Scapegoats

Humans have a tendency to to look for scapegoats - individuals or groups who are blamed for difficulties and  problems, regardless of whether or not they are guilty. In the old testament the Israelites used real goats, sending them out into the wilderness. Today we only have to read the paper or listen to our politicians to see that we still scapegoat, choosing certain groups or individuals to blame for society's ills, sending them out into the wilderness of poverty, loneliness and shame.

There was a time in my life when I realised that a group of people I loved in my church were forming that response towards me. As humans we don't do well when we are shamed and shunned, and the traumatic stress of this experience triggered anxiety and depression that caused such relentless suffering I longed for the respite of death.

It was a darkness beyond any I have ever experienced and, during that time, there was no sense of God and no being comforted by feeling Their loving presence.

And so on Friday, as I read Matthew's crucifixion narrative I was drawn to to his description of Jesus. I saw a man immersed in an unnatural darkness, questioning God, "Why, why have you abandoned me?". I saw a man who was also scapegoated by people he loved, who also experienced suffering and, literally in this instance, profound darkness.

I saw a man at his time of greatest need feeling abandoned by God.

Since my traumatic experience, many portrayals of God are no longer helpful for me. But as I cautiously tiptoe towards the core of my faith, I find this scapegoat God, an abandoned by God God, and a God who models what it is to continue to love - even when scapegoated, even when feeling abandoned, even in the place of unbearable suffering and darkness.

For me, this God represents safety and understanding. This kind of God turns power on its head. They call out leaders for their oppressive and bullying ways. They demand that we question our own scapegoating tendencies, asking us to take responsibility for the consequences of our demands for punishment and blame.

And, if we ourselves are among the many who have been on the receiving end of this kind of stigma and shaming, this kind of God identifies with us, becomes one of us and throws us a lifeline of love in the midst of Their own unbearable darkness.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Betrayed by God

At the back of a church meeting last week, I glanced up to notice the words on the screen - ‘You’ve never failed me yet.’

Previously I might have squashed my inner response, but I’m learning the benefits of taking notice.

So I started to write, addressing God…

                  There is a part of me that would like to shout “bollocks” to that.

                  And yet – you’ve led me through and out to a better place in every way.

     And yet – the manipulation and bullying were carried out in your name.
     AND YOU HAVE NOT DISTANCED YOURSELF FROM THEIR ACTIONS AND WORDS.

     That feels like failing me.

I sat for a while, letting my emotions just be. I could have argued that the once dismal space created by loss was being filled with more beauty and life than I’d previously known, that God had carried me through and shown himself to be trustworthy. But these emotions pointed in a different direction. Whatever the outcome, I felt betrayed by God.

And this I think, is the twist of the spiritual abuse dagger. It’s carried out in God’s name and frequently the perpetrators carry on as ‘successful’ leaders, apparently ‘annointed by God’ and applauded by their followers... who were once your friends. This makes it difficult, if not impossible to successfully protect your understanding of God from the brutality of spiritual manipulation and the indifference of the bystanders – friends, leaders and possibly even God. Of course, it’s possible to rationalise – God isn’t like that, just people, etc., and if it’s just about thoughts, then I can train my thinking as well as the next person. But if I’ve learnt anything as a counsellor, it’s that emotions are as valid as thoughts and they need to be felt, expressed and heard before they can properly heal.

With that in mind I started to wonder what it would be like if God joined me…

                  We sit together with that sense of betrayal and it’s OK.

     S/he’s not asking me to change how I feel and definitely not demanding I repent.

     We can look at this together.

     Can I see a God who empathises with me and validates even these      

     emotions?

Could I? What would that be like? We might label our sense of betrayal as wrong – perhaps never even admitting that this is how we feel. But in that moment I thought I glimpsed God, not just willing to accept that I felt as if S/He had failed me, but eager to offer understanding and validation.

              “Of course you feel betrayed. Why wouldn’t you? I know how deep that pain goes and I know it hurts just to look at it. You don’t have to, but if you want, you can express it all to me. Rant, swear, scream if you need to. There’s no rush. You don’t need to apologise. I’m not angry, but I understand if you’re angry with me. I’m so very sorry.”

What if that was God’s response? What if that was how S/He met with every abused heart? And what if there was space in every faith community for this sense of betrayal to be heard and accepted?

'What hurts the victim most'

A couple of months ago I became aware of feeling lonely. I wasn't alone very often, but I rarely spent time with people capable of providing the connection I needed. In fact, the deepest sense of loneliness always involved the company of others. 

We might read about a "lonely journey of recovery", perhaps from trauma or abuse, or even the "loneliness of grief" following bereavement and loss. Yet when immersed in the reality, words convey so little of the crushing, numbing, heartache.

Then one particular day, the ever building loneliness wave crashed over and upon me bringing its unavoidable turmoil. Often a breaker passes quickly, and I'm shaken but standing. Occasionally I'm knocked off my feet, disorientated and submerged until the water level drops and I can breathe again. 

This one came close to flooring me and all I could think, to help keep my bearings, was that somewhere out there is someone who understands. Granted she is over 10,000 miles away, and we've never met face to face, but to use the well worn phrase, she 'gets it'.

And why does she 'get it'? Because she's been through it too. She knows what it's like to experience spiritual abuse and the legacy it leaves. She knows the pain and the sheer bloody hard work it takes to rebuild. Like me, she doesn't have the luxury of remaining on the sidelines of this issue.

I've come to believe that too much time spent with people clinging to the indifference of the sidelines can create the profound, alienating loneliness that is poison to any survivor of abuse. Now I know that the 'silence of the bystander' is undoubtedly more hurtful than the 'cruelty of the oppressor'. 

So increasingly I'm learning to stay away from the sidelines and limit time with the people who hang out there. Sometimes that is easier said than done, but I am worth protecting and I don't want to be part of increasing the pain of those that are already hurting. Loneliness along the way may well be part of the deal now, but the people who actually 'get it', who share my revulsion for the sidelines - they make the deal undeniably worthwhile.

Listening

A couple of months ago I was given a surprise gift. Participating in some research, I was asked to describe my experience of friendship and mental health.

"I'd like you to be able to talk as freely as possible" the researcher stated, "I'm just here to listen".

And listen he did. He maintained eye contact, he didn't interrupt, he sat with my silences, he prompted with gentle, insightful questions, he reflected my words and emotions, he offered no judgement. All I could infer from his response was kindness and acceptance.

And, whilst revisiting some specific memories, in place of the usual increasing heart rate, confusion and fear, I became aware of a sense of safety. The passage of time, combined with this researcher's ability to create an affirming atmosphere, was enabling previously disordered memories to settle into a narrative I could understand. 

Now I understand that a researcher in this area should demonstrate active listening skills - but this man was GOOD and he seemed to care. I’m still thankful for this encounter and I’m also inspired. I want to listen that well, not just in the counselling room, but with friends and (perhaps the biggest test of all) with family. 

But, as is frequently the case, I also feel frustrated. Why don't we run into this kind of experience more often? Particularly in our churches, why do so many confide, "There's no one I can really talk to about this"? If we are eager to love others, why aren't we overflowing with people willing to commit to the hard work of listening? Carl Rogers spent a lifetime pioneering psychological research and remained convinced that simply listening with non-judgemental understanding and empathy was one of the best methods, if not the best method, of helping people. So, if we genuinely want to help, why don’t we value listening more highly? Why do we make heroes out of those who preach and lead and run around attending oh so many meetings without ever evaluating their capacity to hear what another individual is saying?

  

I believe that every time someone shares their experience and, instead of trying to listen, we hand out opinions, solutions and judgement, we are choosing to forget that in front of us is a person made in the image of God. 

Every time we strive to really hear however, to work at understanding what the world looks like from another perspective, we are offering a gift - a gift that can soothe loneliness and pain, nurture self esteem and confidence and facilitate healing and growth.

Somehow, the version of Christianity I'm familiar with doesn't seem to give more than a passing nod to the profound value of listening. I think that means we're hurting people who long to be heard. Surely we need to learn a different way.

forgiveness

I'm definitely reluctant to write about the positive aspects of forgiveness and I've been trying to understand why. It probably has a lot to do with the way forgiveness is brandished at hurting people, sometimes maliciously, but often by well-intentioned, though somewhat prescriptive individuals.

Also, my practice of forgiveness is just that, my practice. It is simply the way that works for me in this current moment and it may bear no resemblance to what someone else needs to be doing right now.

I have had to balance decades of premature forgiving, mostly out of fear of the consequences of not forgiving, with a newly discovered freedom to be angry about injustice and boundary violations. For years I lived as if those two things were mutually exclusive, now I'm working out a more nuanced approach.

I'm in a place where I'm holding hurt, that complex entanglement of anger and sadness, and allowing it to teach me about healthy patterns of relating to myself and others. At the same time, I'm nurturing forgiveness toward those who have wronged me, because it's something I want to do. I'm not afraid anymore, of the consequences of unforgiveness. Those dire warnings I heard as a child about being riddled with bitterness, or ill health, or worse if I didn't immediately forgive, are losing their stranglehold.

There are, undoubtedly benefits to forgiving others. Studies have shown that genuine forgiveness, can bring improvements to mental and physical health*. But anger and sadness may also serve a useful purpose. These emotions teach us where it might be wise for our boundaries to begin and end. They teach us about our values, how we want to treat others and how we need to be treated. In this context, I am more able to truly forgive, instead of rushing through the process as a sacrificial offering to a God who will punish me if I don't follow the right steps.

I've often been told that God can't begin healing a person who hasn't forgiven. I no longer believe that to be true. In fact, I think we discredit God's wisdom and character when we make such statements. But without the baggage of those old beliefs I am now free to choose. Forgiveness or unforgiveness. For me, this is the only place where forgiveness can be genuine anyway.



* E.L. Worthington Jr & S.J. Sandage ~ Forgiveness and Spirituality in Psychotherapy: A Relational Approach.

Ostracism

I haven't had time to write for a while, thanks to a combination of family events, a research proposal and of course, an impending Christmas. Someone asked about a month ago if Christmas was a difficult time of year and I breezily replied that it was usually a very pleasant time for me, which is true. 

What I hadn't factored in though, was the build up. One lovely friend, assuming I was invited, mentioned sharing a pre-Christmas meal together. Momentary confusion gave way to that familiar lurch in my stomach. Oh, that Christmas meal. The one my oldest friends arrange. The tradition that ensures we all spend time together even when life gets busy.

The one I'm not invited to this year.

Another lady was evasive about a gathering she was having. Gradually I realised that the group she had invited was made up of many of my old friends. A group of ladies who care for, love and support each other.

But I'm not invited this year.

The reasons are probably complex. I know these people are not setting out to hurt me. They are getting on with their lives and may believe that I have brought the exclusion upon myself. 

But it breaks my heart.

I've found myself googling ostracism, social exclusion, anything to find something, someone who's written about this kind of experience. Mostly what I've found is about a more extreme form of shunning - that awful act of pretending that a person has ceased to exist.

Instead, my friends will always smile in my direction, as a demonstration of their continued pleasantness towards me. My friends will tell me that they love me, whilst simultaneously informing me that they don't believe my version of events. My friends write letters expressing willingness to receive me back into the fold, so long as I fully acknowledge the things I have done wrong. My friends refuse to tell me what those wrong things are, because 'you know what they are'. My friends do not believe that the leader of my previous church is capable of bullying. Wonderful, loving people that they are, and they truly are, my friends will not walk alongside me if I continue to express my pain and make such claims.  

In that upside down world, it appears I have chosen my own ostracism.

So I'm writing this because I know I'm not the only one. Ostracism attacks and undermines some basic human needs, particularly the need to belong. I'm starting to find my sense of belonging in healthier places, but I'm deeply grieving for those lost places of belonging too. I'm hoping that by writing about it, I will not only help myself, but will also provide a glimmer of hope for someone else who has lost their place of belonging. If you find yourself in some upside down world where it seems you've chosen your own ostracism even though it's breaking your heart, you're not the only one. I'm here too.  

premature forgiveness

My previous post examined some frankly revolting approaches to the subject of forgiveness and whilst I did hint at a more positive angle (which I will write about eventually) I think it's really important to focus on the risks first.

Researching for an assignment last year, I discovered several articles which highlighted the very real dangers of 'premature forgiveness', a term previously unknown to me, in spite of having listened to many forgiveness sermons during my 40 years.

As I read, it was as if someone had prised open a clunky old door in my head, leaving me stunned on the threshold, blinking in unfamiliar light.

It has been repeatedly emphasized that Christians are particularly prone to forgiving too quickly due to the following reasons: The weight forgiveness is given in the Christian tradition, the awareness of its healing power, plus a lack of knowledge about its inherent psychological requirements.

Although executed with best intentions, the process may not be completed and thus, instead of the growth-enhancing transformation, the victim may be faced with lower self-esteem, damaged self-respect and a raised level of anxiety around offence and offender (Holmgren, 2002; Puka, 2002). There is nothing liberating for the victim in premature forgiveness except for the superficial restoration of peace. Creating awareness about its danger as well as elucidating the preconditions of genuine forgiveness seems therefore to be of some urgency within these religious settings.*

In that moment, those words were life to me. Those times I'd been pressured into announcing "I forgive you" weren't healthy and whilst it hadn't helped me recover, everyone seemed convinced it was the only way. 'Lower self-esteem, damaged self respect and a raised level of anxiety around offence and offender'. I could tick all of those boxes, with anxiety levels beyond bearable, and if these words were true, then it wasn't because of some flaw or hypersensitivity in me, it was because a process which was meant to take place over a long time, was being shoehorned into a couple of hours, for the convenience of everyone except me.

Premature forgiveness is dangerous and causes genuine psychological harm.

Moreover, Glaeser's article continued, 

If the offender is interested in the victim’s well being, he/she will seek to avoid anything that could lead to premature forgiveness and further harm. 

I could almost laugh. Nothing about my interactions with the leader of my previous church suggested that he would do anything other than hold up 'forgiveness and move on' as the only way forward. Any requests for time and space were met with disapproval and messages requesting we stepped down from church activities 'due to the current situation'.

I feel sad that the church of all places has become known for it's dangerous approach to forgiveness. I hope and pray that we can learn a better way.


* Glaeser, M. (2008) What does it take to let go? An investigation into the facilitating and obstructing factors of forgiveness – the therapist’s perspective. In Counselling Psychology Quarterly Vol 21 (4) pp 337-348