I was bit by a snake when I was about 13 years old.
If you would have spent any time at “April’s” house—a friend I had from kindergarten to senior year of high school—you would have learned that April was over-the-top. She orchestrated much of what we did and the trouble we got in. On this day, the thing she wanted to do was hang around her house and play with her pet snake.
I was immediately not on-board. With a pre-existing fear of snakes, I wore my discomfort like protective body armor and hung on the fringes while everyone else handled the snake like they were in the Australian Outback with Steve Irwin.
I lounged on April’s living room couch, trying to watch TV and distract myself. But a beat later, I see a snake fly in front of my face and land in my lap. With her terrible sense of judgment, April decided it would be funny to throw the snake at me. Being a non-venomous, constrictor type, she didn’t see the problem in throwing it at me. I saw and felt nothing but problems.
The snake was thrashing in my lap, and on closer inspection I realized it was pinned to my leg. Reader, it had sunk its fangs into my outer thigh. I froze in fear and glanced over at my friends, hoping for help. I found April doubled-over with laughter and shock painted on the faces of everyone else. The snake did retract its fangs, and, despite being in a drunk fit of giggles, April staggered over and picked it up. Pissed off, I got on my bike and left for home.
“Not all snakes…” Believe me, I get it—I really do. As a lifetime Texan, I know snakes are good for pest control and only bite when provoked. But this was different and stupid. Whether we acknowledge it or not, stupid exists. So does ugliness, selfishness, malevolence, and evil. And declaring, “not all snakes” does not prepare you and I for the day when some creature—a snake or otherwise—does bite.
Within the greater conversation surrounding deconstruction, spiritual abuse, and religious trauma, one defense I hear is, “Not all pastors!” It is true, not all pastors are hurting their members. I have no idea how many pastors I personally know, but the count has to be in the triple digits. I know not all of them are hurting the people in their churches. However, proclaiming “not all pastors” does nothing to heal deep wounds inflicted by some. Some do bite. Some do hurt. Some do wound, harm, and abuse—intentional or not. Many of us have the scars to prove it.
The pulpits of American Christianity preach the salvation of Jesus—to take up our crosses and follow him. But the crosses we carry shouldn’t be bulldozing the broken around us. Despite what I’ve seen and lived, I still believe in the salvation of Christ—that Jesus has redeemed and resurrected me. My expectation was to be delivered from (*gestures broadly*) the world, but no one discipled me to be wary of the serpents who slither in. I never suspected I would need to be saved from a place where my trust had rooted deep. Who ever thinks they’ll need to be saved from their own church?
April’s snake bit me once, but I suffered repeated bites and spiritual wounds from my faith family. It’s maybe a bit silly to say this now, but I stayed because I thought staying was faithful. I stayed because I thought I was home. Despite the constancy of conflict, I was convinced I was safe. A sense of home brings a sense of safety and security, and it took that sense being blown to smithereens for courage to compel me to leave. Being brave meant believing my family and I could find a sense of home and shalom elsewhere.
It is in the very nature of a snake to take the words of God and tweak them to hook people in. While Jesus told his followers to take up their crosses, he also said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest,” (Matthew 11:28, NRSV). Somehow, American Christianity has elevated the former message at the expense of the latter. Our effectiveness and productivity are lauded over the beauty of rest. Many faithful and hurting Christians aren’t given the dignity of choosing to pick up their crosses. Instead, leaders are laying crosses of their making on our backs for us, and they are leveraging Christ’s words to justify it. Friends, this is a bite that none of us expect, and the venom can wound us for a lifetime.
Faithfulness does not call you to labor under the bricks of today’s pharaohs. You do not need to endure bites, sustain wounds, and bear crosses that aren’t yours to shoulder. Jesus’s cruciform scars paved a path that named peace and rest as our inheritance. When you cross the threshold of any sanctuary door, the message you hear should be marked with invitation, saying, “Come in. Taste and see. Find rest within.”
Wherever you and yours may find yourselves this summer, I hope you are finding and being invited into places of rest. And in the small way I can—with words of care—I want to extend rest to you. I want you to feel blanketed with peace and rest anytime you engage spaces I inhabit. And I want you to look for other leaders, writers, thinkers, and advocates extending peace, too, because I know our weary souls desperately need it.
If you’re continuing to shoulder grief, anger, harm, and trauma, I see you. Our wounds mark us in kinship with Christ. Jesus knows the weight of a sorrow-laden cross. He is the culmination of an ancient fellowship that has weathered wounds inflicted by Pharaoh, the Philistines, and the Pharisees.
Beloved, your scars are kept and honored in him. Rest in that.
🖤
Jenai
The Wilderness Forum
For those interested in joining a group where you can share thoughts or ideas with those who understand spiritual abuse and trauma, the Wilderness Forum is available to you.
Brief PSA: The Wilderness Forum a server hosted on the Discord app. The WF isn’t therapy or soul care, and, if anything, it is more akin to a Facebook group, except with Discord, you don’t need a Facebook account.
If you’re interested in joining, fill out the form here (be sure to scroll down).
Coming in August
I have taken some time off this summer, but plan to get back into the swing of things in August.
I’ll be doing a couple of IG lives at the beginning of the month.
First, you can catch me and Pricelis on August 2nd at 7:30pm CST chatting about how you can better learn to communicate the beauty of Christ to those who have endured spiritual abuse and trauma.
Second, I’ll hop on an IG live with my friend, Sarah Westfall, on August 4th at 11am CST, when we’ll discuss finding belonging after you’ve been hurt.
Resources You Might Appreciate…
Untangle Faith Podcast, Episode 49: Amy Fritz interviews counselor and advocate, Kyle J. Howard, on navigating faith with racial trauma or after spiritual abuse
Listen on: Spotify or Apple Podcasts
Uncertain Podcast, Season 3, Episode 18: Katherine Spearing interviews Dr. Laura Anderson, one of the cofounders of the Religious Trauma Institute, on the role of anger in healing and empowerment.
Listen on: Spotify or Apple Podcasts
I began a conversation on Twitter on the church website red flags some may look for when researching churches to visit. While red flags are subjective (a red flag for me may not be a red flag for you), I hurt for the wounds that made theses responses and boundaries real for every responder. Join the conversation here:
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If this post was helpful, considering tapping the heart 🖤 icon & leaving a comment. Your engagement helps me reach more people who may need a few words of hope.
I would especially love for you to comment on the post here with the names of other faith leaders, thinkers, artists, and advocates who are pointing you to peace as you journey through spiritual trauma.
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You can find past posts from Letters for the Wilderness by visiting jenaiauman.substack.com.
Thank you Jenai for spending much of your time writing, encouraging and coming alongside others... you do it with excellence. You asked about others that encourage and who we listen to... I love Scott the Painter, https://www.scottericksonart.com/ and I often listen to Cheryl Fletcher's sermons at Menlo. She has often been there for me.
Loved the comment about Pharoah, Philistines, and Pharisees. It offered a sense of historical identity with those who have suffered. Beautifully put.