When Faith Hurts: Testimony of an EXvangelical on Religious Trauma

by Cassandra Brandt

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

When people ask me why I have trauma from my youth in the Evangelical community, I really don’t know where to start.

The megachurch Easter production I attended as a preteen, watching actor Jesus whipped bloody on his way to the cross? My eyes had nearly swollen shut from sobbing in the church van on the way home. A youth pastor had pressed a hammer into the hand of each child at an Evangelical camp I’d attended the summer prior, and my guilt and shame over the torture and death of Christ was palpable. I felt as guilty as if I were the sole original sinner that determined his fate.

Maybe I should tell them about the many times I experienced these terrifying premonitions of Christ’s return to Earth to take the saved souls to Heaven. I used to call my pastor at home to make sure Jesus hadn’t come back and left me behind! I would turn on the TV expecting to see news media covering the mass disappearance, with footage of piles of clothing left in puddles.

Later I would learn that there had even been a term coined for the phenomenon: Rapture anxiety. Some said Christ’s return would occur in the year 2000; I’d be seventeen.

Perhaps it would be most effective to lead with the trauma induced by the narrative of eternal damnation faced in the event of Rapture or death, if I neglected to repent of my latest sins or if my faith faltered.

I had nightmares about hiding in dark corners of fiery pits, weeping and gnashing my teeth in fear like the Bible verses described.

Since leaving the church, I’ve studied enough psychology and attended enough therapy to know the concepts and practices within that theology left me with lasting psychological scars. Maybe the girl in the pew next to me had a wonderful experience; and I’m glad for her, but her experiences don’t negate or invalidate my own.

Religious Roots

I grew up in the Assembly of God churches in small-town America. My religious faith wasn’t always toxic. My church family was kind and made me feel special. I had so much fun at church camp and in my youth group. My bond with Jesus felt genuine and precious.

But there was another side to that coin.

The rules were extensive and impossible to obey but that didn’t matter: perfection was demanded, and the consequences I was taught I’d face if I strayed or disobeyed were the stuff of nightmares.

I was haunted by my childish sins: white lies, temper tantrums, stolen candy.

Later my sins were more grave: lust, pride, and worst of all, gnawing doubts about theology which I secretly harbored and feared were surely implanted by the devil himself and I would eventually be sent straight to Hell, right along with him.

I clung to my virginity, my soul attached to it in this purity culture environment. I burned with shame through sermons about harlots tempting God’s men, and with indignation through Bible stories that depicted women’s virginity like the sole marker of their piety.

I was taught to feel guilt for my feelings of attraction and natural desire for intimacy, and real fear for my fate should I act on them. My youth pastor said demonic oppression could be transmitted through sexual acts.

Reading science was taboo too; seeking inner peace was demonic; literature was so limited; educators were tools of the devil. Instead, I was a voice against them, an aspiring apologist for Evangelical theology of the most fundamentalist brand. I spoke in Tongues, knocked on doors, laid my hands on the sick.

Leaving the Fold

When I traded fundamentalist faith for intellectual honesty the weight of the cross took a while to slide off my back. In some ways it still weighs me down. There are the lingering feelings of never being good enough; the irrational anxieties, the way my brain is wired now, after years of anxiety over doomsday prophecy. And then I miss sweet Jesus, my savior from yucky Yahweh, my closest confidante. I kept him in my own way. I hold his values in my heart, whether he was man or god.

But my early years of apostasy were the most difficult. I floundered without faith and looked over my shoulder for demons.

But there was no going back. My mind was demanding answers. If my belief system was without flaws, why did history reflect the myriad changes it had undergone, and many for obvious political purposes? Why did historians lack concrete evidence Christ ever existed? Why did science offer evidence that was contrary to a biblical worldview? And why was this God character such a brutal guy in that Bible anyway? His values didn’t line up with Christ’s or make sense at all.

What kind of a good god would create us flawed and yet demand such perfection? Create us with eager, searching minds and demand suspension of critical thought? Make afterlife rewards so unattainable and Hell so hot?

Figuring out the fabrication of my faith system was shocking and humbling.

The world was a brand new and very scary place. My mind and my emotional intelligence were unprepared. I had been taught to fear the wicked world. Then again, I had also been taught to fear the authoritarian mediators of Christ’s message. I had been taught to fear God himself.

In Hindsight

Sometimes I ponder what the terrified girl who I was would think of the woman I’ve become. She wouldn’t like this woman: proud, outspoken, opinionated, sexy, educated, feminist, liberal and very atheist. The woman I am today loves science and philosophy and her spirituality is downright witchy.

Yes, the Protestant preteen I once was would like nothing better than to pull me back under that pulpit, shove that hammer back in my hand. She’d cover my skin and silence my voice. She’d burn my Master’s Degree, she’d say that God’s my Master.

Oh, sweet girl. You were just four or five when you learned to pronounce “brimstone”.

What an irony for any 21st Century American to ponder the torture methods of an ancient Israelite storm god, but that’s the story that I was given.

I lost my faith entirely at twenty-three. The decision to stop believing was not mine. I did choose to read the taboo texts of biblical scholars, scientists and philosophers. Facts filtered the fiction from my mind. I reveled in the reality that the cognitive dissonance I’d practiced in the faith didn’t need to be applied to newfound knowledge.

How wonderful it is to enjoy and appreciate this precious world for all its majesty and mystery! Still the scars of my indoctrination manifest in myriad ways decades post deconstruction. Leaving the faith was the hardest as well as the most rewarding experience I’ve ever been through.

The churches I grew up in, and the televangelists on my parents big console TV, preached a brand of faith that was very fear-based. Even after I became completely convinced that the narrative I’d been fed was a farce, fear lingered. No part of me assumes it is fear for my eternal soul, however. These feelings are a symptom of a generalized anxiety disorder that has manifested in my brain.

Religious Trauma

When I started learning about religious trauma I felt so much relief to put a finger on the pulse of that demon. I’m often ashamed and guilty for ridiculous reasons. I think everyone hates me. I isolate. I am hyper-vigilant; still don’t sleep. That’s trauma. I was not given tools for healthy emotional regulation in youth, told instead that my unpleasant emotions weren’t part of growing up, but my own shameful sin.

How do you explain that religion (even mainstream Protestant religion) can cause trauma to a person who hasn’t lived it? How do you explain to a person outside of the church, or even a member of the church who responds that “God is Love” and “What Bible are YOU reading?”

I learned early on that some people survive indoctrination better. Some survive it so well they stick with it and pass it down. If they must stick with it, I wish they would pass it down as an option, and I don’t mean with eternal damnation being the only other alternative. No preschooler need repent for her soul. I want to get down on my knees, to her eye-level, hold her hands, and say:

“Sweet girl.

Don’t be scared; I did this for us. Sure, I miss Jesus sometimes, but God? No, we were given a version of him that was pretty hard to love huh, sweetie? Unfortunately I let that set a precedent for me and still have yet to find a genuine love in a man.

But I’m not unhappy, honey. I’m not scared anymore. I have been through some incredibly tough times, and I only had faith in myself. I’m proud of myself. Pride feels good and I deserve it. I work hard. My values aren’t handed to me by a church. I follow my heart. And you know what? It leads us down a good path!

You are going to grow up and write books! You are going to be part of a noble fight for marginalized people. You will endure tragedy, overcome and inspire. You will teach others how to find peace. Your soul will go to the good place: stardust scattered out in space.”

I remember reading Marlene Winell, author of Leaving the Fold and founder of Journey Free, an organization dedicated to helping people deconstruct from toxic faith. She coined the term “Religious Trauma Syndrome”. Just reading those words was such a validating experience.

This is what I have. This is why I’m so anxious. This is why I hate myself.

Winnel compared Religious Trauma Syndrome to PTSD. She addressed the challenges of leaving the fold and navigating relationships with loving family members who just want to save your soul. She spoke to the incredible journey toward self-love. And I cried. I was seen.

Indoctrination hurt me. But now I can heal.

Healing

Part of my healing involved embracing alternative paths to peace. I began to entertain some concepts within Buddhism: gratitude, acceptance, altruism: ideas that surely weren’t adverse to Christian values but sat similarly right in my heart without forcing me to adopt a lot of dogma with that ideology.

I also became drawn to Stoic philosophy, for its simple tools for achieving mental fortitude and ideas about living a virtuous life.

Cognitive behavioral therapy has also helped me to identify parts of my psyche affected by my indoctrination, and work on unlearning ideas and behaviors that die slow and hard after fundamentalist upbringing.

It’s not my job to save anyone, in any capacity. I’m only responsible for myself. It’s okay to feel validation in my accomplishments. All glory isn’t reserved for God anymore. In addition to really unlearning guilt and shame, I’m unlearning fear: redirecting the mind when it goes to irrational places.

I’m free. Free to think critically, doubt, learn, unlearn. I have autonomy over my body, pride in my work. I live with my anxiety and I know the worst fears are behind me. There’s peace in my present and there’s peace ahead. Some people find peace where I didn’t and I don’t begrudge them that. But this is my story. When I left religion behind I read everything I could get my hands on to make sense of my new world.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR / EDITOR: Gabriel Nathan | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman