I spent two years at a missionary training base, immersing myself in a world that promised spiritual growth and healing. The ministry’s mission was clear: to equip young people to bring the gospel to the most spiritually unreached areas of the world.
For many, this is a calling that resonates deeply, aligning with the heart of the Great Commission. But for others—myself included—the personal cost of serving in ministry came with scars I never anticipated.
This article is part of RELEVANT issue 116. Click here to see the rest of the issue, and click here to get our interactive digital magazine with RELEVANT+!
At 20 years old, I had never truly encountered the Holy Spirit in a tangible way. I remember sitting in a classroom as a guest speaker entered with dramatic “WHOAS” and “OOOOHS” echoing through the room. Students around me fell to the ground in emotional displays as she handpicked individuals to receive what she claimed were direct words from God.
It was my first encounter with “signs and wonders” used in the name of Jesus, but instead of feeling inspired, I felt deeply unsettled.
Soon after, we were encouraged to participate in an exercise called a “treasure hunt,” where we were told to allow the Holy Spirit to guide us to specific people through impressions or visions.
When I hesitated, unsure of what I was supposed to “see,” the leader shrugged and said, “Just come up with something. The first thing you notice, follow it.”
That moment solidified my growing doubts. Was this genuine faith, or were we simply manufacturing experiences to feel closer to God?
As the months passed, my peers and I found ourselves chasing supernatural encounters as proof of our spirituality. While I never struggled to hear God’s voice, others weren’t so fortunate.
I watched some of my closest friends spiral into feelings of inadequacy, convinced their inability to experience the miraculous meant they were less spiritual. The environment subtly created a hierarchy, where those with dramatic encounters were perceived as more faithful or chosen by God.
I entered the ministry with a troubled past, carrying wounds I had only begun to confront. When I shared my story with a leader, hoping for compassion, her response stunned me. Instead of grace, I was met with suspicion.
Later, she accused me of inappropriate behavior toward her husband—a man more than twice my age. “Considering your past, I have to ask,” she said, her words cutting deeper than she realized.
The ministry, a place I had believed would bring healing and growth, became a battleground of judgment and confusion. Female leaders scrutinized my actions and attire. A one-piece swimsuit I wore to the beach was criticized as “causing lust,” and a casual photo with friends was labeled “provocative.”
The underlying message was clear: I was responsible for the thoughts and struggles of others. It took years for me to unlearn that lie and to recognize that my worth was never tied to someone else’s temptations.
Amid these challenges, I found myself drawn into a relationship with a staff member. Taught that dating was “unbiblical,” we rushed into marriage, believing it was the only God-honoring path. But the union was fraught with pain, marked by abuse that left me broken.
When I sought help from the leaders who had encouraged our marriage, their advice was dismissive.
“Marriage is hard. Go back to your husband,” they told me. Desperate for guidance, I complied—until I couldn’t anymore.
Leaving that marriage was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but the aftermath was even harder.
Leaders I once trusted took his side or remained silent. When I finally spoke out about the abuse, their responses were laced with indifference.
“He’s a good guy,” they said. The betrayal left me questioning not only their integrity but also my place in the church community I had once called home.
Unfortunately, my story isn’t unique. Across ministries, Christian organizations and churches, countless people carry wounds from environments that were supposed to offer refuge and healing.
Stories of spiritual abuse, manipulation and judgment aren’t anomalies—they’re alarmingly common. And the fallout is devastating. Many walk away from the faith, not because they’ve lost belief in God, but because the people representing Him failed to reflect His love.
Yet, in the midst of all the hurt, I’ve found hope. I’ve come to understand that the actions of flawed leaders don’t define God’s character. His love is perfect, even when people fall short.
Healing from Church trauma is a journey, and for me, it began when I separated God from the actions of those who misrepresented Him.
The Church is made up of broken people, and while that doesn’t excuse harmful behavior, it reminds us that grace is essential. We can’t abandon the Church entirely, but we must hold it accountable.
We need to build environments where humility, grace and accountability take precedence over appearances and control.
The mission of spreading the Gospel is too important to be derailed by unchecked harm. Ministries and church organizations must prioritize the well-being of those they equip.
Leaders need trauma-informed training, and students need proper support, not just for the mission field but for the life that comes afterward. Without these safeguards, we risk leaving young people ill-prepared for the spiritual and emotional toll of ministry — and sometimes, deeply hurt by it.
The work of sharing Christ’s love is powerful, but we must ask ourselves: Are we caring for the people doing that work? Are we equipping them with the tools they need to thrive, or are we sending them out only to watch them falter under the weight of unrealistic expectations?
God’s mission is one of love and restoration. To honor that, we must commit to creating spaces where healing and growth are possible—not just for the people we’re trying to reach, but for those who are doing the reaching.
