There was a tree stump, in an even place. It was dry and had a small cedar arched over it, like a green tent, forming an alcove. There I sat in silence and loved the wind in the forest and listened for a good while to God.
Thomas Merton
For many of us, healing from religious abuse has required migration—internal and/or external. Trauma often freezes us up around wounds but it can also compel us to move (literally or figuratively). Sometimes our bodies need to recover with new terrain. Sometimes the soul needs to till in different soil.
KJ & I found that after betrayal in certain faith contexts, our souls had to settle in places, persons, and rituals that gently mirror back to us our longings and needs. Those longings and needs are different than they used to be.
As it pertains to faith expression, a lot of what once felt comfortable—and comforting—now feels harsh to the senses. We’ve realized that prior to major disruptions, we were accustomed to environments that were high on stimulation but low in spiritual vitality. Today we yearn for the opposite—communal and sacred terrain that is gentle to the nervous system, but integrous to the spiritual life.
There are exceptions, of course. Some of our most poignant and transcendent experiences were singing Black Gospel songs alongside other brothers and sisters of color in the first church we attended together. The depth and power and beauty of congregational singing in that setting is something we remember with fondness. Ask KJ about her experience singing in the gospel choir—and whether she ever learned to sway in rhythm with her fellow choir mates!
Sometimes we need to dance and shout. But at this stage of our life, we’ve had to be honest about our limits. One thing is clear—we have no remaining appetite for church-as-spectacle. Even beyond that, the symbols and sounds and visuals of a contemporary, American evangelical worship service hold too many reminders. Some things cannot be un-seen, un-heard, un-felt.
When a sanctuary is the backdrop for un-sacredness it can be difficult to recover its awe. Recovery from trauma almost always necessitates a gentle approach. In our case, we had to [largely] migrate from those symbols in order to access the gentleness. Some would say we have abandoned “God’s house”, but what we’ve found seems rather obvious—that God has never been contained, not even to a ‘church’.
Is the Plastic Really Necessary?
You and I probably remember visiting grandparents, friends, or family members who kept their furniture covered in plastic. Maybe you did this! As one journalist recalls, “[often] the plastic was ordered at the time the furniture was purchased and a person came to our home to measure the furniture. In some cases, the plastic covers were ordered and fitted on the furniture prior to being delivered.”1
Something so strange, unflattering, and silly seemed reasonable enough (to many) at the time. If you possess something valuable like a nice sofa, you should cover it in plastic in hopes that it lasts longer!
If you’re like most of us in 2023, you see photos like the above and it’s hard not to laugh—or gag. Well, recently I realized I’ve had a similar reaction to Christian subcultures I previously embraced, the further away I migrate.
Everything’s covered in plastic!
The language. The true-isms. The propositions. The fear.
Either enjoy the sofa or don’t, but for God’s sake don’t ruin it with plastic!
What is it about humanity (er, Americans? Modern Westerners?) that—at least for a while—sees the ingenuity of plastic-covered furniture? At bottom, we desire to preserve things we value, so much so that we will cheapen or package or enculturate the thing to avoid losing it (fear). So it goes with faith, depending on the circles you run in.
I do not demean subcultures in general. They are inevitable and none of us exists outside of them. What I lament is the packaging and anxious containment of faith expression, as though we possess something so delicate and predictive, it couldn’t possibly retain its beauty or integrity without our efforts to control it.
The Near and the Now
In many ways today I enjoy what I’ve always loved—being with people. In some ways, nothing has changed. KJ & I love sitting with friends. We cherish relationships and now (in a new home!) we can return to what’s always made us feel alive—hospitality. I love the immediacy and delight of a meal together, or cup of coffee, or glass of wine.
Community remains a fundamental need for us—body and soul belonging—like it remains a need for all our friends and neighbors. Like it remains a need for all our co-travelers, grieving and rehabilitating their worlds after spiritual harm.
The difference, you might say, is the sparsity of rhetoric employed when I used to feel I needed to ‘consecrate’ every encounter with truths or verse. Now, I see, I sense, I honor the inherent sacredness in the space between us.
“Well, are you still a Christian?”
I am, but don’t assume too much by that. I love being with people who are ‘not Christian’ and I don’t feel any anxiety to change them—or worry for their salvation! I still pray in general, but prayer comes in many forms. An attunement to the present. A silent gesture. A psalm. Every volition of gratitude.
I believe the contemplative life has a lot to offer us. This is certainly true for those of us whom religious institutions have injured. I acknowledge it can feel scary—even retraumatizing—while we learn to reorient to Quiet. Quiet, for many, meant indifferent (or worse), and now the invitation is to experience the Near and Quiet Tenderness that reciprocates, perhaps for the first time.
For some, returning to a local faith institution will feel necessary. I am more agnostic about the institutional church today but I realize in some cases, people still find real healing within it. When asked, KJ & I tell people we will still sometimes visit the local episcopal parish. Our reasons for doing so are not what they were. Not long ago, we put all our eggs in the ‘local church’ basket. Our life revolved around it. Today, we may offer a parish one or two of those eggs, but we also experience church in the many other domains of life, where the sacred always beckons.
Perhaps healing is the ongoing journey of realizing and embodying a congruous life, where we learn the dance between the soul’s need in limitation or suffering and its pulse for loving expanse.
We need a village congruous with our dignity and shared belonging.
We need vocation congruous with our passions.
We need a spirituality congruous with grief and spacious, where neither spectacle nor pious speech may suffice.
https://www.phillytrib.com/commentary/backintheday/back-in-the-day-plastic-led-to-sticky-situations/article_fcd66988-f4f8-5e59-aa86-086e86183d5d.html
Your words strike a cord with me. The lack of congruency in so much of what I have seen in churches and in the lives of those who attend these churches has long been something I could not reconcile. Yes, so much of the whole thing is wrapped up in plastic. Contemplation can never be achieved while sitting on a plastic covered couch, nor can it happen in a church service designed to overwhelm our nervous systems so we cannot ponder, reflect, or question while there. Thank you for sharing this.
"When a sanctuary is the backdrop for un-sacredness it can be difficult to recover its awe."
Thank you, thank you, for putting such accurate language to my experience Ryan. I will be sharing this piece with so many other wounded pilgrims. Thank you for the way you make open space for words that can't yet come out of my mouth. May you and KJ find real blessing in the warmth and hospitality just waiting to happen in your new home.