By Teasi Cannon.
In nature, predators rarely target the strongest or most stable animal in the herd. They look for the wounded one, the isolated one, the disoriented one — the animal already struggling to keep its footing. Vulnerability makes an easier target.
The same is often true for us.
When we are emotionally, spiritually, or mentally destabilized, we become more susceptible to deception, confusion, and false ideas. And few things leave a person more vulnerable than spiritual abuse. When the people entrusted with representing Jesus become the source of deep wounds, it can leave us disoriented, disillusioned, and broken. Trust collapses. We feel stunned, unable to process what just happened. And in that pain, we ache for comfort and understanding. We long for open arms that will receive us as we are and help us stand again.
And there are many open arms in this world.
There are deeply compassionate, patient, empathetic people who don’t believe in Jesus. Some are atheists. Some are devoted to eastern mysticism, secular humanism, or entirely different religions. Christians should acknowledge that reality honestly. Compassion and kindness are real virtues wherever they’re found, and many wounded believers emerging from spiritual abuse have received more tenderness from secular voices than from the Church itself.
As someone who has survived spiritual abuse and walked alongside many others through it, I understand that draw very well. When the people believed to be brothers and sisters in Christ become the source of deep wounds — or respond with suspicion, silence, or dismissal — the confusion can become overwhelming. It’s especially disorienting when those outside the faith display more patience and empathy than those within it.
In that kind of pain, there’s an understandable temptation to run into the very first arms that will have us.
But the comfort of open arms — however genuine — can’t change what’s actually true. And compassion, however real, isn’t the same as truth. Why does this matter? Because pluralism can feel like a relief in moments of pain, allowing contradictory ideas to sit side by side without forcing us to wrestle with whether they’re true. But truth is exactly what we need when everything has been shaken.
Once the initial shock settles, the deeper questions remain. And while there may be countless beliefs about the answers, many are contradictory — which means they cannot all be true. Jesus either rose from the dead or He didn’t. God either exists or He doesn’t. These aren’t emotional preferences or private experiences. They’re claims about reality. Christianity doesn’t ultimately rest on private feelings or subjective preferences. It rests on a historical claim: that Jesus Christ truly walked out of the grave, demonstrating that He is who He claimed to be.
Trauma and profound disillusionment can place people into a kind of emotional survival mode where fear, grief, and exhaustion overpower careful reasoning. This makes the command to love God with our minds as well as our hearts deeply important. In moments of deep grief or betrayal, the mind may become what rescues our shattered hearts.
I know this from experience. When I watched my mother die from Alzheimer’s, when my brother died from a heroin overdose, and when my husband and I lost our church of 23 years to abusive power, it was the historical evidence for the resurrection that steadied me more times than I can count. Even when I didn’t understand what God was doing, I could still hold fast to what He had done.
That distinction — between what I felt and what I know — is what kept me from drifting.
This is one reason apologetics matters more than many Christians realize. Evidence for something as important as the resurrection isn’t merely an intellectual hobby. It helps anchor our faith when emotions become unstable.
It’s essential to understand that compassion without truth can’t ultimately save us. But truth without compassion can make wounded people stop listening before they ever hear it.
And that should deeply concern the Church. Truth that remains practically inaccessible to the wounded isn’t yet doing its work. Because while the world is often opening its arms to receive spiritually wounded people, the Church too often responds with suspicion, scrutiny, silence, or discomfort. We sometimes expect bleeding sheep to bleed quietly or heal quickly. We grow impatient with complex grief and difficult questions — even though those are often expected responses to profound betrayal.
And yet in far too many cases, the very leaders who caused the harm are protected, defended, and kept in place while the wounded are quietly pushed to the margins, labeled divisive, or simply never spoken of again. The ones who should be confronted are shielded.
Something has gone terribly wrong when wounded believers, Christ’s own people, consistently find more patience, gentleness, and empathy outside the Church than within it.
None of this means the Church must surrender truth in the name of compassion. But it does mean we must reflect the heart of Jesus toward people who are hurting, confused, and trying to find solid ground again. The Church should be the safest place in the world for wounded people to tell the truth about their pain — and that’s doubly true when the Church itself was the source of it.
Scripture warns that human beings can be led astray through deception (2 Corinthians 11:3). And wounded, disoriented people are often especially vulnerable to it. This is exactly why they need both truth and love — not one or the other.
Every sheep in the flock belongs ultimately to the Chief Shepherd, who will one day ask all of us how we treated His wounded lambs. Did we move toward them with patience, compassion, and the truth when they were broken and lost? Or did we move away for the sake of our own comfort and ease?
