My Own Story of Spiritual Abuse

Saved And Excited

My own experience with spiritual abuse happened when I was in my twenties and early thirties.  I had come to Christ when I was 18, during the Jesus People Movement in the early Seventies (what Time magazine called the Jesus Revolution).  I started going to a Christian coffeehouse begun by a man who was reaching out to disillusioned youth and leading hundreds to Jesus.  The kids affectionately called him Brother J (in order not to offend anyone who may remember this ministry, I will not use his full name).

Brother J was an imposing figure, tall and self-assured, with a deep voice that commanded attention.  I knew nothing about him except that he was a great Bible teacher. I was basically illiterate when it came to the scriptures, but under his instruction I learned a great deal about the Bible.  His sermons and Bible studies were full of both historical facts and practical applications, and I loved going to the Monday and Friday night meetings (eventually a Sunday service was added as well).   

Most of the people there were young like me, and we all had tremendous excitement for the Lord and what He was doing.  The little building we met in had only a few chairs, reserved for older people, so most of us would just sit cross-legged on the floor during the meetings.  There were no projectors in those days, and we had no hymnals, so worship consisted of simple songs and memorized choruses, often scripture verses put to music.  Every meeting was packed with enthusiastic young people.  Others called us Jesus freaks, but I didn’t mind at all.  To me it was a compliment.

For awhile everything was great.  I’d go to meetings and participated in street witnessing on Saturdays.  We’d go out two by two, passing out gospel tracts and engaging people in conversation (they were much more open to that in the Seventies than they are today).  I was chosen to be a deacon, which I considered to be a great honor.  I seldom had issues anymore with depression.  For the first time I was truly enjoying life.  Those were exciting years!  I graduated from college, married my college sweetheart, and began working as a teacher in the private Christian school our church had.  I was thrilled to be serving the Lord in full-time ministry.

Serving The Lord In Ministry

One problem, though,  was that we were only paid sporadically.  I was told that our paychecks were dependent on the offerings and that funds weren’t always available.  “We’re living by faith,” Brother J told me.  “We trust God to meet our needs.”  I was still young and naive, and I assumed it was like this for anyone working in ministry.   Thankfully my wife was still working, so we basically survived on her income.

After a few years, the ministry acquired a farm in a small Connecticut town.  The plan was to move the ministry there, so we began working every Saturday to prepare the property.  This meant an end to the Saturday street witnessing, except for an occasional outing.  These Saturday workdays were mandatory for deacons and elders.  We were expected to be there every week, and those who didn’t show up were berated (and removed as deacons).   That should have been a red flag, but I didn’t question it.  We weren’t allowed to question the pastor’s decisions.

We renovated an old chicken coop, making half of it a barn and converting the other half into an office, two classrooms, and a storage area.  A large addition was built on the farmhouse (which was now Brother J’s home) for a girls’ rehabilitation ministry that the church ran.  Eventually a chapel was added to the house, and we no longer met in the little building in the city.  We were literally out on our own in a small, isolated Connecticut town.

The mandatory Saturday workdays were all-day affairs.  After the buildings were renovated the work shifted to maintenance.  The lawn had to be mowed, the cow field mucked, the barn cleaned and disinfected, fences repaired, and so on.  Occasionally these tasks were completed early, but we weren’t allowed to leave early.  Instead there was an activity called “moving the woodpile.”  We had a large stack of firewood for the girls’ house, and if there was nothing left to do we would be told to move the woodpile to the other side of the driveway.  Often within a week or two we’d end up moving it back to its previous location.  Some of the men grumbled about this senseless work, but we would be told “it builds character.”

Changes

By then Brother J had begun referring to himself as Pastor J (“a more respectable and accurate title”), and we all followed the change.  Sadly, it wasn’t the only change.  Pastor J had been diagnosed with a debilitating disease, and soon he began dialysis treatments at home.  This was a costly arrangement and was an additional explanation for sporadic paychecks.  Of course we didn’t complain about that.

Though the dialysis treatments increased and the pastor was taking a wide assortment of medications, his health continued to decline.  His temperament also slowly changed.  He became increasingly angry and began to lash out without warning, usually at his staff.  We never knew what would set him off, and felt like we were walking on eggshells.  The more he lost control over his health, the more controlling– and demanding– he became of everything else.  We were not allowed to question his authority or decisions.

By this time our first child had arrived and my wife left work to stay at home and care for him.  Our financial situation became perilous.  It was impossible to do any budgeting since we never knew when a paycheck would come, and my meager income simply wasn’t enough to cover all the bills.  Fortunately my wife was very frugal, but we were always just scraping by.

I began tracking when the paychecks came, jotting a dollar sign on my desk calendar when I received one.   Pastor J discovered this and I was severely rebuked for my “lack of faith” and ordered to stop doing it.  On another occasion I wanted to apply for food stamps (we definitely qualified).  All I needed was proof of income.  When I asked Pastor J about it, he exploded.  “It’s nobody’s business what I pay you!”  Needless to say, I never got the foodstamps.  

As tax season approached, a day would arrive when I’d be called into the office and presented with a huge check that covered all the wages I had missed.  I was told that in fact there were no funds to cover the check, and I would have to sign it over to the ministry.  “It’s just for bookkeeping purposes,” I  was told.  Knowing nothing about bookkeeping, I did as I was told.  This went on for ten years, and I assumed it was just the way business was done in a ministry.  I had nothing to compare my experience to, so I just accepted it as normal.

Doing The Work Of Two

The school had two classrooms, one for the girls in the rehab program and one for children from the church families.  We used curriculum from Accelerated Christian Education.  Basically it was a self-study packet program.  The teachers (or “supervisors,” as we were called) would monitor students’ progress, give tests and assign new packets, and do one-on-one tutoring as needed.

One day the other teacher left.  We had no substitutes, so I literally had to run back and forth between the two classrooms to keep everything going.  When I asked when another teacher would be hired, I was told, “We’re still looking.”

Believe it or not, this went on for almost a year.  I kept asking about a replacement, and kept being told “Soon.”  One day Pastor J dropped into the school and asked how I was doing.  I jokingly replied, “Well, you’re either going to have to buy me roller skates or tear down the wall between these classrooms.”

The next morning I arrived to find two of the other pastors tearing down the wall.

Overworked And Dying Inside

By this time I was teaching all the students, five days a week (a task that had previously been done by two people).  I was also directing and teaching Sunday school, going to the Saturday workdays, writing articles and proofreading a newspaper we published periodically, running an adult Bible Institute on Thursday nights, attending Bible study on Monday nights, and praise and worship meetings on Friday nights.  On top of that, the church had started an evangelistic outreach for children, which my wife and I coordinated.  That meant I was at the church six and a half days and three nights a week.  Obviously this put a strain on my marriage.  Life was becoming increasingly complicated and difficult to manage.

I had been almost depression free for a few years after getting saved.  But the depression had now returned worse than before.  I was frequently exhausted from all the work I was doing. I was also getting tension headaches almost daily, and kept a large bottle of Extra Strength Excedrin in my desk at school. 

I had become terrified of Pastor J because of his increasingly frequent outbursts of anger.  My hands would literally shake whenever he came into the school, and I would hide them so he wouldn’t see.  At deacons’ meetings I would always sit behind someone bigger than me so I wouldn’t be in his line of vision, because we never knew who would be the object of his wrath next.

But one day, in desperation, I went to talk to him.  I told him I was having some problems and asked if he knew of a psychiatrist he could recommend.  He looked at me and said, “Psychiatry is for pagans.”  That was the end of the discussion.

By now I’m sure you’re asking, “Why on earth did you stay?”  My wife had wanted us to leave the church for some time.  But the church was my whole life.  I was terrified that I would lose all my friends, since all of them went to that church.  I had a very low opinion of myself and was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find another job.  I was also afraid of failing God, afraid that He would be angry with me if I left the ministry.  I felt trapped but saw no way out.

Beginning Of The End

And then the unthinkable happened.  While on vacation in Block Island, Pastor J had a massive heart attack and died.  The years of dialysis had put a strain on his heart.  When I heard the news, I was both saddened and confused.  I felt guilty, because along with the grief, I was also feeling a sense of relief.  “Maybe now things will change,” I thought.

Things did change– but not for the better.  Pastor J’s oldest son took over the ministry, along with his mother.  We had three other pastors at the time, and it soon became apparent that there were problems.  The pastors wanted changes, but the founding family wanted to maintain the status quo.  Soon there was a struggle for control.  Since I was at the church so much, I was aware that something was wrong, though I didn’t know all the details.

One day Pastor J’s son called me into the chapel.  He said that there was a possibility of a church split coming, and I would have to decide whose side I was on.  Then he told me that if I decided to leave the church, I would be fired from my job.

Not long after this, all three pastors left.  I was mentally and emotionally a mess.  I knew I desperately needed help, but there was now no one I could go to.  After discussing it with my wife, I went to Pastor J’s son and told him I would be leaving the church.  He asked me for my keys and told me I had an hour to gather my things and get off the property.

The next days were a confused blur.  Many people were calling the pastors and asking what had happened.  They were not given details, only told to pray about what they should do.  Some had a hard time with this because they were so accustomed to being told what to do.

Although I had left, my problems were far from over.  When I filed for unemployment, Pastor J’s son challenged my eligibility, claiming that he had not fired me and that I was welcome to return to work.  I had no savings, nothing to live on, and this almost pushed me over the edge.  The case went to arbitration, and fortunately the man in charge saw my distress.  He ruled that I was under no obligation to return to the job because the church split had undoubtedly altered the working environment, and to my immense relief my unemployment compensation was approved.  

A New Beginning

A new chapter of my life had begun.  But it would be many years– decades, in fact– before I was healed of the spiritual abuse I had been under.  It took much prayer, deliverance, and counseling.  I have to admit that even though much time has passed, I am still sometimes affected by it.  If I am stressed or anxious about something, I still have dreams in which Pastor J is berating me.

God has performed a wonderful transformation in my life.  I no longer suffer from the low self-esteem and poor self image I once had.  I have discovered my true identity in Christ, and this has given me increased confidence and peace.  I continue to love and serve the Lord.  But what I went through will always be a part of who I am.

I’m okay with that, because I know that God can bring purpose out of pain.  He can take our mess and give us a message.  My hope is that in writing this blog and sharing my experiences, others will find hope and healing.  I truly am living the transformed life.  You can, too.

 

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Related Posts:

“Spiritual Abuse in the Church Today”

“I Sat In Darkness”