Church Triggers

I was 'you' for 20 years...

I hesitate to even use the word “trigger”—especially in the context of church hurt. That term alone seems to carry a heavy, complicated weight these days, both inside and outside the church. But this post isn’t about defending what some see as the overuse of that word, and it’s not about unpacking the validity of church hurt—though I’d love to go there. That conversation will come.

Right now, this message is for church leaders, media teams, and communicators. It’s a bridge—a way to link two realities: the lived experiences of those who have suffered long-term spiritual abuse, and the good-hearted leaders of safe churches who may unintentionally echo the methods or language of harmful systems without realising it.

I write from experience. From the very seat you now occupy. From the same staff meetings—figuratively speaking—where you pitch ideas and cast vision.

I was you.

I was passionate about reaching the lost.
Determined to bring people into the Kingdom—into our sphere of influence.

I made the videos.
I championed the vision.
I spoke it, declared it, and memorised it. Word for word, I could still recite it to you.
But I won’t.
Because it was a mirage—a dream carefully spun by a dangerous shepherd.

You, though—you’re in a safe church, with a safe shepherd.
Not perfect, of course. None of us are.
But a shepherd who understands the weight of his call, and who genuinely cares more for the sheep than for himself.

And around that shepherd stands you—the leaders, the team, the flock.
You’ve shaped your style.
You’ve taken notes from other churches, leaders, conferences, YouTube clips, and Daystar specials.
You’ve learned to preach like your heroes. To speak with fire, with humour—often Aussie humour, which leans toward the sarcastic, the cutting.
But hey, we get it. We’re Aussie too, right?

You draw the spotlight, not to shine for your own sake, but because that’s the model you’ve witnessed.
You hope your presence, your energy, and your charisma will draw the newcomers toward Jesus and into your church.

And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

But in doing so, you may overlook the bleeding sheep—the ones hurt by churches before.
You bypass the broken to reach the seeking.
The bleeding ones come for a time, quietly hoping for a bandage, a bed, a safe place to breathe.
But they don’t stay.
When no one sees them, really sees them, when there’s no space to speak their pain, they move on.
From church to church.
Until eventually, it feels safer to tend to their own wounds alone than to risk being dismissed again.

Churches often exist for the healthy, the vibrant, the seekers.
The broken?
They’re too much.
Too messy.
Too hard.

So you avert your gaze.
You say, “God knows. He’ll heal.”
You don’t ask for details—because if you did, you might have to act. To protect. To sit with someone’s pain.

You don’t want to hear—because deep down, you don’t want to listen.
It’s easier to focus on the thriving. The ones who can energise a room, fuel momentum, and bring the next wave.

That was me.

For 20 years, that was me.

I know this story, because I lived it.
I was part of the machine. Complicit.
So deep in the system that even my fruit was buried underground in the dirt.

These days, I might use sarcasm here and there in what I write—not to mock, but to compel you to consider.

Because as I’ve dug myself out of that buried life over the past few years, I’ve come face to face with who I was… and who and what I enabled.

The machine was polished. Efficient. Impressive.
But Jesus didn’t come to build machines.

He came for the broken.
To bind up wounds.
To heal the brokenhearted.

Isaiah 61:1

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me, for the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to comfort the brokenhearted and to proclaim that captives will be released and prisoners will be freed.