Some betrayals feel especially disorienting—not because of what was done, but because of who did it. Spiritual abuse in the church carries a unique kind of confusion, one that can take a long time to untangle and heal from.
He prayed.
He prophesied.
He quoted Scripture with ease.
He moved comfortably in spaces where worship, music, and spiritual language shaped how people were seen and trusted. He was often referred to as a man of God.
He spoke the name “Jesus” fluently.
He framed his struggles as normal. “Men’s battles,” he said.
He became fixated on the smallest perceived offenses—tiny things, trivial moments—turning them into opportunities for shame or accusation.
And when he hurt her, he reminded her of the call to forgive—seventy times seven, he’d repeat.
At one point, he even wrote her a worship song.
It felt sacred. Intimate. Like a spiritual bond blessed by God Himself. It deepened her trust and tethered her heart, making the relationship feel chosen, protected, and meaningful. What she couldn’t yet see was how that same spiritual intimacy would later be used to blur boundaries, silence her pain, and reframe harm as holiness.
It left her questioning not only him, but herself.
Was she unforgiving?
Judgmental?
Overreacting?
But deep down, her body knew.
Her spirit knew.
Something was wrong.
When spiritual language is used to justify harm, it becomes spiritual abuse.
And when someone performs holiness while living in unrepentant contradiction, the resulting confusion can fracture a person’s faith.
In churches and ministries, we often confuse gifts with goodness.
But Scripture is clear:
“By their fruit you will recognize them.” (Matthew 7:16)
Not by their songs.
Not by their stage presence.
Not even by the crowds they draw.
By their fruit.
But what is fruit, really?
That’s where things get complicated.
Because on the surface, the fruit can look good.
This man—he served others.
He spoke about grace and redemption.
He gave generously.
He expressed faith through music and worship.
He showed warmth, affection, and spiritual enthusiasm that drew people in.
From the outside, these are the signs many are taught to trust.
But the fruit Jesus speaks of in Matthew 7 is not limited to public action—it is integrity of heart. It’s revealed in the whole life: private choices, relational patterns, and the posture of repentance.
Sometimes the only fruit Jesus can truly see are the ones behind closed doors.
It’s not only what someone does, but how consistently, how truthfully, and how humbly they live it.
Because even good works can become tools of self-elevation.
Even charity can be performative.
Even worship can be used to build spiritual authority without accountability.
Even kindness can be conditional.
And the Spirit doesn’t measure fruit by momentary acts—but by sustained transformation.
This is where discernment begins.
Not in suspicion, but in truth-telling.
A person can lead worship and still lead a double life.
They can speak about grace while avoiding accountability.
They can move a crowd—and manipulate the people closest to them.
That dissonance is enough to unravel someone’s trust.
Not just in the individual, but in the systems that celebrate them.
In the churches that platform them.
In the people who say, “But he’s so kind,” or “God is clearly using him.”
She begins to ask:
If God uses someone, does that mean God approves of their behavior?
If a person leads others spiritually but refuses to be led themselves, what is actually happening?
There’s no easy answer.
But here’s what she’s learning:
God may work through anyone.
But that does not mean God blesses harm.
He may bring good out of brokenness—but never by excusing abuse or silencing truth.
In some expressions of modern worship culture—especially those built around image, gifting, and performance—it can be difficult to tell the difference between spiritual influence and spiritual manipulation.
The stage may shine.
The lyrics may resonate.
The crowd may sway in unison to the next moving worship song.
But the question still lingers:
What kind of life is being lived offstage?
This is how spiritual gaslighting works:
The harm-doer remains the holy one.
The truth-teller becomes the problem.
So she stops speaking.
She doubts her instincts.
Eventually, she begins to question everything—church, worship, Scripture, leaders.
She is not walking away from God.
She is walking away from confusion.
Healing, for her, begins with naming what happened.
Not loudly.
Not with revenge.
Just honestly.
She’s beginning to believe that God is not the one who manipulated her.
God is not the one who blamed, condemned, or shamed her.
God is not the one who used worship as a cover for harm.
God was with her the whole time—grieved, not glorified.
She still wrestles with faith, forgiveness, and the church.
But now she knows:
Real grace tells the truth.
Real forgiveness does not require silence.
Real transformation bears fruit.
Not perfection.
But humility.
Not charm.
But character.
So she lets herself grieve.
She stops calling chaos “God’s will.”
She begins to trust the Holy Spirit within her again.
And maybe that’s where God meets her.
Not in the performance.
But in the quiet place where she finally allows herself to say:
“This is not right.”
And when she needs to remember it again, she returns to the truth:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3:5–6)
Because even when the road feels confusing, she can trust that God’s will is better than the illusion of control.
T.O.M. F.A.W.– Trusting Our Maker, Finding A Way
- Faith-Based Inspiration – Bible Gateway
(A trusted source for scripture references and spiritual reflection.) - Mental Health & Healing – NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness)
(Authoritative resource on emotional healing and mental well-being, aligns with your “finding a way” theme.) - Personal Growth & Reflection – Greater Good Science Center – UC Berkeley
(Research-based insights on resilience, hope, and human connection.)