By: Taylor Morgan
Updated: Oct. 7, 2021
Originally Published: Oct. 7, 2021
Growing up, my family had a tradition of saying grace before dinner, dressing nicely for Sunday services, and making sure I said my prayers before bed. It wasn’t until my teenage years that I began to explore a deeper sense of spirituality on my own.
When I was a freshman in high school, my mom and I discovered what we would come to know as our “home church.” The atmosphere was relaxed, the congregation felt genuine, and the music was fresh and engaging rather than the traditional hymns. What really drew us in, however, was the preacher’s ability to connect. He spoke as if each sermon were crafted just for you, making the experience feel personal and impactful.
But it wasn’t solely the pastor that created this sense of sanctuary. Finding a community that resonates beyond mere geography—something heartfelt and spiritually meaningful—was empowering. That’s what I miss about attending Sunday services: that warm, welcoming feeling of belonging. It’s the kind of atmosphere that says, “You look a bit chilly; come in and warm up” without needing to say it. It’s reminiscent of a comforting hug from a grandparent during tough times, that sense of being home, or what some refer to as the “warm fuzzies.”
As time went on and our home church expanded, the services began to adopt a more charismatic approach. Discussions about the gifts of the Holy Spirit became more prominent—speaking in tongues, healing, prophecy, and miracles. While this wasn’t the focus every week, witnessing people “falling out” in the Spirit during altar calls became a common sight. If you’re unfamiliar, that’s when someone collapses, overcome by what they describe as the Holy Spirit’s presence.
Doubting the authenticity of these displayed gifts led the congregation to view skeptics as lacking spiritual depth. A hierarchy began to form; if you weren’t baptized in the Holy Spirit or didn’t possess some divine gift, you were seen as lesser.
At this point, I was heavily involved in church activities, often spending nearly every day there, either serving or simply socializing. The church leaders embraced me like family, which felt special to a kid struggling through life. When they suggested I was ready to be baptized in the Holy Spirit, it felt like a significant honor.
It’s difficult to articulate, but there seemed to be an expectation that I would speak in tongues, as if they believed I was special enough for it to happen. However, they insisted my mom shouldn’t be present during the experience. I remember expressing my doubts to the elders, only for them to assure me that it might come in bits. I began to mumble gibberish, feeling no connection to the act but thinking it was what I was supposed to do. Everyone else seemed to feel a spiritual rush, but I felt nothing.
As I grew older, I started to lose my “golden child” status. I began to experiment with substances, developed an eating disorder, and dealt with self-harm and suicidal thoughts. School became a battleground; I faced bullying relentlessly, with peers following me, hurling insults, and vandalizing property with my name. Any mental health professional would have recognized my need for support, but to the church, my struggles were viewed as spiritual failings.
My mom was desperate to transfer me to a private school, but as a single mother and teacher, the tuition was a heavy burden. One day, the pastor called us into his office, claiming he had arranged for two “gentlemen in black suits” to sponsor my tuition, making it sound like he had single-handedly orchestrated this opportunity.
My mom and I were overwhelmed with gratitude and shed tears of relief. We thanked him profusely, and he accepted our thanks graciously, reminding us that he’d risked a lot to make this happen. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that I discovered the truth behind the funding.
During a family visit to our lake house, my uncle, who had been drinking, let slip, “Why don’t you ask your mom where that money for school came from?” It dawned on me that those “suit gentlemen” were actually my uncles, who lived far away and had never met our pastor.
This blatant deception should have prompted us to leave the church, but it didn’t. The leaders managed to spin the narrative so they still appeared to be the heroes.
The tension between church leaders and my mom increased when the private school failed to improve my situation. As a single parent with limited resources, she faced pushback from leaders who imposed their toxic parenting beliefs upon her. I recall them coming to our home when my mom was at work, praying over me and invoking phrases like, “I rebuke Satan from this child of God, in the name of Jesus.”
When expelling “demons” didn’t work (please catch my sarcasm), my mom sent me to rehab. I’ll never forget the pastor’s parting words: “If you leave this rehab before you’re ready, I’ll hunt you down.” Comments like this didn’t align with the teachings of Christ.
I eventually left that rehab because it wasn’t a fit for me. Upon returning to church with unkempt hair, my mentors claimed they could tell I was spiraling simply because I hadn’t fixed my appearance. They acted as if they understood me better than I did, and I had begun to believe them.
They often expressed doubts about my salvation, claiming they didn’t see any “fruit” in my struggles. My depression was interpreted as a spiritual battle, and I was seen as letting Satan win. As a kid raised in the church with a deep-seated fear of hell, their judgments profoundly affected me.
It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I recognized the flawed dynamics of these relationships. Once I started to think independently, several leaders blocked me on social media, effectively shunning me. I became “the one who must not be named.”
Experiencing trauma within the church leaves lingering mixed emotions toward those who wronged you. Strangely, I still care for these individuals and even miss them at times. However, now that I’m the same age as some of my former mentors, I feel disgusted by their treatment of me as a child.
I am actively working to dismantle the beliefs instilled by church leaders. I’ve had to rethink my views on purity culture, recognize that being gay is not a sin, and confront the persistent fear I have regarding hell. It has become evident that the values of the deities we worship can differ greatly.
I would never treat a child the way I was treated. My mental health struggles were real, yet instead of addressing them, my challenges fed their savior complex. I wish they had seen me for who I truly was—a child, not a project for their spiritual awakening.
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Summary
The author recounts their experience with church trauma, detailing how a once-supportive community devolved into a toxic environment filled with manipulation and spiritual hierarchy. As they navigated personal struggles, the church’s approach reinforced harmful beliefs and created emotional scars. Through self-reflection and healing, the author seeks to dismantle the damaging ideologies imposed on them and advocates for a kinder, more understanding treatment of individuals facing mental health challenges.
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