Survivors' Voices: Where Is God?
Back in April, our Survivors’ Voices Panel shared powerful reflections on the theme
"Where Was God?” (you can find that post here). This month, I wanted to bring that question into the present day, inviting survivors to reflect on how they sense God’s presence or absence in their life today. Here are a few responses:
The question of where God is is a hard one. Although in the last few months, I’ve been able to sense God’s presence a bit more frequently in prayer, overall I’ve struggled for years to feel like God is there, like God listens and cares and responds. I’ve frequently only been able to find God in my studies, rather than where I used to find him—which was in the Eucharist, the tabernacle, the chapel, liturgy, meditation on the Scriptures, prayer in general. So instead of finding God in the more physical and sense-level things (embodied prayer, etc.), I’ve only been able to consistently find him in the intellectual life. It’s a loss I continue to grieve deeply, even as I’m grateful to have at least one space where I can feel close to him.
My life feels like compartmentalized boxes. Box 1: God does nothing about the bishop and his cronies and their retaliation for reporting abuse. Box 2: Trying to be part of the Church. More defeats than wins. Box 3: Living my faith in other realms besides the Church. I see occasional glimmers of God in action. I keep trying to show up and hope/wish God will too. I compartmentalize to deal with the pain. It's too overwhelming. Too much to bear.
I believe God is vast and unknown, not able to control everything. God sometimes allows people to do evil things. I try to find God within myself.
Originally the darkness of pain was like a cloud separating me from God. The betrayal of trust caused a 'moral injury' which struck deep into my marriage relationship and my relationship to God. I am now grateful for the sharp light of truth, like a sharp knife, cutting through the lies and the secrets and exposing how my trust was abused. In the last year or so, as I have tried to regain a sense of meaning in my suffering and feel deep sorrow at the long-term suffering I allowed myself to endure. I now refuse to allow what happened define me, or my relationship to my husband, or my relationship with God. I am actually glad that my eyes are open to the way religious language, in my case, was misused to justify damaging and destructive attitudes and behaviour, a type of sheer escapism from reality and the truth of God. Too often perpetrators of abuse justify it with religious language (it happened in my case). The worst arrogance is a 'moral superiority' under cover of a veil, used to abuse trust.
I have often cried out to God in anguish, asking where he is as I continue to struggle with the impacts of abuse on my life—when I continue to have panic attacks, to get triggered, to hate myself and hurt myself, to feel dirty and violated and unsafe. It’s been years, and I’ve been doing all the “right” things—intensive therapy, spiritual direction, seeking peer support, taking medication, learning as much as I can about the dynamics of what happened. So why do I still struggle? Why am I still wounded? Why can’t I be “normal”? Why hasn’t he healed me??? I find some comfort in providing support to others who are struggling, helping others know they’re not alone and not crazy and that they and their pain matter and that God identifies with *them* in their pain and suffering and feelings of betrayal, rather than with the perpetrators of the abuse they experienced. But I struggle to feel those things for myself. God seems so uncaring and callous—it feels like he’s using me for the good of others without healing or caring for me myself.
At this moment, this question tanked me. I've come to realize I'm trying to hang on to the belief that God cares and is here in the midst of great difficulty. The current situation, on top of the bishop's continued refusal to deal with the abuse I reported, has taken a huge toll. The silence of the Church community in the face of grave injustice has taken a toll. But then, maybe that's the point. Each baptized member is the hands and feet of Christ. So is it God or the people who claim to know him who fail to be steadfast? On a visit in front of the tabernacle, I sensed Christ crying.
Thank you for reading these words and pondering them in your hearts. I’ll have more survivor reflections next week.
Peace,
Sara
PS: If you have experienced abuse by a Catholic leader and would like to share your own thoughts on this or future topics, I would be grateful to include your perspective. You can find information about joining the Survivors’ Voices Panel here: An Invitation for Survivors.