The church had been a welcome companion through each transition and phase of my life. Becoming a stay-at-home mom was one of those transitions. In the parched soil of postpartum life, I was thirsty for spiritual hope. Motherhood is hard. Also, I found myself longing to find a place where my professional competence as a graphic designer could be utilized, and I so missed the camaraderie that comes with co-workers. This led me to the front steps of my church.

My pastor had continuously commented on how he loved my personal style and how he felt like I was the only one in the church who could do a good job designing and creating the seasonal stage decor. As a result, I began spending regular time at church working on projects, and I got to know my pastor well. He seemed to seek me out, and would often comment on how he knew God had sent me to help him in ministry.

While he loved a lot of what I created for him and the church, my pastor had very high standards, and I found myself constantly striving to meet his expectations. The hours required to do this continued to increase and even though I was only a volunteer, many weeks I exceeded a full-time workload. A year into this, my pastor offered me a paid job under his leadership. While my volunteer role had taken a lot out of me emotionally, physically and spiritually, I believed in the mission of the church, and I could see my skill-set growing. I also felt seen as a spiritual and gifted person under his care.

This is how I perceived that situation at that time. However, one with a more objective perspective might see more to the story.

A strange dichotomy between my pastor’s kindness and a darker side began to develop. When I failed to meet his expectations or when he was upset about other conflicts in the church, his outbursts of anger would be directed at me. When I would have an emotional reaction to his verbal violence, there would be remorse followed by apologies. A trauma bond developed.

Another confusing dynamic began to develop. On the one hand, he publicly spoke a lot about gendered boundaries, which created a sense of hyper-vigilance. Simultaneously, he continually tested and crossed boundaries with me when no one was looking. I now know he was enacting a pornographic style of relating. The push/pull dynamic created a lot of confusion.

In order to meet the deadline for big projects, I would often work into the early morning hours, even enrolling the help of my husband. While my pastor communicated I was the only one capable of the work, every project was met with unquenchable criticism. This created a lot of resentment in my husband, and it created a lot of striving in me. Additionally, I was spiritually motivated to get it right because from my perspective at the time, my pastor’s approval was closely tied to God’s approval. These were the early warning signs that my marriage was in crisis, a crisis for which it would not recover.

As my marriage suddenly and traumatically disintegrated, my pastor provided refuge under his care as my pastor and boss. I was afraid of being a single mom with no job, but he assured me I would be able to keep my job if I could get my work done. I was the most vulnerable I had ever been. With my husband no longer helping, my pastor would use an offer for late night help as an opportunity to groom me through systematically disassembling all my boundaries: physical, emotional, and spiritual. His work-related phone calls became “just driving to the store and wanted to say hi” phone calls. With no husband at home, he felt free to call anytime - day or night. I picked up the phone because he was my boss.

Finally, one time, after a particularly hostile interaction, we were both in tears. Tears came quickly and easily for him. I expressed how much his actions had hurt me. He reassured me and told me that he was sorry and that he loved me. This was not alarming because he had used this term of endearment with me and many others frequently. Then he said, “You don’t understand, I love you more than I should.” Something told me this was not right. But I was so confused. I felt connected to him. After all, we had been through so much together. He was my pastor. He was my boss. I also considered him a really close friend. He had prayed for me and with me. He had seen all the pain I had been through and cared really well for me at times. Was I reading too much into his comment? Maybe he didn’t mean for it to sound like it sounded. I left his office in shock and deeply confused.

A week later, as we disassembled the Easter decorations together, he told me, “I meant what I said last week.” As I stood there stunned, he asked if he could put his arm around me. It was a gesture he’d done many times before, and one I knew only as platonic. So, I said, “Of course.”

But it was not platonic, and it was not safe. This was the moment when he gained sexual access, and he would maintain this access over the next several months through sexual coercion. Day after day, he relentlessly pushed and prodded my boundaries through near constant requests for physical contact. I responded by both freezing and fawning, which was then followed by sexual violation. Every time he ended our interactions saying, “How did we let this happen again? You cannot let this happen. You just need to say ‘no’ to everything I ask of you.” Blind to his gaslighting, I left the conversations feeling guilty and ashamed. I thought if I just tried harder to decipher and prevent his requests, I could get him to stop. In turn, this would lead to an effort on his part to rebuild trust. I was locked into the cycle of abuse.

For the next six months, I stumbled around in a storm of confusion. He was in near constant communication with me, a common tactic of psychological control. Because I needed the income, I did not have the option of quitting my job and so consequently, I had to stay connected to my abuser. He told me he would be suicidal if this got out. He told me all the ministry he had done for the better part of two decades would be erased. I realize now that I had no agency and no voice to curb his daily sexual abuse. I was entrapped. He provided for my most basic human needs: connection and financial security. It was not safe for me to break the emotional ties I had to him; I was experiencing betrayal blindness.

One of the staff members began to get suspicious; his suspicions made their way to the elder board. When confronted with accusations, my pastor fabricated a story and asked that I go along. He was hoping to emerge from the crisis with minor discipline while I likely would need to find a new job. While I had no desire to expose myself on a public platform, I also knew I could not go along with such blatant lies.

I knew, in my body, that these sexual interactions were unwanted but because of the trauma bond that I had with my abuser, I felt a need to protect him rather than report him. Also, because I was severely traumatized from the months of sexual exploitation and the fact that I did not have a conceptual framework from which to understand abuse dynamics, language to explain what had happened to me was hard to find.

I was left with a lot of confusion as to what accurate terms and definitions might be. Was it an affair? Was it sexual harassment? Was it sexual assault? Was it abuse?

Ultimately, I was desperate for a way to safely disclose my victimization.

Instead of accepting the fabricated story from my pastor, I called the elders directly and explained I needed to have a confidential conversation with them. Between my phone call with them and our actual meeting, my pastor found out about my request even though I had requested confidentiality. Knowing I would likely disclose the truth, he began calling and texting me incessantly. The night before our meeting, I handed over my phone to a friend I had called for support. With her support, I ended up blocking his phone number. This act of betrayal was just the beginning of the institutional betrayal that would almost completely engulf my life.

I showed up to that elder meeting in sheer terror but with a hope that I would be seen, understood, cared for and ultimately protected. Emerging from the trauma-fog of abuse, I still barely had language for what had happened to me. I did the best I could to give a sense for the harm perpetrated toward me by my boss and pastor. What spilled out of my awareness were snapshots of reality. Bits and pieces of a very fragmented narrative. While I knew that I did not have adequate language to categorize reality, I trusted that they would steward my story well. I trusted that they would know how to help. I was desperate for soul-nourishing care. The kind of care a shepherd offers to the already vulnerable sheep whose very life has been maimed and maligned by an attack from a wolf in disguise.

The reality of what ensued after that conversation was as traumatizing as the daily sexual abuse from my boss and pastor. The elders hired lawyers to look into the matter. Thinking they had my best interest at heart, I fully submitted to the investigation. I really thought they would do the right thing. I longed for the truth to be known. As it turns out, this law firm was really good at protecting the institution it represents, and it had no concern with wounded sheep.

They engaged in a common institutional image management tactic known as DARVO. Hours before the congregational meeting was due to begin, I heard news from the church’s attorneys that the narrative they would communicate to the entire church community was nothing that resembled the violence of my experience. They would espouse a narrative that claimed I had equal responsibility in the “adulterous relationship” that had been going on for months. The next minutes, hours and days were filled with one trauma response after another.

I would like to say that things turned around and justice was eventually achieved. However, that is not my reality. After the congregational meeting, the elders declined every request I made to have further discussions. The only way they would meet with me is if I signed an agreement stating that I would not sue them. I could not, in good conscience, sign an agreement like that. It is a story undone and with no resolution.

Click here to here an ACSA Survivor discuss trauma and its effects.