It’s best if I left immediately. On my way out, his assistant thanks me “on behalf of the women” for standing up for myself. My departure is quick and quiet. Most coworkers think I’ve left because of my mental health. I lose the disability ministry and everything I’d worked for, unable to share with families why.

Next, I submit a statement to the all-male board, detailing what I’d observed and experienced over my internship. A few others do the same. The board says they will take this seriously, and I believe them. I’m interviewed for four hours by attorneys, my personal life dissected from more angles than seems necessary. But I comply. I’m told conversations are happening, and the senior pastor is aware of what I’ve submitted.

The aftermath

I attend the church for several more months, waiting for the truth to be revealed. My hope is to see true reform, starting with the senior pastor’s contrition. Instead, sermons are preached on division in the church, keeping from slander or gossip, and staying submitted to spiritual authority. Each Sunday I sit in my seat, flushed and nauseated. I’m nervous I’ve sinned against God by speaking up.

Staying doesn’t feel quite right, but the idea of leaving is devastating. The booklet I’d signed as a member states what “healthy parting” from the church looks like. You are to discuss the matter with leadership, preserve unity, and not harm God’s work. But what happens when the senior pastor brings harm to God’s people?

As whispers of the statements and investigation get out, I share my story with church friends. Some believe me and are shocked, angry, ready to leave. Others are in denial. Those who can’t accept my story express a common sentiment. At a point of vulnerability, the senior pastor had shown them great kindness or support, and they feel indebted. He’d alleviated their shame and made them feel special after years of rejection and been a father figure when they had none. They wrestle to make sense of this man’s failings amidst his goodness. Maybe this is why they choose to stand by him, the one with power. Just like I feared, these friendships crumble.

Possibly the worst heartbreak is when my almost-relationship falls apart in a day. We’re in the church parking lot as he gives one reason why we can’t see each other: God told me. When I ask if this is because of what’s happened at church, he refuses to hear my side of the story. I don’t know what he’s been told, but when I drive off scream-sobbing into my steering wheel, I doubt it was from God. Out of everyone, I’d expected him to stick by my side and be a voice for change. Another fear is fully realized, and it feels wronger than wrong.

A statement from the board never comes, and I don’t know why. They seem like genuinely good-hearted men and not the type to conceal an investigation. I’m flabbergasted to see the senior pastor continue leading, even when scripture and common sense would say he is disqualified.⁵ Instead of admitting wrongdoing, he speaks ill of anyone who stands for the truth. He tells the elders I’m hysterical, can’t be trusted. I finally rescind my membership and leave. How does one have a “healthy parting” from a church sick at its core? It doesn’t seem possible.

The senior pastor smears my reputation once I’m gone, spreading rumors of impropriety and scandal. The lies are baseless, birthed only from retaliation. I’d dutifully upheld purity culture’s expectations and never kissed one person in my life. Now, none of it seemed to matter. My soul is in anguish over the despicable rumors and my trampled-on name. I’m shut out from the community I’d fallen in love with and betrayed by members of my own spiritual family. A long darkness settles over me.

Within six months of leaving the church, I learn that the board mysteriously dwindles, elders and a few associate pastors leave, and a “mass exodus” of attendees go, too. Plenty still stay. Several folks reach out, reminding me to pursue reconciliation and forgiveness, no matter the cost. It’s what God wants, they say. Their principles aren’t wrong, but the God I know would want to protect the oppressed and heal the wounds of the rejected.⁶ I’m broken, yes, but confident in my decision. I refuse to return to the place of my abuse.

Still standing

After my reputation was marred and I was no longer well-liked, I could practically hear that idol of people-pleasing topple over. It needed to. Although I’ve wondered hundreds of times if speaking up was worth everything I lost, I haven’t regretted it. If anything, I’ve had to work through the shame of not acting sooner. I hated myself for not being wiser and for tolerating as much as I did. Even after I’d been severely wronged, I still asked what’s wrong with me?

Six months after leaving, I was diagnosed with PTSD. My mind and body were in a constant state of panic and dissociation. I must have more emotional fortitude than I thought, because enduring that aftermath was hell. I still have nightmares about it.

It’s now been five years since I spoke up and turned the idea of a sweet little Erika upside down. People-pleasing had been my forte and in some ways, a lifeline. When I joined that church, this way of relating to others started to conflate with my desire to obey God. I had such a small view of myself and couldn’t form my own thoughts or opinions. Because of this, I found strong spiritual authority appealing. Their words and counsel gave me tracks to run on. If something felt off, I assumed it was my fault—I was either too legalistic, too dumb, or too hurt. After enough time on staff, I witnessed life beyond the curtain, and found man’s selfishness on the other side. I entrusted my wounds to spiritual leaders and in the end, those places of vulnerability were used against me.

My goal is no longer to be sweet or liked by everyone. It’s to stand for and with the truth. I’ve had to grieve and heal and let time carry on, and five years has given me the space to do that. Sharing my story in public now is another way to say this is not okay. Because abuse never is.

When I first learned about spiritual abuse, I felt like my experiences were deciphered in an instant.⁷ I realized my story was one of countless examples where power had been misused in a religious environment. Spiritual abuse isn’t always easy to name or spot, though. I think that’s what makes this type of abuse so insidious. You can experience community and healing and God’s presence and joy in the very same place as deceit and manipulation and awful, no-good things done in God’s name. And sometimes, those no-good things won’t be obvious because leaders “talk a good line,”⁸ people you trust surround you, or you’ve experienced such beauty and growth it doesn’t seem possible for weeds to proliferate.

If you’re reading and nodding along or feeling understood—first, I’m so sorry. I want you to know your pain and confusion are real. As I wrote this post over the last month, I thought of you, hoping these words might clarify your experience and strengthen you for whatever you do next.

I wish I could promise that you won’t lose something dear or justice will show up soon, but I can’t. In fact, five years later, and I’m still rebuilding what was lost. It takes time. And yet, my someday hope is that as wounded as we are, we might also become healers.⁹ Maybe there could be a world in which communities and organizations become safer through the compassion, strength, and truth-telling of people like us.

It’s a good dream, but for now? I’d really like you to know you aren’t alone as you sort through the destruction of spiritual abuse. May courage surprise you, steady you, and lead you forward. ❤️‍🩹 —E.T.

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1. While on staff, I learned that volunteers tend to be an Enneagram 2: “The Helper.” And interestingly, most of the male leaders on staff were an Enneagram 8: “The Challenger.”

2. After writing this, I found the following quote by Wade Mullen, whose work I really appreciate:

“When you start to exercise your voice and agency, those who would prefer you to stay silent and powerless might try to use your past trauma against you by suggesting you still have a lot of healing to do, are clouded by bitterness, are emotionally unhealthy, and so forth. They want you to doubt yourself and stand down. Knowing that, doing the opposite would then be to believe in yourself and stand up. Your past might actually be the reason you see so clearly now, insist on fairness, and get rightly upset over injustice.” —Wade Mullen, Something’s Not Right

3. Only a small number of people knew where he lived or had ever been invited over. My “open invite” was another example used to remind me how “lucky” I was.

4. The pastor often referred to himself as the CEO. This makes sense, considering he ran the church like a company.

5. “If anyone wants to provide leadership in the church, good! But there are preconditions: A leader must be well-thought-of, committed to his wife, cool and collected, accessible, and hospitable. He must know what he’s talking about, not be overfond of wine, not pushy but gentle, not thin-skinned, not money-hungry. He must handle his own affairs well, attentive to his own children and having their respect. For if someone is unable to handle his own affairs, how can he take care of God’s church?” —1 Timothy 3:1-5 (The Message)

6. “We forget that anything done in the name of God that does not bear his character through and through is not of him at all. In our forgetting, we are more loyal to the words of humans than to the commandments of God.” —Diane Langberg, Redeeming Power

7. I highly recommend listening to The Allender Center’s podcasts on spiritual abuse.

8. “Now Jesus turned to address his disciples, along with the crowd that had gathered with them. ‘The religion scholars and Pharisees are competent teachers in God’s Law. You won’t go wrong in following their teachings on Moses. But be careful about following them. They talk a good line, but they don’t live it. They don’t take it into their hearts and live it out in their behavior. It’s all spit-and-polish veneer.’” —Matthew 23:1-3 (The Message)

9. “Whether we try to enter into a dislocated world, relate to a convulsive generation, or speak to a dying person, our service will not be perceived as authentic unless it comes from a heart wounded by the suffering about which we speak.” —Henri Nouwen, The Wounded Healer