This Isn’t Church-Bashing. It’s Truth-Telling.
I’ve had people reach out - some gently, some angrily - concerned that I’m “bashing the church.”
I want to be clear: I’m not.
I’m naming my experience.
I’m naming harm.
I’m naming the difference between faith and institution, between Jesus and the systems built in His name.
Those things are not the same, even when we’ve been taught to treat them as inseparable.
What I’m doing now looks confrontational to people who benefited from the silence.
I loved the church. Deeply. Earnestly. I didn’t wander in casually or leave flippantly. I built my life inside it. I raised my children there. I submitted myself, my marriage, my body, my questions, and my instincts to its authority because I believed that was what faithfulness required.
So when I speak now, I’m not speaking as an outsider throwing stones.
I’m speaking as someone who lived inside the walls long enough to see what they protected - and what they didn’t.
There is a difference between critique and contempt.
Critique says: something here is broken and it is hurting people.
Contempt says: this is worthless and should be discarded.
If naming patterns of spiritual abuse, misogyny, control, fear-based teaching, or the silencing of women feels like “bashing,” I would gently ask why honesty feels like an attack.
Because for those of us who were harmed, silence was the real violence.
Here’s the truth that makes people uncomfortable:
Many churches are far more invested in preserving their image than in tending to wounded people.
And when someone finally tells the truth about their experience - especially a woman, especially one who was compliant for years - it threatens the story that the institution tells about itself.
So the narrative shifts.
She’s bitter.
She’s angry.
She’s deconstructed too far.
She’s attacking the church.
It’s easier to pathologize the messenger than to examine the message.
What I am doing now is refusing to carry shame for telling the truth.
I’m refusing to soften my language to make people who were never harmed feel more comfortable.
I’m refusing to pretend that “not all churches” somehow erases the very real damage done by some - or by a culture that quietly rewards control and punishes discernment.
If your faith is sturdy, it will survive my honesty.
If it isn’t, that fragility is not my responsibility.
I still believe in God.
I still believe in goodness, mystery, love, and transformation.
I still believe in spiritual life that is rooted in compassion and humility.
What I no longer believe in is the idea that obedience without safety is holy.
Or that submission without consent is virtuous.
Or that asking hard questions is rebellion.
Jesus did not protect institutions.
He protected people.
So no - this is not church-bashing.
This is me telling the truth after years of swallowing it.
This is me choosing integrity over appeasement.
Healing over loyalty to systems that could not hold me.
Light over silence.
If that makes some people uncomfortable, I understand.
But discomfort is not the same thing as harm.
And truth - spoken carefully, honestly, and without cruelty - is not violence.
It’s a beginning.