Wednesday, 15 August 2018

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?


Saturday, 6 January 2018

'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.