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Sacred Seeing

“The ancient practice of visio divina, or sacred seeing, invites us to look deeply at a word, a symbol, or a scene, allowing it to penetrate our senses and spirit, then listening for what it might reveal to us.” Chad Jarnagin

This is a quote from a book I started reading recently by Chad Jarnagin, The Congruent Life. The words resonated and challenged me, like many things written in this book do. Reading this, I realized how important it is to slow down, pay attention, and really think about what it means. I appreciate how this book makes me slow down, think, and go deeper. In a world that is moving so fast, I think that’s something beneficial for all of us.

I wonder sometimes after all the harm I’ve experienced from religion why I am still searching for comfort through the writings of religious clergy. So I’m slowing down and asking myself this question today. One obvious reason I’m reading this book is Chad Jarnagin is a priest in a church not too far from me. I’ve heard a few of his messages before and they brought comfort through his insights and shared values. After reading some of his posts promoting his book on social media, I decided to download a copy.

When Paying Attention Hurts

And this quote is one of the things that caused me to slow down and pay attention, because the reality is, for trauma survivors like me, paying attention to some things can bring a lot of pain — it’s part of why we dissociate or avoid. And I’ve spent a lot of time doing both since leaving a harmful church in 2014.

This book has become, in some ways, a way to slow down and pay attention on my own terms — to notice what actually feels comforting and what doesn’t. A book is a safer way to learn than sitting in a church service, which can bring up many triggers for me. And that’s where it gets confusing: sometimes paying attention like we are taught to do in a religious service doesn’t bring comfort, it actually causes more pain. There are places in this book where that happens too. But because his book invites me to be curious about my pain rather than condemned by it, I’ve been able to stay with that discomfort instead of running from it. And this detail is very important. Because this is something different from previous experiences where I was taught that pain likely meant conviction of the Holy Spirit and sin. I think most of us who were traumatized by fundamentalist religion experience this too. This is where Jarnagin’s book can actually be incredibly helpful.

I think the most painful part of reading his book for me is that it actually reminds me of some of the good things when I lost a community that I thought was family. Reading this book and wondering if I’ll ever have a family like that again brings to memory the very real recent experiences of trying to sit in actual church services since leaving that harmful church so many years ago— how awkward, vulnerable, and afraid it still causes me to feel. Because in this pain it can feel confusing and impossible, because I really have tried.

I wrote a post recently about why religious systems have been toxic for me, and part of it is this: inside the structure of a service, I start to feel like I’m supposed to be like everyone else. And when going through those motions brings up painful reminders instead of comfort, it doesn’t bring me closer to anyone — it just makes me more isolated.

The Pull to Assimilate

In a recent discussion with another survivor of religious harm, we talked about the pull to assimilate every time we enter a religious service. She shared her own realization of how strong that pull is, and it got me thinking — why would it lead to any other conclusion? Isn’t everyone in the service reading the same scriptures, making the same motions with their hands, singing the same songs? We are assimilating through all of it, and in doing so we’re communicating a desire to be like others and follow their lead. Sameness itself becomes the proof of belonging — the more precisely we mirror one another, the safer and more “in” we feel, whether or not it reflects anything true in us.

This is where I feel such grief. Even compassionate people who attend these services don’t know what to do with my particular pain. The belonging they feel makes me feel more isolated. Isn’t this the way to worship God? Isn’t this something all of us are supposed to do?

As I write this, ironically, I get a vivid picture in my mind: Jesus sitting with the woman at the well. She is talking about worshipping God and asking Jesus about it. Jesus tells her that those who worship, worship in spirit and in truth — he’s not addressing a specific way, he’s addressing where it comes from. No one can tell the difference on the surface when we are all going through the motions; as a matter of fact, we can hide our true hearts really well by following the motions. It makes me wonder how much of what we call “religious” was ever really about God at all. Where did all the religious symbolism come from? Who decided that religious people needed to use big words to sound religious, or, as I learned in church, “holy and set apart from others”? I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure there is one — but I think the questions themselves are worth sitting with.

I really do understand that we need a certain structure in our lives to feel grounded. And for people who go to church, who do all these things, and it resonates with their hearts and brings about growth — then following their hearts in worship should absolutely be what they do. Based on my limited understanding, some Indigenous traditions have practices in nature that help with worship, grief, and growth, and there is a wide range of these across different nations and peoples. But the thing they seem to have in common is that they help a person express what they’re feeling, and for it to come from a deep place in their soul. I suspect this is true for many religious people, in one form or another.

Here’s what I’m trying to say — what I think Jesus was saying — is that there isn’t a specific way to worship. Worship should just be genuine and come from our spirit. That has been incredibly difficult for me after having been in a church where I went through the motions of worship all the while being manipulated and suppressed by the pastor. 

But maybe there isn’t a clergy member like that for me. Maybe that is just my brain’s default mode of wanting to make right the most horrific thing that ever happened in my life. Maybe my brain wants another clergy member to say, “How can I help?” and mean it with no strings attached. That would bring relief. But here’s the thing — sometimes we don’t get a second chance to make things right. What happened, happened. The pastor who harmed me will likely never sit with me, hear what it cost me, and make it right. No other clergy member can undo that, even if they wanted to. And there comes a time when we need to accept the damage that was done and the losses that will never be restored.

Even the Christians I know who are filled with compassion for what I’ve been through, who are willing to help, who never pressure me to attend church — they still don’t seem to know what people who have been harmed by the church actually need. Even trauma recovery professionals don’t seem to understand how religion can be incredibly detrimental to someone like me, who feels the grief of it down to my core.

There is a disconnect when something that grieves my heart brings another person immense joy and connection.
It’s complex, and I think even those of us trained in trauma recovery don’t always know how to sit with these complexities without feeling like they’re a threat to the things we care about.

I don’t have any choice except to sit with the complexity of it, because it is what I continue to bump up against, living in an environment where so many have had different experiences than me. I confess I do miss that feeling of being on the exact same page as everyone else — the assimilation that felt like safety and belonging. But it really does feel so scary being back in those environments again. It feels like not belonging when others speak a language I no longer can without being reminded of the thing that nearly killed me. Most don’t know how to sit with it, and truthfully, I can understand why it feels uncomfortable — especially in a world that is so polarized, where we need spaces where we feel like we belong to each other and to God.

And I guess that is where I hit a wall: belonging and safety, and whether it’s even possible in a culture that finds belonging so much through assimilation. I think what makes me feel safe is difference, and the ability to be with each other in those differences.
Of course there has to be structure. But I’m talking about structure that prevents a person from feeling unsafe.

So many of us who are religious trauma survivors are in different places in our recovery journey. I think many of us would really like to be able to attend church again. I think some of us might just want to take communion occasionally and have clergy pray for us. Some of us might never want to darken the door of a worship service again, but we want very much to know that that is okay, and that we are still a part of God’s family. Some of us might just need to move away from God altogether, because none of it makes sense anymore, and we’ve given too much of our energy and tears trying to reconcile what happened to us. I don’t know what each of you reading this needs. But I know what I feel, and what I have felt for a very, very long time since leaving church — what my spirit longs for, and what would bring comfort to my soul.

What I Wish I Could Say to Clergy

There was a day not too long ago when my husband and I spent some time with a clergy member who listened to us without judgment and who said he was there if we needed him for anything. That meant a lot to me. But it also felt like there was a lot I wish I could have said to him that I’m trying to say now as I write this.

The most dangerous person who ever entered my life was also a member of clergy — a different one, the pastor from my former church. He spoke words that brought comfort to my heart and soul at times, and then later he spoke words that created so much shame, confusion, and doubt that I still don’t know how to process it all. And why should I be able to? This can’t be reconciled, and it should always be confusing, because of how atrocious it was.

But every time I’m with someone who is clergy, I think about what it would mean to sit with them and tell them what happened — to have them listen without judgment, without telling me it was about my sin or the pastor’s sin. That alone would bring my soul relief.
And if they said they wanted to work with me — to help create spaces where there can be healing and community, even outside a church’s traditional services — I think that could restore a lot of the faith I’ve lost in these men and these religious systems. People who truly meet others where they are, without an agenda, without expectations, without priestly language or sage advice.

I think the thing that appeals to so many people about Jesus is that he was just a human being meeting needs. He saw people’s pain, he knew what people needed, and he gave — and people saw him do this and followed him. And they followed him as individuals, not as people who did all the same things and used the same language. They sat around a table and talked about the scary things that were going to happen, and Jesus was honest with them about what would happen, because he knew. Not once did he say, “Go to church and follow these specific rituals.” He just told them to love each other and to reveal that through their actions toward one another as humans. There was no assimilation — there were only humans meeting each other exactly where they were on their journeys.

New Life From the Ground Where Death Occurred

But here’s the thing: out of the ground where death occurred — where so much of what nearly killed me was buried — new life can spring forth, and it will be different. It will require walking in different ways than we learned before. It will require beating down new paths, and this work will be uncomfortable. Will those paths sometimes lead us back toward people and places like the ones that harmed us before? In all likelihood, yes — and in those circumstances, our brains will want to repair. That isn’t a bad thing. That is what brains do: they are plastic, and they repair.

Sit with this thought for a moment: our brains can heal. We can learn to create new paths. We can move forward without falling back into the well-worn paths that caused harm — and for each of us, those paths will look different, and that is okay. When you find spaces where it is okay to be different, where you’re told to come as you are, you might just have found a place you can call home.

I started this by sitting with a single sentence about sacred seeing — looking deeply until something is revealed. If you’ve made it this far, maybe sit for a moment too. What image are you left with? What does it ask of you?

I’m Lori — a writer, a peer support facilitator, and someone who has spent years learning how to trust myself again after religious harm. I’d love to hear where this lands for you. If something here resonated — or even if something didn’t sit right — I’d welcome you sharing your own insights, wherever you are in your own journey. This isn’t a space that needs everyone to arrive at the same place. It’s just a space to come as you are.

Reach out to: loriwilliamsliminalspace@gmail.com