Spelling recovery

“Trauma is never the event, it’s how your body responds to an event,” says Texas-based writer and artist Jenai Auman. “Your body, your brain, your heart – you flood with stress hormones and your body is actually under duress.” Auman is completing her certification as a trauma recovery coach and writing a book on spiritual abuse soon to be published through Baker Books.

In January, Auman collaborated with Hong Kong-based artist Erin Hung in A to Z of Trauma Recovery, a month-long Instagram movement. “I really do believe art is generative,” said Auman. “It’s life producing instead of life destroying, which is what trauma often is. I really wanted to be a part of A to Z of Trauma Recovery.”

UK-based artist and interior designer Teri Muncey and U.S. writer Jessica Fadel co-hosted with Hung. Authors, illustrators, advocates and trauma specialists around the world were invited to share their art and reflections inspired by 26 words, spelling A to Z, on Instagram. The hashtag #atozoftraumarecovery is still gathering stories as people respond in the comments to say, “that’s my story too.”

Yellow flags

In 2009, Auman and her husband helped launch an inner-city church in Houston, Texas. After eight years, Auman joined the staff full-time. On her first day, she witnessed a woman being yelled at during a Bible study. It was the beginning of Auman’s awareness of the discrepancy between what leadership practiced and what they preached. Over the next three years, Auman’s workload grew unsustainably, and her attempts to address that were “not received well.” Auman pointed out the impossibility of asking for help when she herself was the church’s HR. “I was – they never said fired, they never said terminated, they just said ‘transitioned out.’” Auman lost her job at the start of the pandemic when jobs were scarce. She requested more options, and a reason for her dismissal. She didn’t receive either. The church assured Auman that her job performance was excellent. Eleven years deep into church membership, Auman’s family left.

“It was the only church that my kids had known,” Auman lamented. Her departure resulted in an investigation that ended up in the termination of the pastor. For Auman, it was “too little, too late. He had already hurt a lot of people.”

Looking back, Auman can see the yellow flags. “I brushed them off because I didn’t want to be dramatic or blow things out of proportion. But when you see the yellow flags and don’t slow down – it ended up being a 10 car pileup later. We should have paid attention.”

L is for Loss

Like Auman’s family, Teri Muncey and her family broke with their home church during the pandemic. “Losing the community you cared so deeply for and thought cared so deeply for you is one of the most painful parts [of spiritual abuse],” Muncey told Christian Courier. It’s natural to isolate oneself after spiritual abuse, “but I honestly don’t think there can be real progress in healing without some form of community. One of the really special things to come from taking part in the A to Z of Trauma Recovery was getting to know more survivors and connecting with them. Even the act of sharing parts of your own story is healing as it restores your voice, something that was taken away from you in the abuse.”

Muncey and her husband joined an Acts 29 church plant at its inception. They remained deeply involved for eight years. “Essentially things had to get really bad before we were willing to really question everything,” said Muncey. “A situation arose where the lead pastor dealt with my own past abuse that preceded my time at the church really badly and traumatised me further as well as sending me into a mental health decline. Scripture was twisted in order to control and we were on the receiving end at times of this pastor’s rage as well as his numerous lies.”

When Muncey and her husband voiced their concerns, their words were twisted. “We became the problem ourselves, the metaphorical scapegoat.” Their family was isolated. Against their request, the church investigated themselves. “We pursued all avenues we could but were so broken and traumatised by the end of it all that change seemed hopeless. We lost our home and entire community in the process and were painted as bitter and angry, trying to tear this lead pastor down.”

“It’s a cruel and common irony that the perpetrator walks away praised and with no discipline,” reflects Muncey, “yet the victims receive discipline.” Auman sees the same pattern: “If I’m quiet I get to belong, but if I speak out and speak the truth, I’m removed from the family of belonging. That’s the internal conflict of every whistleblower.”

‘This one’s for the world changers’

Libby Thorngate saw Erin Hung’s posts on Instagram and decided to join the hashtag. When she was 19, Thorngate joined a large parachurch missions organization. She served under a married couple who controlled their staff’s lives. “The zeal of young adults who just want to serve Jesus and do something impactful with their lives is horribly exploited, with excessive work hours and no real freedom to have a personal life apart from the ministry. Staff are made to feel that they will betray God’s call on their lives if they leave,” recalls Thorngate.

Eighteen years into serving with the organization, Thorngate began a relationship with the man who is now her husband. “The manipulation and pressure I faced just for dating an “outsider” was deeply abusive.” She eventually left. “Four years later, I’m still unpacking how harmful [the culture] was.”

When Thorngate’s friend shared her own experience with an “abusive missions organization,” Thorngate sat down and wrote:

“This one’s for the worldchangers. The radical don’t-waste-your-lifers. Who went forward at the altar calls, picked the toughest spot on the map, and cried, ‘Send me!’ Who dreamed of martyrdom. Sought ministry-partner spouses. Counted the cost, willing to be broke, winding up broken. […] This one’s for all of us who were told (with words) that our identity is in Christ alone, but shown (by deeds) that our worth depends on productivity and good behavior. […] What if the most radical thing you could ever do is live your life as though you’re loved already?”

For Thorngate, recovery from spiritual abuse means learning to lean on God-given gut instincts again and step out of the obligation around daily quiet times and ministry involvement. “I’m thankful to be part of a church community that is safe and welcoming, where I can slip out if the service is triggering, or say no when I’m asked to volunteer, or not show up on Sunday at all.” Meditating on Jesus’ interactions with women and marginalized people, “has also been a source of rest and healing to me.”

Trash your timelines

It took years for Auman, Muncey and Thorngate to pay attention to the warning signs in their communities. Because trauma brings the body into fight/flight/freeze mode – without communicating to the mind why – it can feel irrational. That’s especially true in a church setting where faith language can be used to rationalize spiritual abuse. “Obedience is usually more lauded than safety,” says Auman, reflecting on how words like “faithfulness” can blind us to how leadership is hurting people. Even the debate around the abuse of power in the church can obscure the problem: “Real people are hurting because they have been harmed in churches.”

While the three women interviewed in this article have each found new church homes, they all stress that it is not something that can be forced or put on a timeline. “We need to feel free to make our own decisions, wrestle with our own relationship with God and listen to what we want and need,” says Muncey. “That’s completely opposed to what spiritual abuse survivors have been used to.”

Even though Muncey’s new church has a completely different culture, she started having palpitations the first time she entered church again. “I have to navigate constant triggers whether its a song, a sermon topic, part of scripture, a sermon illustration, conversation topic or issue like safeguarding. I’ve left church in tears and on the verge of a panic attack on a number of occasions but I know the people around me expect healing will be a long process and they do not place shame and extra burdens on me when I’m struggling.”

Returning to Scriptures is just as fraught, and each woman is finding her own way. “If there’s a safe part of the Bible for you then start there,” recommends Muncey. “Your wounds are very real and God knows how you have been harmed and it grieves him too.”

The beauty in recovery

Trauma disrupts meaning. When a sheep attacks you as a wolf and a safe refuge becomes a place of betrayal, how do you tell your story? What do you believe? Art is one way to create meaning out of chaos, wading back to the beginnings with God.

A pivotal moment in Auman’s healing came when a friend told her, “Maybe no one else can handle your anger, but God can.” That’s when Auman wrote her first psalm. Writing, for Auman, is a move towards wholeness.

For Muncey, it’s painting. “While there is a great deal of darkness in trauma, at the point when we begin the healing process there is also a lot of beauty to be found,” said Muncey. I asked Muncey to share her most meaningful art pieces from the A to Z of Trauma Recovery month.

B is for Body is her first choice. “It was intensely vulnerable to share all of my health struggles that stem from trauma throughout my whole life. I found so many people related to that mind/body link.”

I is for Intuition was a rallying call for many of the survivors. “It’s such a huge realisation that we can actually trust the God-given bodily responses we have or the discernment that comes from the Holy Spirit. . . In many ways realising we can trust our intuition is what leads to a turning point for many of us in spiritually abusive settings.”

L is for Loss was personal. “Feeling able to write down all of those specific and very painful losses brought me to tears as I typed them out. The illustration itself seemed to perfectly communicate that intense feeling of heartbreak. It’s so important to name the losses that trauma brings in order to really process, grieve and begin to heal.”

Resurrection

On the first day of A to Z of Trauma Recovery, A is for Autonomy, Hung shared digital paintings of butterflies. She wrote, “The butterfly motif kept coming back to me, in the days when I became aware of my emotional codependency. . . its beauty came from a complete breakdown of everything it has ever known, to the point where it became pulp-like matter marinated in darkness. A survivor’s relationship with autonomy feels like a daily arduous fight out of a cocoon. . . Audaciously, it resurrects. How the colourful patterns on its wings formed secretly, nobody knows. But when it catches its first gust of air, it flitters in freedom.”