I’ve been trying to think about what to write about for days, so I figured I’d write about what led me into the area of Religious Trauma. It was the constant clashing together of what I was taught at church, versus how I was being raised at home and in my neighborhood that made me the perfect subject for religious trauma. I learned in church, through caught and taught messages, that the way I behaved was what was most important. The amount of rules I kept and sacrifices I made of my humanity determined my worth in their eyes, and ultimately God’s. I was taught to fall in line with the group and discouraged from thoughts or questions that went against the norm of said group. My individualism was only recognized if it had a place in the fold. If it could be used in some form of ministry. Other significant parts of who I was were left unseen. I was a part of a monolith in this context.
At home, interestingly enough, my independence was fostered, encouraged even. My father taught me to ask questions about everything. Never accept things “as is” just because somebody said it’s true. My parents encouraged my natural inquisitiveness of everything from their childhoods, to my research on civil rights, and obsession with the life and spiritual journey of Malcolm X. These two contexts of church and home were intricately woven together, but totally contradictory. It’s often confusing when I consider it.
Yes, I had rules at home. Yes, I thought my parents, especially my father, were strict. There were always rules and structure. Whenever I felt invisible it wasn’t because my parents intentionally ignored me though, or suppressed parts of me they deemed “different”. My parents were busy working full time jobs and unaware. They were both also preoccupied with their own intra/interpersonal issues.
Church was supposed to be a refuge though. I mean...that’s what we sang about regularly, right? It was supposed to be the place of acceptance, affirmation, encouragement and support when I couldn’t find it. It did that for me at times, but there were terms and conditions at the bottom of this social contract in fine print. This love was not offered as a result of me just “being”. Absolutely not. I needed to “be” with direct intent. I needed to “be” holy, I needed to “be” pure, and most importantly, I needed to “be” quiet.
Years of sermons that used scripture out of context, teachings that magnified the fear of an eternal burning hell, youth groups that harped on rule-keeping, and conventions where Elders told us daily “ain't nothing like this, but this”, instilled fear, chipped away at my autonomy, and groomed me for years of self-doubt, anxiety, and dissatisfaction with my spiritual journey. The message I caught was that my connection to God was conditional, and most disheartening of all, God’s love for me was also conditional.
I honestly believe my experience growing up in my particular faith tradition played a major part in my subconscious “people pleasing” attributes, something I still have to check myself about. It all boils down to a need for a healthy spiritual community. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to belong. I never really fit in though unfortunately, and eventually I left after twenty two years.
That departure from the faith community I’d known all my life, forced me to rethink my relationship with The Creator and what that could possibly look like. It also ignited a desire in me to help others who have left, or are struggling within their faith traditions. Many of whom may be lost and traumatized. It’s my mission with my Religious Trauma work to guide others through their journey as they heal from the trauma of toxic theology.