“Pray, believe, and receive—or doubt and do without” was a phrase I often heard in my Christian circle. And although it was not intended to be a harmful adage, it became one.
That is, after I worked at a ministry where I was bullied, isolated, and left to fend for myself. When I finally decided to quit, friends and family still expected me to keep going to church. But I was so wounded from what I had experienced that the thought of attending church literally made me sick to my stomach.
I prayed and believed but didn’t receive. And every time, I felt shame and guilt. I couldn’t help but think, “Maybe I didn’t pray hard enough. Maybe I doubted without realizing it.” And whenever church peers repeated this adage, it caused a visceral response in me. I didn’t have language to convey why this statement bothered me so much at the time. But I do now.
As a therapist working with religious trauma, I have encountered many individuals who shared stories about experiences that didn’t quite classify as spiritual abuse but were equally unsettling. I began investigating this phenomenon further through my doctoral studies and soon stumbled upon a term to classify these experiences: spiritual bypass.
Spiritual bypassing is when a person uses Scripture, religious concepts or ideals, and spiritual mantras to “bypass” the effects of a negative experience out of a desire to ease their pain—for example, when we experience a loss and we say to ourselves, “God’s got this. His ways are higher than mine.” While this statement does hold truth, the statement may encourage us to “bypass” a healthy process of dealing with our feelings or thoughts about the loss.
However, as I studied this concept, I recognized spiritual bypassing can also be done toward another person—for example, if someone is expressing the hurt of his or her loss to a friend in the faith and that person responds with, “God’s got this. His ways are higher than yours. You just have to trust him.” This can cause the wounded person to feel dismissed, disregarded, shamed, and even spiritually gaslighted.
This is exactly what I experienced in the church—and I know many others have experienced it too. Understanding spiritual bypassing provided a language for my own experiences and for my clients seeking treatment for religious trauma. Instead of spiritual bypass, we are called to love our neighbors in such a way that honors their hurt as well as draws them to Christ—with the eventual (not immediate) goal of helping them heal emotionally and spiritually.
The Good Samaritan story in Luke 10 (vv. 25-37) is one with which most of us are familiar. A man is attacked, brutally beaten, and left for dead. But the wounding does not stop there. It continues as both the priest and Levite “bypass” the man on the other side of the path. These men, who are well aware of the law “Love your neighbor as yourself,” choose to ignore the man’s need for reasons we can only surmise.
What we do know is that a Samaritan, whom the Jews despised, is the only one who stops to help the man. He sees the man’s wounds and does not add insult to injury by passing him by on the other side. Instead, he draws near enough to see the man’s need and takes the time to bind his wounds with oil and wine—offering healing and relief specific to his wounds. And at his own expense, he brings the man to a place where he will have the time and space to heal.
Whether we are the Good Samaritan or the man in the road, this story reminds us of the high expectations Jesus has for his followers when it comes to caring for wounded neighbors.
In a previous article for CT, author Michelle Van Loon observes that “today’s pews are full of people who bear scars—or still-oozing wounds—from church hurt.” And when we spiritually bypass our church-hurt neighbor, we pour salt on their wounds instead of oil and wine.
As I researched spiritual bypassing, I found that most people have experienced this feeling of disregard and dismissal—as if their pain is invisible, much like the beaten man in the road—within the church or with friends and family members of faith.
I’ll never forget the woman who sat in my office during a session and said to me through clenched teeth, “My family keeps telling me I am being overdramatic and I am inflicting my stress and anxiety on myself. If I hear someone tell me one more time to ‘Be worried about nothing, but in everything by prayer, blah, blah, blah, I might just lose my mind.’” She stated these words made her feel “not seen, not understood, not safe.”
What were no doubt intended as words of life were, in fact, robbing her of life. This wounded woman wanted someone to validate her pain and her experience. She longed to be known.
In his book The Deepest Place, Dr. Curt Thompsondescribes “suffering with” someone as remaining present and accepting the person’s pain without following it up with spiritual platitudes. We allow them to know that we see them, care for them, are with them, and are willing to accept them just as they are—not as we are or want them to be.
Often, we spiritually bypass people because we feel uncomfortable with their pain or helpless to do anything about it. Out of our own insecurity, our instinct is to offer a Scripture verse, spiritual saying, or reminder of a biblical truth because it’s the only thing we feel capable of offering them in such a time. And although we might feel better about the situation afterward, we may not recognize the impact it has on the other person.
That is not to say there will not be times when someone reaches out to us for advice, wisdom, or words of encouragement. But unless we take the time to fully listen, recognize, and empathize with their pain, we will not know how to best meet their needs, and we may heap on them more harm than hope.
Rather than offering a one-size-fits-all solution for the wounded man, the Good Samaritan provided precisely what his specific injuries required by binding his wounds with oil and wine. Our actions and words toward our own hurt neighbors need to do the same.
I have learned this story the hard way in my own life. Before I experienced my own church hurt and before becoming a therapist or pursuing my doctorate, I was a small group and women’s minister in the church, who often talked with people about their latest struggles and hurts.
Once, I remember listening to a church member recount her story of church hurt, and my first thought was that those who hurt her did not use the biblical model of approaching someone with an accusation of wrong (Matt. 18:15–20). And before I could stop myself, I found those words spilling out of my mouth. She immediately responded with, “Oh, no! Do not use that on me!” I was a little befuddled because I thought she needed to hear that and it would support her case. Yet I was sorely mistaken because that verse had been used as a weapon against her.
This woman’s wound was oozing, and I was not only spiritually bypassing her hurt but also pouring salt in her wounds rather than oil and wine. And although I didn’t know it then, I recognize now that I was giving her what I thought she wanted or needed to hear rather than taking the time to listen for what she truly needed.
The Bible reminds us that it is wise to be quick to listen and slow to speak (James 1:19). Doing so enables us to hear the broken hearts of God’s children, but it also allows us to incline our ears to God and listen for the words he alone knows his wounded children need to hear. Scripture tells us that “If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides.” (1 Pet. 4:11)
The Samaritan did not question the beaten man, offer him advice on how to overcome his pain, or tell him to forgive his abusers. He simply soothed the man’s wounds and carried him to a place where he would have the space and time to heal.
Very seldom do any wounds heal overnight—whether physical or spiritual. They all need a certain amount of time and space to heal. The Good Samaritan understood this. He did not put a time limit on the man’s healing, even when it was at his own expense. He instead wrote a blank check for the innkeeper to do whatever it took to care for the man, for as long as it took.
This is the radical love we are called to show the wounded souls in our families, churches, and communities, or the people God has placed along the path of our daily lives. We cannot put a time limit on each other’s healing—even when it is uncomfortable for us. Trying to force someone to hurry up and heal can deepen their wounds or at least halt their healing.
My own experience with church hurt was especially hard for those closest to me to fathom because they were also in ministry. They offered all the standard phrases of spiritual bypassing: forgive seventy times seven, do not let the sun go down on your anger, turn the other cheek. And while they may have meant well, their words reopened my wounds again and again. They were asking me to go back into the very environment that had repeatedly hurt me.
I finally implemented boundaries so that I could heal. After not attending church for a year, I slowly reintegrated back into the fold where I had once served. Even then, I still experienced PTSD-like symptoms when I approached the church: rapid heart rate, knots in my stomach, and dissociation. I gave myself permission that even if I felt unsafe while sitting in the parking lot of the church, I could leave. And many times, I did. But it was through giving myself time and space that I eventually healed.
The church is filled with wounded people just like myself and many of my clients. After all, it is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick (Mark 2:17). Week after week, people enter the house of the Lord with unseen wounds, whether fresh or festering. And for many, space and time may be all the oil and wine they need. But through our simple acts of compassion, our church-hurt neighbors can experience the healing love of Christ as he intends his love to be known.
Peridot (Peri) Gilbert-Reed is a licensed professional counselor and supervisor. She is also a certified trauma specialist focusing on religious trauma.
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