Justice?

One of the reasons I’m writing this, and other snippets of this life post leaving an abusive church, is I want people to understand spiritual abuse, as I’m growing in understanding of it. I want the church to know what it is, and how to care for people who’ve experienced it. I want the church to be equipped to spot it, know how to name it, and be prepared to call it out.

And I want the victims to know they are not alone: there is language and community for them in the aftermath.

But like a war, the scars and burns and wounds don’t ever completely go away. There are no winners. Everybody loses no matter who has the upper hand on the last day.

—

Ten men sat in chairs on a stage.

One man stood, holding a mic.

Of the crowd in the auditorium, many sat. A few were on their feet—yelling, fists in the air, interrupting one another. Interrupting the speaker.

In the eyes of most of the people, four white men in suits with graying hair and inscrutable words had shown up and taken away their beloved pastor.

For a handful of us who hid in the balcony, recording audio and video by cell phone and taking notes for victims who wouldn’t dare enter the auditorium—ever again—it was like the bomb we’d been expecting for years had finally detonated.

I personally felt I was channeling all my pent-up rage through the angry congregants. Half of them didn’t even know why they were angry. Most of them didn’t know who to be angry at. They hurled their accusations at whoever held the mic, not understanding those really at fault were refusing to take the mic. Those men sat silent and stone-faced on the stage. And I knew from experience, they would never admit to the lies they’d told from that same stage, Sunday after Sunday. They’d let the presbyters who’d decided to depose a man proven guilty of abusing his pastoral authority take the fall.

They’d never tell the real story.

And with disheartening certainty, I realized, the victims would never have a voice…

—

I knew justice wouldn’t fix everything, but I didn’t expect to feel more downtrodden after the pastor was convicted of lying, manipulation, unrighteous anger, and abusing authority. Nobody wins in a case like this.

But I didn’t expect the lies to continue and the elders to cling to the coattails of the man they’d built their alter for.

I knew what Post-Traumatic Stress was when it came out of nowhere, interrupting my sleep, causing random panic attacks. I’d have physical reactions to certain posts on Instagram, and I sank into one of the darkest seasons of depression I’ve experienced since high school.

For the other victims, the story was the same. They felt worse after the justice. The anticipation of a trial—forgone because the pastor made a confession—suddenly released.

And even after this justice, the lies and manipulation continued. Congregants gathered a petition to vote to leave the presbytery, crying outrage and injustice. They don’t know the full story. And likely many of them never will.

It’s one thing to see the men closest to him pay homage. While they’d conspired with him and benefited from his stardom, they’d also been victims of his manipulation. But to have a large mass of people cry foul when he finally received his due, was blindsiding.

There weren’t just dozens of victims. There were hundreds. Possibly thousands. And they had no idea they’d been victimized.

—

I told my roommate a story about one of my bosses at the church I used to work for (I had three in the two years and three months I worked there). We laughed about the time he left town for two weeks and forgot to tell me he was going. He was an absent-minded professor in many ways, and I enjoyed working with him. We had been close, and mutually remarked how we made a good team.

His final betrayal cut deeper than any of the other wounds I experienced at that place.

But I realized, when I recounted this story of his absentmindedness to my roommate, I realized, I missed him. I missed working with him. I missed the fun we’d had together and how we could read each other’s minds when it came to ministry. I missed the dream of working together for many years, sharing the gospel in the city we both loved.

And I understood the grief of the staff and congregants who once loved a pastor, only to find out he wasn’t who he said he was. How do you balance the anger at the betrayal with hundreds of memories of laughter and life-giving conversation?

And how do you ever trust anyone—let alone yourself—ever again?