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skystonedclouds · 7 years

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Abused? unloved?

Being raised in a godly home should communicate to us that we are loved, that Christ is to be trusted, and that God is our Father through faith in his Son. Abuse tells us, explicitly and implicitly, that we are not loved, that no one is to be trusted, and that God is either indifferent or cruel.

These lies, encouraged by the father of lies, stomp on our humanity and cause us to pull farther away from God. We fear he might confirm the message of our earthly parents that we are worthless. We manage the fear and shame, developing strategies to survive another day of chaos. But these former ways of coping, when beaten down by words or fists, aren’t the way to live abundantly in Christ. We have to learn a new way to be human.

For those who have been abused, the contrast can be even starker. Abuse doesn’t just lie using words; it experientially carves those lies onto our hearts and into the wiring of our brains. Our beliefs must be rewritten, not only with true words, but also with experiences of goodness and faithfulness.

Children from abusive homes often are deprived of healthy modes of interaction, and as adults, we have to learn seemingly simple things, like how to respond to loving touch or how to let trust deepen in a blossoming friendship. Our parents may not have passed on useful patterns and instincts for parenting, so we have to find mentors to guide us. When God carries abuse survivors out of the darkness and into the light, and calls them to bring forth a new kind of family that honors him, he is doing something magnificent. It is manifestly glorious in its natural impossibility: God alone has the power to create good from evil. The contrast between the deeply rooted destruction and evil of abuse, and the brilliant hope of life in Christ is enough to draw us to our knees before our Lord in awe.

God remembers the evil that caused our traumas. He will not forget the life of our lost loved one, the transgression of our abuser, the brutal pain of violence, the shock and awe of loss, the aching regret over wounds for which we’re responsible.

Trauma is mitigated first of all by calling that which is evil “evil,” and that which is devastating “trauma.” Its effects are only able to be survived and minimized when the whole tragedy has first come into view. The past will not be whitewashed for the sake of protecting the privileged.

God speaks about our trauma with precision. No ambiguous talk of “darkness,” “shame,” or “chains” will accurately describe the transgression of abuse, or the self-harming cycles into which it throws its victims.

God interrupts the stories of redemption with short stories of lives interrupted by trauma, some that are never resolved for us.

God speaks specifically to the depths of our suffering.

God gives us words for abuse. Massive portions of the Bible were written in poetry, because mere prose cannot communicate the pain and struggle and emotion that poetry can.

Not all prayers have to end in a major key, despite what many simplistic blogs and books and sermons may suggest. The book of Lamentations — of sorrows — ends in a whimper: in God’s arms, yet still fragile and vulnerable, still anxiously awaiting the next jab from his sword. After trust seems to have been betrayed — trust in a God who could have prevented the pain, trust in a friend who was supposed to protect, trust in a system that was supposed to defend us — the pain and trauma run much deeper. As in David’s poem,

My companion stretched out his hand against his friends; he violated his covenant. His speech was smooth as butter, yet war was in his heart; his words were softer than oil, yet they were drawn swords. (Psalm 55:20–21)

A “trigger” is when the past interrupts the present without apology, and often without warning. We may not even know we are being triggered until much later on (we may not ever know in this life). Have you ever felt an unexplained surge of anxiety or anger? Is that feeling consistently experienced with one person or in a particular place? How does that relate to your past experience? Our triggers are neither good nor evil. They are adaptive tools our body gives us to protect us from future harm, but they are often overactive in telling us that there is danger where there is none. How do we navigate? The Bible gives us powerful words in defense:

“Leave your fatherless children; I will keep them alive; and let your widows trust in me.” (Jeremiah 49:11)

But orphans die. Widows die. What good does God holding them really do? Forces of protection that once gave us a sense of stability and love are ripped out of our arms. The traumatized are slapped with the realization of humanity’s dire situation: the God who can do anything promises us no circumstantial prosperity in this life. The Bible doesn’t shy away from the cruelty of the world: “Let everyone beware of his neighbor,” for “every neighbor goes about as a slanderer” (Jeremiah 9:4).

Hold Jeremiah 49:11 and 9:4 in tension. Trust your sanctified gut, but get to the bottom of your triggers — when are they telling you a tall tale about danger? Anxiety is often a prophet of doom from a future of half-truths. The traumatized must feel their ways through spiritual warfare like every one else, but with a peculiar handicap.

Trust, and beware. Step out, and watch your step. Don’t submit to the prison of your fear, but accept the edge it gives you: “Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). Know that it wasn’t your fault, and don’t start blaming everyone else for everything else. The gospel really can provide the impossible feelings of joy, hope, and love for those willing to bravely embrace the impossibility with faith.

God gives us permission to feel with faith.

We may feel insulted by that — “I don’t need God’s permission” — but the Bible creates space for us to feel and process our pain, if we will do it with faith, believing the promises of God even when they feel too distant or unreliable. John Calvin wrote about his pain, “I leave these wounds untouched, because they appear to me incurable until the Lord apply his hand” (Letters, Vol. 2, 57). The isolation of trauma may seem even harder when we know there is a God who could bring resolution but doesn’t.

The Christian life often welcomes suffering, or makes our experiences of suffering more intense. God gives us permission to say, “This life is harder.” It certainly was for the apostle Paul (2 Corinthians 11:23–27). Many things would be easier without Christ. Perhaps even healing from trauma could be expedited if we didn’t have to juggle our own recovery with questions about divine sovereignty and evil.

Many of us may not feel ourselves running into glory, but limping, and others crippled and carried (Mark 2:4). But take heart, Christ himself refuses to forget the scars of his earthly pain, even in glory: “I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain” (Revelation 5:6). Christ is the one who bought and signifies the breakability of the chains of death. We may not feel the full weight of that hope today, but we will one day.

Desiring God

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