Some betrayals feel especially disorienting—not because of what was done, but because of who did it. Spirtual abuse in the church can come with a unique confusion, that takes time to heal from.
He prayed. He prophesied. He quoted Scripture, wrote worship songs, and was referred to as a man of God.
He said the name “Jesus” with ease.
He called his struggles normal. “Men’s battles,” he said.
He would become 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.
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 but lives in unrepentant contradiction, the 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 seem good.
This man—he does charity work. He shows love and affection to all. He writes and performs inspirational gospel music. He gives water and food to the homeless. He speaks about second chances and redemption with convincing joy.
From the outside, these are the signs we’re taught to look for.
But the fruit Jesus speaks of in Matthew 7 is not just public action—it’s integrity of heart.
It’s what’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 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 man can lead worship and lead a double life.
He can speak about grace and still avoid accountability.
He can move a crowd—and manipulate the people closest to him.
This dissonance is enough to unravel someone’s trust.
Not just in the man, but in the systems that celebrate him.
In the churches that platform him.
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 them?
If a person leads others to the Lord but refuses to be led himself, what exactly is happening?
There’s no easy answer.
But here’s what she’s learning:
God may work through anyone.
But that doesn’t mean God blesses their behavior.
He may bring good out of brokenness—but never by excusing harm.
In some expressions of modern worship culture—especially in spaces built around image and performance—it’s hard to tell the difference between spiritual influence and spiritual manipulation.
The stage may shine. The lyrics may be relatable. The crowd may sway to the rhythm of “One Voice for God,” or whatever the next big gospel song might be.
But behind it all, 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.
And eventually, she starts to question the whole thing: church, worship, Scripture, leaders.
She’s not walking away from God.
She’s walking away from confusion.
Healing, for her, begins in 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, and judged her.
God is not the one who sings in the name of Jesus and sins without accountability and remorse.
God was with her the whole time—grieved, not glorified.
She still wrestles with questions about faith, forgiveness, and church.
But now she knows:
- Real grace tells the truth.
- Real forgiveness doesn’t 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 starts trusting and listening to the Holy Spirit inside her.
And maybe that’s where God meets her.
Not in the performance.
But in the quiet place where she’s questioning:
“This is not right.”
And if she needs to remember it again—she reminds herself of 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.)