My church of 23 years failed me — Jesus didn't

By Teasi Cannon, Op-ed contributor Wednesday, April 15, 2026

“You are a personal and professional offense to me!”

The words pierced my heart and echoed in my mind for weeks. My pastor — the man whose ministry had shaped my life for more than 23 years — believed I’d somehow damaged his reputation, and he was furious. Despite our best efforts to bring clarity and biblical resolve, a few months later, my husband and I were left with no choice but to leave the church we’d built, loved, and faithfully served. We were broken and utterly confused — and because of a toxic leadership structure with no accountability, we had no power to change it.

What we experienced has a name: spiritual abuse. It happens when those in positions of religious authority misuse God’s name, His Word, and their own influence to wound rather than shepherd — and the damage can leave eternal scars. Unlike the necessary offense of biblical truth — such as the reality of sin or the exclusivity of the cross — true spiritual abuse twists the truth for human power instead of pointing people to Jesus.

Research from the Barna Group confirms this is far from rare. More than a quarter of U.S. adults report past experiences with a religious institution as a key source of doubt in the Christian faith, and hypocrisy among believers is one of the most cited reasons people disengage. Many don’t leave in rebellion. They leave in self-preservation, concluding with genuine sorrow: “If this is Christianity, I can’t survive here.”

What makes spiritual abuse uniquely devastating is that it weaponizes the sacred. The place meant to bind up wounds becomes the source of them. The name of Jesus — the very name by which we’re made whole — is used to manipulate and control. For many survivors, it becomes nearly impossible to separate the abuser from the one he claimed to represent. Some can’t open a Bible or step into a church without real anxiety. I understand. It took some time for me to find the courage to return to a church community.

But what I’ve struggled to understand — not in judgment, but in real confusion — is how someone who has truly encountered Jesus can walk away from Him. The only way I’ve been able to make sense of it is this: we don’t fully appreciate being found until we understand how lost we are. We don’t grasp the good news until we’ve faced the bad news: our own guilt before a perfectly righteous God.

But I did.

Years earlier, I’d hit rock bottom in a way that left me alone in an apartment, sitting in the wreckage of my own choices, overwhelmed with shame and desperation. In that place, I became acutely aware of the weight of my own sin and my need for a holy God I had no right or ability to approach on my own. And Jesus met me there. He picked me up, loved me when I felt unlovable, and cleansed me when I felt buried in filth. When you know the Hell you’ve been rescued from, there’s no way you want to let go of your Savior.

My church hurt me. My Savior didn’t. And no one can take Him from me.

And yet we lost a great deal. Far more than a church. Because my husband was the children’s pastor, we lost his ministry, his income, and our health insurance. But those weren’t the deepest losses. We lost people — mentors, close friends, and ministry partners — the people I thought would fill the pews at my funeral. It felt as though my past, present, and future had been taken at the hands of one powerful and offended man.

While my little family worked to stop the bleeding and clear enough of the rubble to move forward, it seemed as if no one skipped a beat back in our former church. The pastor continued preaching to much applause and affirmation. That felt so very wrong.

But God isn’t silent about this.

In Ezekiel 34, He speaks with unmistakable fury against shepherds who exploit and scatter the flock rather than protect it. And in Matthew 18:6, Jesus warns that anyone who causes vulnerable believers to stumble would be better off with a millstone around his neck than face His judgment. A God who speaks this clearly against those who harm His people is a God worth trusting — not walking away from.

If you’re reading this from the rubble of a church that wounded you, hear this: what was done to you was wrong. God sees it. Your pain matters, and you are neither alone nor forgotten.

You may still find yourself crying out like the prophet Jeremiah, “Why do the wicked prosper … why do the treacherous thrive?” (Jer. 12:1). Scripture doesn’t ignore that question. It answers it with something higher. Jesus promised this life would include tribulation (John 16:33). He Himself was betrayed, rejected, and crucified, and yet He overcame the world. He endured the cross for the joy set before Him (Heb 12:2). He isn’t asking us to walk a road He hasn’t walked Himself.

He has promised that one day every tear will be wiped away and every wrong made right (Phil. 2:10; Rev. 21:4). And most beautifully, through the apostle John, He has promised us: “Behold, I am making all things new … these words are trustworthy and true” (Rev. 21:5).

Jesus continues to heal my broken heart, and in His merciful kindness has allowed me to share that comfort with others. I’m fully convinced we have a transcendent hope in the one whose life, death, and resurrection have proven His faithfulness. This isn’t the end of our story, and one day Jesus will look into every heart and — echoing the words of Ezekiel 34 — ask, “How did you treat my lambs?”

We can trust a Savior like that. If you’re still holding on with all you’ve got, don’t let go.

He is the Good Shepherd — the One who heals what no one else can.  And He never fails.