Author’s Note: This post deals at length with the sensitive issues of church trauma and mental health. My objective is to share my own experiences dealing with these topics, not to use them as a template for how Christians should handle them or offer advice. If you are struggling with depression, anxiety, or the impact of spiritual abuse, please seek sound pastoral counseling and, if necessary, talk to your doctor.
It happened on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t know why I remember that because, apart from being a showcase for my love of Irish punk rock, the holiday doesn’t offer much to me. That year, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Friday night, and I was at home watching movie musicals. At the time, my husband worked nights, so Friday night movies on the couch with my dog and cat were a regular occurrence.
Chicago had just ended when the key turned in the lock, and Curtis came through the front door, his battered, plastic lunchbox smashing against the doorjamb. He lumbered into the living room, a beleaguered look on his face, then met my eyes. He did not sit down.
He coldly announced that we were “done” at the church we’d been attending for the last five years, and that this weekend’s service would be our last one.
On TV, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renee Zellweger were singing “I Move On” over the scrolling end credits. “Say that again?” I said.
He sat on the couch and told me about the events that unfolded that evening, which had led him to the decision. He looked hurt, but primarily, he seemed exhausted.
Me? I was relieved. The past few years had been a struggle, with us feeling like misfits in our congregation. I felt belittled and misunderstood in various aspects, from my writing not conforming to strictly Christian genres to my battle with depression, which was often attributed to a lack of faith.
The burden of legalistic demands in domestic life, spiritual practice, and entertainment was crushing. Every week felt like a new adventure in how I’d disappointed God, and over the past several months, I’d begun to wonder if I had lost my salvation or if I had ever been saved to begin with.
My husband telling me we were “done” was equivalent to having police break down the door where I was being held hostage and telling me I was safe.
I’m leaving out a lot of stuff.
A week later, someone we knew invited us to his church. We visited a couple of times, then ended up staying. The people were kind, loving, and true models of what it means to weep with those who weep.
Slowly, I began to regain my sense of reality, letting go of the paranoia and suspicion I’d developed in an environment where I constantly felt the need to defend myself.
I felt better. I had people to comfort me.
But the thing is, I wasn’t actually healing.
There is a difference between telling someone who has been through spiritual abuse that they are okay and actually giving them what they need to be made well: the comfort, conviction, and resolution that can only come from God’s Word.
Several years later, Curtis and I left that congregation under much less dramatic circumstances for the church we now attend. One beautiful aspect of our church community is its commitment to teaching biblical truth and helping people apply it.
Sometime after we began attending, I made a new friend named Pam1. Eventually, I grew comfortable enough with her to share my experiences. She comforted me with the truth that salvation is irrevocable and that those who belong to Christ are His forever.2 She told me how happy she was that Curtis and I were now a part of that church.
But then, she revealed something that shocked me. As I described the areas of conflict I’d faced with people in our old congregation, she told me that, biblically speaking, there was some truth to several of their concerns.
For example, if a brother or sister is struggling with depression, it is reasonable and loving to ensure that the person is not ignoring underlying sin or spiritual issues that could be contributing to the problem. This is sound biblical counsel and is profoundly different from making accusations of faithlessness, telling them to “just read your Bible more,” or questioning their salvation.
After that conversation with Pam, two things happened. First, I began to wonder if there really were any spiritual issues that could be contributing to my mental health.3Second, I realized that although their words were poorly chosen, some of the people at our church who hurt me may honestly have thought they were doing the right thing.
I’d never considered these possibilities before, but now, as difficult as it was to comprehend, I couldn’t un-see them. As I studied scripture, prayed,4 and sought wise counsel from people at church, I discovered that residual bitterness from years of accumulated church hurt indeed had worsened my depression. Twisted perceptions of myself and God had never been fully straightened out. Some had never been dealt with at all.
This newfound understanding was transformative. It allowed my mind to be renewed so I could let go of the reflexive emotional responses that were necessary in the initial stages of processing my trauma but were no longer serving me. For the first time, I could see my past from God’s perspective.
But there was another benefit to this process. It changed my writing in a powerful way.
In Why I Dyed My Hair Purple & Other Unorthodox Stories, which releases one week from today, I explore a few key instances of my spiritual abuse. These moments are essential to my story, and I believe people need to hear them to grasp the book’s full message.
However, it was also important to me that there be no hint of unrighteous anger or bitterness in those pieces so that I would show honor to those involved and not diminish my Christian testimony in the process.5
That wasn’t the case with my early essays on this topic, though. One draft, in particular, pulsated with unresolved rage. I ended up replacing it with a piece I wrote in the final month of revisions, one that dealt specifically with the impact of my trauma on my view of the relationship between art and faith and showcased my attempt to understand the concerns that lay at the heart of the conflict.
This essay was a milestone for me, and it is the piece in the book that I am most proud of. It was the culmination of my effort to leave behind many emotional burdens that I had been willfully carrying when the Lord had called me long ago to lay them down.6
I was able to freely write about a hurtful experience while also acknowledging the perspective and the humanity of the other individuals involved.
It is possible to write honestly about painful experiences while also preserving and recognizing the dignity of others, showing them the grace and mercy that our Lord shows us daily.
I have a lot more to say about this topic, but constraints related to setting, audience, and length prevent me from doing so here. However, if you want more, you’re in luck. This week, I'm a guest on The Purposeful Pen with Amy Simon!
In our interview, I discuss the need for sensitivity in writing about challenging emotional topics.
But first…what about you? Have you ever written about something hard you’ve been through? What advice do you have to share with people who may need encouragement?
Drop your thoughts in the comments.
Not her real name.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand” (John 10:27-29.)
Mental health issues are a complicated topic. God has gloriously designed our bodies to be complicated instruments, but because we live in a fallen world, there is much that can go wrong with neurology, hormones, etc. Difficult life circumstances can bring about anxiety and depression. As I’ll discuss shortly, there can be spiritual causes related to unresolved emotions.
To make matters more complicated, all of these areas can influence each other, and in many cases, it can be difficult to untangle them. Charles Spurgeon, who suffered from depression his entire life, even wrote the following: “As to mental maladies, is any man altogether sane? Are we not all a little off the balance? Some minds appear to have a gloomy tinge to their very individuality; of them it may be said, ‘Melancholy marked them for her own; fine minds withal, and ruled by noblest principles, but yet most prone to forget the silver lining and remember only the cloud.’”
“Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!” (Psalm 139:23-24)
“Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.” (James 1:19-20)
“Cast your burden on the LORD, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved” (Psalm 55:22).
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