Freedom After Spiritual Abuse
- Erin Strakalaitis
- Apr 15
- 6 min read
Updated: 3 days ago
I have to admit, I’ve written and rewritten this blog more times than I can count (what a way to begin, right?). My early drafts were filled with clinical language and theological jargon, a kind of brain-dump on spiritual abuse and church hurt. I thought if I explained enough, it would help. And maybe some of it would.
Eventually a different question found me: Who am I really writing to? What do you actually need to hear?
I don’t always picture real people reading these posts, but this time, I do. I imagine people carrying quiet grief or unanswered questions. People wondering if there’s space in the Christian story for what they’ve been through. People who don’t need their pain spiritualized.
What do we really need when we’re hurting or facing major change? Not another definition. Not a lecture. Not a clinical case study.
All of those things matter, and honestly, it’s because of them that I do what I do. But this blog isn’t about that. This is about you. About what you’ve been through.
So, reader, I appeal to you the way Paul once did to the early churches. Not as a scholar or expert, but as a fellow follower. As someone who once needed these words, too.
How Spiritual Abuse Functions
Maybe you’ve told yourself it wasn’t that bad. Maybe you’ve wondered if it was your fault—“If I had just been more discerning… more bold… more forgiving… maybe then…”
When you’re hurt by people you trusted within the faith, it can feel like looking at an old photo of yourself. You’re smiling in the picture, but now it feels like it belongs to someone else. Like you’re remembering a life you can’t quite return to. Like what once provided comfort or structure has been totally uprooted.
If that feels familiar, keep reading.
Spiritual abuse isn’t a new concept. But for too long, it’s been ignored, excused, or misunderstood. It happens when someone in a role of spiritual authority misuses their power to control, manipulate, or harm at the expense of people, and in the name of God.
This kind of trauma doesn’t just disrupt our sense of safety. It unsettles our faith, our identity, and our ability to trust what once felt sacred. Memories linger and pain hides beneath shame, confusion, and silence. And in some cases, it leaves us second-guessing whether what we experienced even "counts" as abuse.
We often imagine spiritual abuse as something obvious, like the cults we see in documentaries. As if we’d surely notice it. As if those who didn’t must have been brainwashed. But that’s not the full picture.
Sometimes, spiritual abuse looks normal, caring even. Like the abuser has your best interest at heart. It might start like:
A one-on-one meeting framed as “pastoral care” that becomes an interrogation
A sermon “meant to challenge” that subtly targets or shames specific people
A leadership decision called “protecting unity” that is meant to shut people down
A church promising belonging, or claiming to be a "home" or "family" so long as you don’t question too much
It can be a system that withholds care or belonging unless you “fall in line.” For some, it’s sexual coercion masked as “intimacy.” For others, it’s gaslighting wrapped in prayer - “God told me…” or “let’s pray about it and see what God says.”
Sometimes it’s leadership taking liberties while shaming others for similar behaviors. Or a learned fear response that erodes your voice until you disappear without anyone ever saying a word. One of the most effective tactics of spiritual abuse is manipulation. It can look like:
Honest questions labeled as attacks
Harm reframed as God’s refining work
Loyalty to leadership equated with loyalty to Christ
Speaking up dismissed as bitterness
Disagreement rebranded as disloyalty
“God’s will” used to cover personal agendas
Prayer weaponized to enforce control
Silence misused as a test of submission
Protecting the institution elevated above protecting people
Image matters more than integrity
Loyalty to a person is valued above followership of Christ
The pain of the few is sacrificed to preserve a platform or system
It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a leader who is admired, beloved, and untouchable. And that’s what makes the pushback so lonely. You’re not just standing against a person. You’re standing against a perception.
The saddest part? Many abusers know this. They count on the benefit of the doubt. And they exploit it. You may think, “Nobody will believe me anyway. Everybody loves ____.”
And here’s one of the hardest truths: abuse by someone who claims to represent God can feel like abuse from God. But the God represented in those moments is a false one.
It’s control disguised as care. Loyalty twisted into bondage. And it leads to one of the most heartbreaking lies: “If I had just been better, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I’ve carried that lie too. In ministry. In relationships. In moments where I thought I failed to protect myself or others. But here’s the truth:
Abuse says more about the person who inflicts it than the one who receives it.
If your first instinct is to explain that away, I get it. But consider this: thinking “If I had been better, it wouldn’t have happened” is like believing if Jesus had been better, he wouldn’t have been crucified.
Jesus wasn’t crucified because he failed. He was crucified because of what was in the hearts of those in power. This distinction matters because it means your pain isn’t always the result of doing something wrong. Sometimes, pain is what happens when you do everything right in a broken world.
So when you ask yourself, “Was it me?” Remember Him...was it Jesus?
An Invitation to Freedom
Whether this is your first step or your hundredth, here are four invitations for healing after church hurt:
1. Believe Your Own Story
You are not overreacting.
You are not too sensitive.
You don’t owe the benefit of the doubt to those who harmed you.
2. Give Language to Your Feelings
Trauma often steals our words. You may feel numb, foggy, or disoriented. That’s not weakness, it’s your body protecting you.
I once sat with someone who couldn’t speak, she just cried. Her tears were the beginning of her healing language. The words came later.
I believe God recognizes our tears in prayer just as clearly as He hears our voices. He holds what we don’t yet know how to say. The prophet Habakkuk knew this. He looked around at injustice and cried out: “How long, O Lord…?” This is not giving up – it is faith in suffering.
You can cry out too. God doesn’t shame our lament. He receives it.
3. Find Connection
I know, it was people who hurt you. And now I’m telling you to trust again? Not exactly. But it can feel like a cruel irony that what wounded us is also what we need to heal (people).
We need others. People who know our names. People who notice when we’re gone. People who don’t demand our loyalty, but offer love without a price tag, without obligation.
Healing doesn’t require a crowd, but can sometimes begin with one quiet cup of coffee. One person who listens without fixing. One friend who doesn’t flinch at your silence or spiritualize your pain.
Although people are important to the healing process, connection doesn’t always mean community groups or potlucks. Even connecting to our five senses is a form of soul-care. Light a candle, enjoy something warm, taste something good. It can be a walk or listening to a favorite song.
Connection is both found in people and by grounding ourselves in our senses; remembering we are here and there is still a future.
4. Give Yourself Time
No one gets to decide how long your healing should take.
It’s not about rushing through it.
It’s not about performing as you once did.
Our job in healing is not to return to the past, it’s to care for who we are now. Sometimes, that’s distressing. Sometimes, it’s freeing. It’s hard to change our rhythms, even when those rhythms became painful. If you were used to serving constantly in a church, maybe for now, it’s enough just to show up and sit.
As we end, I give you these final encouragements:
You are not called to trust those who demand it.
You are welcomed to follow a Savior who laid down his life for you.
You are allowed to be in process.
You are allowed to start again.
I am cheering you on.
