My Acne and Faith Journey Part 7: Triumph Beyond the Trauma

My Personal Experience with Religious Trauma

I hesitated to leave the church for a long time, but my body was telling me otherwise.

I was grappling with poor health and depressive episodes. I even became emotionally numb at some point.

I didn’t want to feel anything anymore—sadness, anger, or discouragement—because sitting with my emotions would only hinder me from accomplishing my ministry tasks and working as a high school teacher.

I suppressed my flight instinct for years. Each time I thought of leaving the church, I questioned my motives.

Maybe, I wasn’t obedient and submissive enough.

Maybe, I was selfish and shallow.

Maybe, I didn’t have enough faith.

And also, I didn’t leave because I believed that my prayers would be answered—God would rectify the unhealthy dynamics within the church.

After years of praying, I was finally convinced God answered no to me: a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted (Eccles. 3:2).

So in 2018, I told the pastor’s wife I no longer agreed with the church’s leadership decisions, culture, and doctrines. I confessed that I intended leaving.

I still doubted my decision to leave. I was afraid the stories they shared on the pulpit would happen to me—God pruned away from the church those who are not bearing fruit.

The pastor’s wife convinced me I shouldn’t leave. Because I was still unsure of myself, and I was still hoping God would intervene the way I wanted, I agreed to stay.

But after a week, she told me I was a different kind of Christian, and they were not my tribe. She explained staying would only harm me. She likened me to a child ready to leave her parents.

It warmed my heart to know she cared about my spiritual well-being.

But her next words left me reeling: She said I had to leave because the members of the small group I was leading didn’t attend church regularly, and my decision to leave was influenced by interactions with Christians from other churches.

I left the room, thinking, Do you see me as a problematic child who has to leave the family? Do you see me as someone God has to “prune away” from the church because by your external standards I don’t bear fruit?

I had hoped before I left I was at least able to voice this out: For a family to remain a family, they must confront their internal demons. Or else, family members will leave because they cannot bear the tension anymore.

The church dynamics had symptoms of manipulation and control, dogmatism, and insistence on conformity.

It was becoming clear to me that the church’s excessive emphasis on signs and wonders, spiritual gifts, and the anointing of the Holy Spirit was a dangerous obsession. The church was not teaching spiritual gifts in their biblical context.

Spiritual gifts are good, but the more excellent way is love (1 Cor. 12: 29-31; 1 Cor. 13: 1-3). If there is a gift that the church needs desire more, it is the ability to love like Christ.

And love does not exist when people are used as tools to achieve a desired end.

I couldn’t help but think they might have confused the Great Commission with its own church expansion. And that they might have labeled the church agenda as God’s agenda.

The pastor wanted to plant churches in different parts of the Philippines and 13 other countries because he claimed God gave him that “vision.” And all of them must bear the name of the mother church.

The pastor preached that people who left the church he led eventually shipwrecked their faith.

Although he said we could transfer to another church if it meant spiritual growth, his sarcastic tone left me more confused. I didn’t want to be disconnected from God, so it seemed best not to leave.

He warned us against listening to other pastors. Yet, he once declared from the pulpit that he shouldn’t be teaching us the Bible because it was our individual responsibility to read the Scriptures. (This contradicts the primary duty of a pastor to feed the flock by teaching God’s Word, as stated in Jeremiah 3:15 and John 21:17.)

Although he only mentioned it once, over the years, I noticed a pattern: He was not preaching God’s Word in an expository manner. His sermons were frequently interjected with his own opinions.

He also emphasized that spiritual experiences are better than theology. They are the barometer of one’s intimacy with God.

Although the pastor’s wife didn’t agree with the pastor’s stance on theology, she preached sentiments that lacked the nuances and complexities a believer faces in real, human experiences.

She claimed that a Christian must never lack the strength for ministry, as God will supply it. She also asserted it’s unthinkable for a Christian to have depression.

Hearing those made me feel something was fundamentally wrong with me and my faith as I had been struggling with poor health.

Her words came across as pressure to continually serve without expressing any difficulties.

It felt like I had to be disconnected with my body. That I needed to keep on pushing when my body’s screaming for respite.

My interactions with the leaders were as unhealthy as the teachings themselves.

Their affection and company always felt conditional. They would be cold and distant whenever I missed the mark of their expectations in my behavior and ministry performance.

But if I impressed them, they would proclaim it on the pulpit. They would measure others based on how well I did.

It didn’t sit right with me. But I stayed silent.

And I still stayed silent as I witnessed public shaming disguised as rebuke and correction—sometimes directed at me, sometimes at others.

I went to church scared that they would find fault in me. I suppressed my sense of self for fear they would find me unholy.

But what hurt me the most was the pastor’s claim that God told him the church wasn’t growing because the congregation was not putting in enough effort.

He even accused me of being lazy and suggested that my poor health was a result of disrespecting the Holy Communion.

He claimed to be an apostle, hearing and receiving visions from God, so it was devastating to hear that God wasn’t pleased with me when I had given generously of my time and resources. When I did not hold back and I really tried.

It’s not just the leaders. The congregation also practiced groupthink and group conformity.

Think a little bit differently, act a little differently, and your spirituality would immediately come under scrutiny.

When I was with them, I acted like them and judged others who didn’t quite look and act the part.

Years after I left, someone attempted to reconnect with me and shared that some believed I left because a particular man at church had married someone else.

I was bewildered to find out that the people I once served and loved were quick to judge my faith as shallow.

But they wouldn’t have thought about it if the pastor’s wife had been transparent about why I left the church. (This happens when the image of the church needs to be protected more than the reputation of an individual.)

Did the church got some things right? They did uphold biblical soteriology (theology dealing with salvation).

Did they love me? Yes, I believe they showed me compassion and grace.

However, I cannot deny that they caused me unnecessary suffering and pain because they embraced teachings, although drawn from the Bible, that were interpreted in ways beyond the original intentions of the Scriptures.

NOTE: As mentioned in this article, the pastor claimed to be an apostle, a title also conferred upon him by the church-appointed “prophet.” I vividly recall that the church’s sign read: Apostolic Church.

I also remember being told that the pastor and his wife attended a conference during the early days of the church.

I have reasons to believe that the conference was about the theological movement known as the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR) as their doctrinal emphasis, teachings, and terminologies (such as dominion, spiritual warfare, kingdom, authority, five-fold ministry etc.) closely resembled those of my first church.

NAR emphasizes the need and use of revelations, prophecies, and visions. This does not conform to the principle of Sola Scriptura.

It is also important to note that the NAR is popular in the Global South, which includes my home country, the Philippines.

When I left my first church, I was unaware of NAR. What I knew was that I disagreed with the leadership decisions, culture, and doctrines because they didn’t align with the clear and straightforward teachings and instructions in the Scriptures.

Part of my recovery from religious trauma involved understanding my disagreements with them. It’s common for trauma victims to blame themselves, so reflecting on my past helped me piece things together.

This process brought clarity and validation; I realized I don’t have to blame myself because I did experience real spiritual harm.

I chose to keep this entire situation a secret from my parents. I was afraid they would think that changing my religion brought me this misery.

But I know I didn’t change religion. I chose to follow Jesus.

Even though I was still clinging to my faith, I was already languishing.

I wanted to die and be with the Lord as soon as possible. The pain was too much for me to even understand.

Can’t Find Healing

While I understood the importance of being part of a church for biblical obedience, my main driving force was fear of being disconnected from God.

In less than three months, I committed to another church. (Looking back, I should have done the process at a gradual pace before I reintegrated to a Christian community.)

Although in this second church I encountered the doctrine and practice of grace once again, something wasn’t right with me.

Despite appearing to get along with them, I was hypervigilant. I couldn’t convince myself I could trust them and be safe with them.

I still shared them my story because I believed the church was the place for me heal. But the response was somewhat tone-deaf.

It seemed the church wasn’t ready for conversations on religious trauma. What I always got were these ready responses and advice coated in Christianese.

They advised me to forgive, avoid questioning my past as it’s like questioning God, and give my former church the benefit of the doubt, as the Lord might not have revealed certain things to them.

All these things sounded trite and lazy to me.

Couldn’t we accept the reality that forgiveness can be a long, tedious process for believers burned by God’s people?

Couldn’t we admit the fact that there are Bible figures who questioned God? Even the Son of God, Jesus, cried out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?“

Couldn’t we hold our spiritual leaders to a higher standard? The idea that they might not have received “revelation” from the Lord removes their accountability, responsibility, and agency of rightly dividing the word (2 Tim. 2:15).

I believe they were sincere in helping me, but they were not curious enough of the details of my story. Their advice was given so swiftly when the depth of my pain wasn’t even explored.

It was even more baffling to me when they claimed God gave them an “impression” that I needed to learn to forgive.

I erupted in vehement anger.

I retorted, “Yes, I haven’t completely forgiven them. I struggle every single day. But if ever I see them in need of help, I hope I would act like the good Samaritan who stopped by and cared for the beaten Jewish man. Samaritans hate the Jews, but this good Samaritan even paid for his enemy’s care. So please, just stop. It’s not helping.” (Even though this answer is good, I still sinned in my anger.)

Of course, I knew in my heart I needed to forgive. It’s in his Word, and I wanted to obey it.

But I had hoped they would join me in my grieving. I needed the space to express my sorrow and my confusion without the pressure to move on just to show my faith in God works.

In their defense, I believe they didn’t intend to invalidate me. Yet, this happens when things are overspiritualized, and the humanity of a believer is deemphasized.

Plugging Back

By God’s grace, I met Matthew through a Christian dating website in 2019. I moved to the US in 2022 and married him.

I had hoped that my new chapter in life would give me a fresh start.

But I quickly discovered that I was still entangled with my past. The things I tried to bury deep down had unleashed themselves in full force.

My nights were often disturbed by distressing dreams. They would jolt me awake in tears. I would wake up disoriented and anxious, believing I was still in the Philippines, far from my husband’s arms.

Mornings were difficult for me too. Having no job meant I couldn’t just simply tackle the day ahead of me and shove down my issues so I could accomplish my tasks.

Throughout my day, I was haunted by bitter memories and restless thoughts, only to be replayed in my dreams.

It was hard for Matthew to see me overwhelmed with adapting to a new country while my deep-seated issues were resurfacing.

Matthew grieved with me. He assured me that it was understandable to still be angered by what I went through.

He told me that God was displeased by what I had to endure. And God desires to give me justice.

I cried hard when Matthew said those words because this time a fellow Christian didn’t downplay my experience.

With Matthew’s encouragement, I gradually enjoyed going to community groups.

I had a breakthrough when other believers shared their negative church experiences but still obeyed God by being a part of another church.

One that may not be perfect but is healthier and doctrinally sound. One that still has flaws but is not afraid to confront and change those flaws for the sake of God’s sheepfold.

Matthew not only helped me trust the church again, but he has also been incredibly supportive in exploring options to manage my acne. Many of them are not accessible to me back in my home country.

In all of these things, Matthew, my husband, has been the earthly presence of God’s covenantal love to me.

My Acne and Faith Journey: A Story that Points to Jesus

It was 2023 when I read something about the Samaritan woman from the book “When God Doesn’t Fix It” by Laura Story.

“God didn’t use her in spite of her story.

He used her story.

And the people responded to Jesus because of it.”

For a long time, I had been afraid that others might laugh at my story, at my acne and faith journey. When I compare mine to others’ testimonies, theirs sound powerful and compelling just like Brother Yun’s.

We seem to itch for “big faith stories,” sidelining the seemingly mundane ones. Yet in my case, the struggle the world categorizes as “mundane” powerfully drew me to Jesus.

Dealing with acne made me broken and helpless. But it prepared my heart to receive the familiar and tired crucifixion narrative into a deeply personal encounter with Jesus.

His torn flesh more unsightly than the acne lesions I would ever have…

His humiliated state more degrading than any acne stigma I would ever receive…

His tormented heart more afflicted than my hurt self-esteem…

How could I focus on my own acne struggle but not be captivated by Christ’s glorious display of love and justice?

When I became a Christian, God did not zap acne away from my face. But in my ongoing acne struggle, it made me hold on dearly to the crux of Christianity—the resurrection.

If Christ had victory over death and rose from the dead, that meant even if I might die with acne on my face, I will wake up on the other side without any hint of blemish for all eternity.

My sin nature removed.

My body glorified.

Holding on to this future grace is what kept my faith although I experienced religious trauma.

My conversion may be unconventional, but the world must know.

With all my reservations overcome, I launched Blemished Yet Redeemed in 2024.

May the words of this website and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.