“You’ve been through an abusive experience,” the New England minister said to me, “and there’ll be times, during the months ahead, that will seem like a roller-coaster ride. You'll shed lots of tears; but that’s okay. Tears are a gift from God. You’ve done all you can do. You’ve tried everything to make people realize the destructiveness of what’s going on. If they refuse to listen or address the issues you’ve raised, they’ll be the ones held accountable--not you.”

A roller-coaster ride? One that might be ongoing for months? The thought paralyzed my mind. How would I survive? I hated roller-coasters. I’d always hated unpredictable, fast-moving, unenclosed rides. I remembered the time my husband, Bill, talked me into riding Disney World’s ultimate roller-coaster with one of our children. Attempting to emotionally prepare myself for the dreaded event, I asked the attendant how long the ride lasted.

“Oh, just three minutes,” he replied.

So, closing my eyes and saying a prayer, I began counting to one-hundred-eighty. What seemed like forever after my count ended, I heard a voice saying, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Sealing my lips, I anchored my tongue with my teeth. It was difficult to restrain. I allowed the attendant to guide me to my grinning family. However, before reaching them, I became Disney’s latest attraction--Mickey Max. There I lay, crumpled on the concrete ramp, amidst swarming tourist with big, smelly feet.

Yes, indeed. I hated roller-coaster rides! Never did I suspect that Disney World’s monster would be like a slow-moving, whimsical carousel ride in comparison to the journey I’d struggle to survive during the next nine months, the loneliest time in my entire life. Nine months--how symbolic--the exact time required for the development of a new life.

During the following year, I thought a lot about spiritual abuse, a term not recognized or understood at the time by most, and the devastating impact it had thrust upon my family, many dear friends, and me. I wondered if leaving my old friends, at my beloved church home of seventeen years, had been the right decision. Those who left before me said I was crazy for staying as long as I did. Others pleaded with me to try sticking it out just a little longer. But, I’d been advised, by the New England minister, to remove myself from the situation, as soon as possible, so the healing process of my ravaged emotions could begin. I decided to follow his advise.

During the early months of my recovery, I received much comfort, guidance, and support from various members of the clergy--six in particular. I often thought about what a kind, local minister said to me.

“What you’ve experienced is the worst violation possible. It’s a case of spiritual rape.” Looking at me intently, eyes that reflected empathy and compassion also winced with controlled anger and apparent shock. “I want you to find everything you can find on The Old Testament Pharisees,” he said. “That will help you understand the kind of people you’ve been dealing with.” Handing me a handkerchief, to absorb the salty flood of tears, he sat patiently beside me as I expelled another avalanche of pain, anger, and a medley of untangled emotions.

As the months went by, I spent a lot of time alone. I did a tremendous amount of reading and meditating during those tumultuous months. It’s easy for one to understand the grief brought about by a critical illness or death of a family member. But the type of “death” I experienced,  a result of the happenings at my old church home, was not a situation many could relate to or understand. So, I withdrew into my own little world. It was truly my dark night of the soul--a time when obsessions and compulsions ruled my life.

A minister told me that I’d probably struggle with the various stages of the grieving process for a long time. “You’re going to need lots of space,” he said. He’d been through a similar experience, and he knew how slow and difficult overcoming my experience would be. He was right.

Unlike physical abuse, which often results in bruised bodies, spiritual abuse bruises the inner depths of one’s soul. It viciously attacks the very core of one’s being--an individual’s personhood.

Spiritual abuse is a shaming process through which attempts are made to convert a child of God into a dupe of Satan, a reprobate who must be purged from the group standing on higher ground. One raising uncomfortable questions, disagreeing with the leadership, or threatening exposure is considered blasphemous and in rebellion against God. Such persons have the “smell of hell’s smoke” upon them and must be broken; "the end will justify the means," rationalizes the "appointed one" and his followers.
 

MOVING ON...

During the summer and fall of 1989, my heart was very quiet. At times, I thought it had stopped beating. But, when spring arrived in 1990, I sat in my walled courtyard smelling the fragrant Confederate Jasmine and listening to the gently trickling water of the weathered corner fountain. Suddenly, during a moment of silence, I heard it. There was music amongst the trees in the garden. Yes! The sound was unmistakable, and I could hear it clearly.

“I can add to it,” I thought, “and I will. I’ll add to the music I hear, and I’ll build upon the notes I’ve heard. Then I’ll share the message of hope with others who think their hearts have died. I’ll take my garden to them.”

Since that time, I’ve marched to many tunes--some happy, some sad. But, as long as I can hear the music, I know I’m not alone. The music maker is always with me, and it doesn’t matter where I am--a lush garden or an arid desert. Yet, I must be very quiet to hear it. For me, that can be a challenge!
 

NOTE: Originally printed in the December 1990 edition of Savannah Parent magazine and reprinted with permission.
 

Maxine Pinson
1992

(click photograph to read MP's bio)

 This article is dedicated in appreciation for the following deceased members of our former church
family who provided encouragement, support, and comfort during the crisis period as they shared the hurt.
Mr. George B.  Backus,  Mr. Joseph Bottler, Mr. Harry T. Davis, Mrs. Eleanor Exley, Dr. Wayte Fulton,
Mr. & Mrs. Wilburn H. Howard, Mrs. Ruth Healy, Mr. & Mrs. Charles Martin,
Mr. & Mrs. John McCloy, Mrs. Grace Moore, Mr. & Mrs. James Reynolds, Dr. Donald Super