It was the Season of Light it was the Season of Darkness (Charles Dickens)

CW // sexual and spiritual abuse

I had been up all night on a drug binge. I was with my husband and a group of friends. We often ate mescaline or magic mushrooms. We spent the night at a friend’s house in west Seattle this particular time. The house faced west with a breathtaking view of Puget Sound.

My drug-coping adolescence continued throughout my young marriage. But on this day, something was about to change. I was about to have an awakening. As I came down off of my high, I observed the sun as it rose to greet the new day. I could hear the birds chirping, welcoming the new day. As for me, I only felt sick to my stomach. My brain needed rest. Nothing felt new, but I wanted something new. At that moment, I prayed, and my prayer went something like this: God, I don’t ever want to feel this way again. Show me that you are real, and I will follow you for the rest of my life.

I had cried out to God for rescue. It would only be the first of many times.

In the Biblical account of the Prodigal Son, we are told that the son went to a far country. I felt like I had gone to a far country, and only now was I at the beginning of my search for something new. I was looking for my way home.

From that day on, I began to ask everyone I met, what they believed about God, and why they believed it. I stopped doing drugs and soon realized my marriage was in trouble. I was nineteen years old. It was 1976, and therapy was not mainstream. There was no Dr. Phil or Oprah, and I did not have the understanding or the tools to know how to get help. Like many women of my generation, I thought having a baby would fix my marriage.

I was twenty years old when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I was so excited and felt the weight of responsibility for this unknown treasure I was carrying. I began to pray daily: God, if you are real, show me where to find you.

When my son was nine-months-old, my husband and I attended a Pentecostal church in south Seattle. For those of you wondering, it was not Community Chapel but was not too far from the same cult-like distortion of the gospel.

The church’s lead pastors were male and female. A married couple was leading together. It was the first time I saw and learned that women could be ordained and be lead pastors of a church. They shared leading in every way. She preached, led worship, and sat on the board. I saw a model of how God might invite me to participate in kingdom work. It was the season of light.

They had a bible college on campus at the church through the Foursquare denomination. I took every class I could. I learned to preach in chapel. We became utterly immersed in all of church life. In 1980, I had my second child.

Looking back, it was as if I replaced the escapism I experienced from drugs with involvement in the church. It was about this time that I began volunteering at the church. I primarily did research for the pastors and helped around the office.

At some point, I realized my marriage was still very fragile. I began to think it was my fault. I wondered if it was due to the abuse I endured as a child. I made an appointment with the female pastor and confessed to her that I did not love my husband. I felt like a failure because any time we were intimate, I was repulsed. I told her maybe it was because of the abuse I experienced growing up from my father and my brother. I did not know these words at the time, but if I did, I would have said, I disassociate.

Her response to me was to open a bible and read a text that said something about the marriage bed being undefiled. She then counseled me that my body was not my own and that I was to give it to my husband anytime he wanted. I was told to repent and make an appointment to see the pastor (who was her husband).

I wanted to be obedient and help, so I made the appointment. From that time on, her husband groomed me and, within one year, was sexually and spiritually abusing me. This went on for several years. My marriage ended, I had a breakdown, ended up in a wilderness of confusion and torment, and left again wondering where God was.

The medicating first from psychedelic drugs and now from total involvement in the church, proved to be destroying my soul and many around me. It was the season of darkness.

The patriarchy I experienced through this chapter of my life was horrific. This male pastor (I found out later) was not only grooming me but others in the congregation. His wife chose to look the other way; the internal misogyny she held allowed her to be complicit in all of her husband’s philandering. She made excuses that it was a spiritual attack to destroy their ministry, that women had “jezebel” spirits who take men like her husband out.

The excuses, the victim blaming and shaming, the spiritualizing of egregious sin then and when future stories of his abuse came to light, well, you have a particular picture of how the patriarchy plays out repeatedly. This is my story. You may recognize pieces of your own experiences of patriarchy; if not, you can see how hard it is to escape and confront.

I ended up leaving the church. We were divorced after a brutal custody battle. I won residential custody of my two children and returned to a place of questioning God. During this time, I kept a journal of letters to God. My entries had a theme: Dear God, I have lost my way. I don’t know how to find you; please show me who you are and where to find you. I would write things like: if you let me back into your kingdom, I will wash toilets for eternity.

In my next post, I find a new community in the Vineyard.

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