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

forgiveness criteria

One of the quickest ways to launch my blood pressure skyward is to adopt a stance on forgiveness that looks something like this:-

• You have to forgive your abuser otherwise you are liable to experience all kinds of problems arising from this lack of forgiveness. These problems could range from chronic or terminal illness, to financial ruin and disaster. Henceforth anything negative in your life might result from your lack of forgiveness.

or:

• You will know when you have forgiven someone because you will feel at peace. You will no longer experience anger, sadness or anxiety as a result of their behaviour because the act of forgiveness will bring you healing from all negative effects. Conversely, if you are still experiencing anger, sadness or anxiety, then this can be taken as proof that you haven't forgiven properly or fully and is therefore your fault.(Living Liminal writes eloquently about this here)

or: 

• If you have truly forgiven then you will be reconciled with your abuser and you will no longer need to refer to those past events. You will henceforth be able to relate to him/her as if nothing bad has ever happened between you. Any difficulty relating to him/her may again provide evidence of your forgiveness defecit.

or:

• A gruesomely manipulative cocktail of all the above. 

Honestly, I'm feeling stressed just writing those statements!

Partly because I have heard versions of these beliefs from unexpected sources. Otherwise intelligent people appear to exchange their thoughtful, compassionate selves for religious rigidity when it comes to forgiveness. It wouldn't be so bad if that rigidity wasn't itself manipulate and abusive, another heavy load for a wounded heart to carry.  

And partly because I know that these words, in various formats are being uttered by Christians to hurting abused people around the world. People longing for safety and refuge are being told that unless they fulfill certain forgiveness criteria then God is either unable or unwilling to facilitate their healing and restoration.

And whilst forgiveness remains a part of my spiritual practice (I will be writing more on this topic), I refuse to agree with the forgiveness criteria. That baggage is not mine, or yours to carry. 

forgiveness can wait

I wanted to take the time this weekend to write something about forgiveness but it's not going to happen just yet.

The reason? Well, I saw a few people today at my son's school fair. People from my old church who used to be close, who I would turn to in times of crisis. People who trusted me in return. I walk past one couple and it's as if we've never met. My heart rate rises as we approach. How should I act? Should I smile or say "Hi" or would that make it worse? At one point I brave a look, determined to smile and be friendly but their faces were turned the other way....I can't tell if it was deliberate or not. I don't imagine they are feeling any better about it than I am.

Another couple are more approachable. Our friendship spans over two decades. We used to share everything....except my belief that I was bullied by the church leader, they have told me they see that one differently. Recently they became assistant campus pastors in my previous church, a position that wouldn't be given to anyone questioning the senior leaders. I find it much harder with them. We are polite, avoiding the gargantuan elephant wedged between us. After a few minutes I feel the familiar weight of grief mingling with fear and confusion. Any longer and my emotions will flashback to those last days in my previous church. I might burst into tears or beg them to understand me, which they can't...or won't. Hurriedly I excuse myself and slip away.

So now I'm home. I'm OK, but my brain is skittering from one experience to another. My emotions are tangled, unfathomable and my body is a little more alert than it needs to be. I recognise the mild symptoms of post traumatic stress and I know that within a few days, possibly even tomorrow, I will feel 'normal' again and it will be difficult to imagine this jumbled and spiky experience.

I won't be writing anything profound about forgiveness today, forgiveness can wait. Ironically that was the point I was going to make anyway.

saying sorry

Reading the same textbook* I referenced in my previous post I experienced another 'aha' moment. This time adult women were describing childhood memories of being made to say sorry. The researchers observed some common patterns, whereby an apology was deemed necessary by adults 'in order to restore power relations within the household' whether or not the child had actually done anything wrong.

The researchers also noted:-

...all the memories positioned the protagonists as being responsible for other people's well-being. By being made to apologise the girls were taught to accept responsibility for the effects that their actions had on others, even when these were unintended. Crawford et al (1992) proposed that this purpose is gendered, in that adult women tend to feel responsible for other people's emotional well-being even when they have no power to control it.

Now this is a tricky area. If I say something, intending to be helpful, and it turns out to be insensitive or hurtful to the recipient then I may still wish to apologise if that recipient brings it to my attention. It may also follow that I will feel some distress at having caused pain to another, albeit unintentionally. What I would not then expect however, is that same recipient to apologise to me for the sadness caused by bringing it to my attention (unless they had used violent or unduly aggressive means of course but that would be a different issue) They haven't done anything wrong. In fact it may have taken great courage to bring it to my attention, even more so if I hold any position of power or influence in that recipient's life.

And yet, this was my experience in church. When I raised the difficulty I was experiencing due to the behaviour of the leader he immediately turned the focus upon the pain he was feeling as a result of my 'accusations'. Others came to me, telling me how hurt he was, how disrespectful I was being. His daughter-in-law told me how upsetting it had been for her to even consider whether he was abusive or not. 

If I had repented and retracted my words as I had in the past, then I am sure that I would have been welcomed back into the fold, with regular reminders of my bad behaviour and the distress I had caused. 'Power relations within the household' would have been restored with me in the subordinate position. There were in fact times that I did express sorrow over how difficult the situation was for him. But eventually I realised that I wasn't responsible for his emotions, I was responsible for mine and my emotions were in need of safety, understanding and comfort which couldn't be found in that environment. Heartbroken, but taking responsibility for myself I chose to seek out healing and grace and I don't regret that choice at all.



* Introducing Qualitative Research in Psychology. 3rd ed. C. Willig (2013)

competing narratives

In a textbook* today I read the story of Beth. She had a turbulent childhood resulting in low self esteem. At the age of 11 she discovered a talent for playing tennis, employing a coach who developed a relationship with her before sexually abusing her in her teens. As an adult she participated in research which involved life history interviews. The researchers concluded that:-

As an adult, Beth struggles with the competing narrative constructions of a romantic love story, which portrays her as an equally responsible and willing participant in the relationship with her coach, and an abuse story, which portrays her as a susceptible minor who does not have moral responsibility for what happened to her....The researchers argue that the lack of narrative resolution means that Beth is likely to relive past experiences as a way of trying to make sense of what happened.

As I read I felt a tug of recognition and then the oh-so-familiar stab of guilt. Competing narratives, yes! I willingly threw myself into all things church, excited by the possibilities the leader appeared to be offering. He didn't force me to give so much of my time, energy and finance, I loved my church I was equally responsible, equally to blame, perhaps more so. But what about the power imbalance? He, the boss, the leader of a growing church, able to fire and hire at will, me, just emerging from 9 years as a stay at home mother, eager for something new yet uncertain about my abilities. What about the position of trust he held as a religious leader, the man 'appointed by God'? Did he not abuse this power and position?

And then the guilt. This woman was sexually abused as a minor, how can I compare my story to hers? How can I compare the church leader with the predatory tennis coach? Never mind that I've read numerous accounts of how devastating spiritual abuse can be, what right do I have to use Beth's heartbreaking history to illustrate my own?

But in spite of these protestations, I remain painfully aware of my own competing stories and my brain frequently relives this portion of my past in an attempt to forge a single coherent narrative. There are times when I think I'm almost there, then a trigger detonates crippling emotional flashbacks and the sense making process begins again. 

I think the kindest approach I can take right now is one of acceptance. To accept that I have been emotionally and spiritually traumatised and that this is part of the healing process. My narratives may need a few more bouts in the ring during the months ahead, but I feel hopeful about the eventual outcome.



* Introducing Qualitative Research in Psychology. 3rd ed. C. Willig (2013).

I wish he knew.

Today John Pavlovitz posed a question.

If you're no longer in a church or struggle with the one you're a part of, what do you wish your pastor/priest/minister/leader knew?

It was a good question and I was surprised by my answer. I anticipated writing about how hurt I was, how I was struggling to recover, how awful his behaviour had been. I expected to make a long list, perhaps driven by pain and a desire for recompense.

But when I sat and considered what I genuinely wished he knew, I felt sadness, yes, so very much sadness, but I wasn't angry and could discern no longing for revenge or restitution. I wrote this.

I wish the leader of my previous church knew that he was completely loved by God no matter what size congration he led. I wish he knew that his behaviour was hurting people. I wish he knew that I was never a threat to him or his congregation even when I was trying to address the fact that I had experienced his behaviour as bulling. I wish he knew that I wanted nothing more than to reach understanding and maintain healthy boundaries in our working relationship and friendship. I wish he knew how to relate to people without attempting to control or exert power over them. I wish more than anything that he knew freedom from his pain and brokenness

And I felt compassion for myself and for him. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to throw myself back into his crazy, toxic world. But for the first time I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel the talons of post traumatic stress spiking into my stomach and twisting my insides.

Maybe only a tiny step, but a step nonetheless, and it feels good for now.

unravelling

This week I started sorting through emails connected to our previous church. It wasn't much fun. Early messages to the senior leaders, a husband and wife team, reveal a trusting, affectionate, effusive version of myself. Knowing now what I didn't know then, I struggle to read these emails. "Protect yourself", I want to scream. "It's not safe".

Back then, I don't hear. I write and share my heart and my love, wading into the swamp. I'm trapped without ever noticing the prison bars. I keep on loving and giving until I have nothing left to give. I work as the 18-25's leader for two years. By then I am exhausted physically, emotionally and mentally. The male leader persuades me not to visit a doctor. Some weeks later I remember crying during a planning meeting. Within days, the female leader visits me. Gently she explains that she believes God is asking her to give me the opportunity to step down from my position. I am so worn down I agree and leave...no sick pay, no job, no support. Just exhaustion and brokenness.   

But still I don't realise. Another staff member visits me after a meeting with the leaders during which she has been shouted at for 'an offence'. She is heartbroken, exhausted and frightened. I recognise myself after a similar incident. A few weeks later the male leader talks to me about this other woman. Cautiously I ask questions. "I'm not a bully" he snaps. "I really want to believe that's true" I reply. He marches away and does not talk to me for four months.

And I still don't understand. I am wretched. Desperate to make amends. Eventually I am allowed back into the fold. Then they offer my husband a job. On the verge of announcing this role to the church we meet with the male leader. I raise a few concerns about the work load and the meeting doesn't go well. Within 24 hours the job offer is withdrawn. I am heartbroken, blaming myself and suffering increased anxiety. We attempt to recover, but struggle. Most people don't know what has happened and we are forbidden from telling them "to protect the church". I worry that people will notice I am not quite right and I will get into trouble. I start antidepressants because I am now experiencing constant hyper vigilance and anxiety as post traumatic stress begins to develop.

Then I start my counselling course. I meet other Christians and explain my story. My tutor affirms me, cares for me and occasionally he says "I feel angry on your behalf". This is a revelation. Angry on my behalf? Something has happened to me which deserves your anger? Light begins to break through but I do not ever wish to leave my church. I have loved the people that make this church for twenty years. I still love the leaders. My children are so happy here. It cannot be right to leave. 

I read a book about adult and workplace bullying. It describes everything that I have experienced from these leaders and the environment they have created. Cautiously I start to speak to a few people who I think might help without stirring gossip. My biggest hope is that, if we pray and speak the truth in love, things could change. I do not believe these leaders mean to bully. I believe that if I can help them to understand what is happening they will be shocked and sad and will do everything to ensure nobody experiences bullying again. I trust them.

I never get to speak the truth in love. Instead my friends "speak the truth in love to me". 'You are wrong' they say. 'He has spoken to us, he doesn't understand your hurtful accusations'. 'Why won't you spend time with him?'. 'You are being bitter and divisive, you are deceived'. 'He is God's appointed leader and as such you must honour, respect and submit to him'. One friend arranges to meet with me for coffee. She has borrowed the book about bullying. I haven't seen her for three months which is unusual but I am looking forward to catching up and discussing the book. It becomes a nightmare. 'My friends have been speaking' she says. 'We are worried about your behaviour'. 'It is not right that you are talking about things'. 'He has made mistakes, but you need to let things go'. I am terrified, I am experiencing emotional flashbacks and feel as if I am in his office being shouted at. I tell her I am frightened, but she doesn't appear to believe me. I panic, I say things she doesn't like in an attempt to get her to understand. I swear.  She tells me she has to leave, I apologise. I ask about what we do to sort this out. She says she has to leave. Looking back, it was a horrible experience for her too. She has never spoken to me again.

I see a friend at the school gate. I am upset. She says she has seen the other friend and she knows what has happened. Later that day I receive a text from yet another friend saying that I probably shouldn't visit her the next day as she is worried I am going to behave badly. I am sobbing on the floor, I feel as if my world is falling apart. I have never felt so frightened or so desolate. The husband of the lady from the coffee shop replies to a message from my husband saying that I need to be able to receive feedback from people. I send an email to apologise. A message in response says it does not go far enough. I wonder how we got here? I begin to realise that no one believes me. I am emotionally unstable, over-sensitive and untrustworthy. Why would anyone believe me over a dynamic and charismatic church leader who has built a church of hundreds?

A couple of days later my husband receives a text from one of the elders, another close friend. In the light of recent events he is asked to meet with the elders. In the meantime he is asked not to be part of the worship team. 

We write a letter. I visit my doctor and we increase my medication. We never attend a service at that church again.  

reconciliation...

Another long gap. It will soon be two years since we limped away from our church of 21 years. Many people expected my views would change as time went by, I would be "less emotional", see things more clearly,

They were right. I am a bit less emotional and, from a distance, the view is clearer. But it's not the view they were expecting.  Put bluntly, I'm now certain I was bullied and exploited by a church leader who displays many traits of a narcissistic personality. It's possible it was unintentional. It's possible that his sense of entitlement is such that he believes his behaviour was appropriate. I realise now how churches can provide the perfect environment for narcissistic leadership to thrive.

A few weeks ago the leader of our new church sent us an email. Apparently the leader of our previous church had been in contact.

He has had a dream about you and has been thinking.  He doesn’t expect to reach agreement with you about all things but he does have a strong desire for reconcilliation nonetheless.  I believe he is looking to make peace and move on not drag up history.  Thus he would like to invite you to meet.  He is happy for me to be present.

Great. Reconciliation. That must be good right? But I felt anything but good reading the email. I felt trapped. We were being offered a meeting where discussing the past would be "dragging up history". We were to "move on" otherwise we would be obstructing reconciliation.

Eighteen months ago we were the ones offering to meet, suggesting it on two occasions as we left the church. When we observed that our offer hadn't been taken up, we received the strangest of replies. "May we remind you that the refusal to meet is yours" he wrote. We have assumed he was referring to our request for more time a few months previously, when he had asked that my husband present himself before the elders, seemingly to find out if we were "with him, heart and soul". In the same letter he requested that we didn't communicate with him directly, from now on we were to communicate with him only through the leader of the church we were about to join.

As I've written that paragraph I can feel some of the emotions, the confusion, the fear, the sadness. How could a request for time be twisted in such a way? Why such blatant triangulation tactics? How could the elders and trustees, our friends, agree and put their names to such a letter?

This is not a world to which it would be wise to return. If nothing else the email demonstrates that very little has changed. Perhaps if it had, the email might read more like this.

He has had a dream about you and has been thinking. He is sad about how things ended between you and is wondering if you would still like to meet. If you do he is interested in pursuing reconciliation together. Given the past he realises that this could be a painful process and you may not feel able to go through more pain at this time. The offer is open ended and if you would like to start this process then he would like you to contact him, if and when you feel ready. 

I don't think we will ever receive an email like that.

bullying?

I haven't written since last August. I don't think I was ready. Nothing made enough sense and I didn't know how to articulate what was going on inside. I don't know if I'm ready now but I'm going to give it a go.

I'm still sad, but it's so much better than it was. I still experience post traumatic stress responses at times, but I'm much more able to manage them and recover.

I still struggle with feeling that "it" wasn't bad enough, that the leader of my previous church didn't really misuse his power enough to justify my struggle to recover. Sometimes I just wish the behaviour had been more obvious. That I had more evidence to account for the scars.

Because I don't. I was shouted at occasionally, as a church worker....but he would say it was just 'raised voices'. I was ignored for four months after questioning his treatment of another staff member...but I don't think he would call it ignoring. I made a joke once and was subsequently "told off" and had to decide if I had the grace to keep working at the church...but I think he would feel that was justified. There were other times, things that might seem petty on their own, but over six years they built up until I was scared of putting a foot wrong, taking the blame for anything if it meant I wasn't going to be told off and living in a state of high anxiety, which increased to constant hyper vigilance by the end.

I read a book about bullying a few years ago. It was then I realised what was happening to me. I thought if I talked with people, trustworthy people, in the church then they would help things to change. I didn't want to "bring down" this leader, I wanted to work together to find better ways of relating. I wanted him to understand the effect his behaviour had on me and others. I was sure that if he could see it, he would want to change. I believed his heart was to do good even if something wasn't quite right.

I was wrong. I became the problem because I had raised a problem. I was told I was making serious accusations. My friends began to question my sanity and my character. Very few believed that there was anything the matter with the "strong leadership" that was getting great results and numerical growth in our church. I questioned my understanding, I questioned my sanity, I re-read the book and recognised my experience.

"The doubt in your own mind is bad enough, but to prove to others that you are being bullied is harder still. It’s frequently one person’s word against another with few, if any, witnesses. Like sand slipping between your fingers, the evidence of the existence of bullying quickly disappears and you are left with nothing tangible to explain." [Insight into Childhood and Adult Bullying (Waveley Abbey Insight Series)]

It's about ten months now since the situation became unbearable and we "took a sabbatical" from our old church. I didn't want to leave, I wanted a summer break to be enough. In a way it was. I recovered enough to realise that there was nothing healthy about returning and that it was time to take a new path.

I'm so sad and so glad we did.

process

Writing a blog. Why am I here? Why now? I've thought about it before, but never felt a strong enough push. It seemed a luxury, self indulgent even. But now I think I need to write. Not for anyone else, although maybe I'd like some 'readers'. But I need to process and I think words on a page might help.

It's hard to know where to start. Right now I'm waiting, paused for breath between old and new. I can't quite see 'new' and I feel sad when I think about 'old'. Now is definitely OK, but it's hard to be present without past and future competing for attention.

And I find it really hard to just state the facts plainly. Maybe because those facts don't seem enough for the emotions that go with them. Paragraph three and I've managed vague references to old and new. Why can't I just say that 'old' is my church of twenty one years. My church that I'm leaving. And 'new' is a different church, perhaps a different outworking of my faith. Just writing those three sentences and I'm crying. I'm so, so sad.

So I'm going to write because I need to acknowledge how I feel. For almost seven years I've thought my emotions should be hidden. Particularly in church. But not just hidden. I've ignored my feelings, thought they weren't trustworthy. Ignoring turned out badly in the end. Perhaps more about that next time.