How to Tell the Truth After Being Spiritually Wounded
A Guide for Those Ready to Speak
By Iris Lennox
“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”
— Flannery O’Connor
Telling a story in which you made choices you now cringe at—or wish you had met with more wisdom, more courage, or more boldness—can feel deeply embarrassing. Even humiliating. When we feel humiliated, we start reaching for answers. We try to understand how we ended up in a story we never imagined for ourselves. That’s when the questions come: Why wasn’t I a stronger version of myself? Why didn’t I see this coming? Will anyone ever understand?
In my story, I had an affair with a seminary professor who started out as my boss’s boss. He was also a pastor on the LCMS pastoral roster, married, and the father of five children. That’s not a great story. I’m not proud of any part of it. To that end, I’ve been careful to tell the truth fully so that no one will ever think I’m trying to hide the part I played.
Long before I began to tell my story publicly, I had to tell my husband. My family. My close friends.
Imagine sitting down with your younger sister, looking her in the eyes, and telling her you cheated on her brother-in-law—someone she loves dearly—when she assumed you never would. Truth-telling is hardly ever easy. My flesh fought it every step of the way.
And yet, if you’ve read my story here, you know that my husband—though gutted by my sin—met me with grace and walked beside me through two painfully tumultuous years of healing. My sister’s response was to stand up and give me a hug. My mom reminded me of who I am in Christ, then offered to make me a cup of coffee. The list of graces goes on.
But before you can know how others will respond—before you can see whether your relationships are strong enough to hold the weight of your story—you do have to tell the truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth. Some people may stay. Others may not. You can’t control their reaction. You can only bring what’s yours into the light.
It’s not easy, but it’s how you begin to become whole again. And while it’s terrifying, the other option—holding on to your secret and your pain—is much worse. Telling the truth allows you to step back into obedience to God and healthy relationship with those closest to you. Put your faith in Jesus, ask Him to go before you and be your rear guard. Bow your head and run into the headwind that your own flesh and the accuser of your soul will stir up. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.
Now, what I’ve described here is the first step for those who were involved in an affair.
Those of you who were victims of a church leader’s manipulation, gaslighting, or abuse will begin at a different point. For you, it starts with recognizing what has been done to you, being able to name it, and then having the courage to face it.
Before I move on, I want to say something about my role in the affair and my status as a “victim.” If you’ve been following my story, you know I’m a little stubborn. It’s taken me a long time to recognize, accept, and articulate that I was with a man who used his power as a spiritual leader to gain access to me, and then to control the texture, pacing, and breadth of the affair.
So for me, two things are true at once:
I had an affair.
And I was a victim of clergy sexual misconduct.
Yes, it is as complicated as it sounds.
But once I began to unpack it—over two years, with the guidance of Scripture, a trauma specialist, a Christian counselor, a pastor, Dee Parsons from The Wartburg Watch, and countless other men and women whose work I clung to—it wasn’t as overwhelming as I thought it might be. I was able to begin deciphering my responsibility and choices from his. Once I saw the truth in black and white, my spine lengthened. My head lifted. The fear disappeared.
“I want to help other people see this in their own lives,” I prayed.
And here I am.
Now, if you’re reading this and your story is pressing forward, I want to walk with you through what comes next.
There’s no single formula.
There is, however, a way to tell your story with clarity, integrity, and strength. Whether you were complicit in something that now grieves you, or you were harmed by someone who held spiritual power over you, your story is worth telling, and it’s worth telling well.
This guide is here to help you do just that.
Let’s begin.
What Kind of Story Are You Carrying?
Not all betrayal looks the same. Some stories are tangled in silence because it’s hard to even name what happened. So, before you speak, let’s name a few forms of church-based abuse that can be difficult to identify:
Spiritual abuse occurs when someone uses their position of religious authority to manipulate, control, or harm others in God’s name. It often includes:
Twisting Scripture to induce fear or compliance
Silencing questions, concerns, or emotions
Demanding secrecy or loyalty to protect the institution
Clergy sexual misconduct occurs when a pastor, priest, or spiritual leader engages in sexual or romantic behavior with someone under their spiritual care, often under the guise of love, guidance, or divine connection. Even when the relationship feels consensual, the imbalance of power makes true consent impossible.
Emotional and psychological abuse within churches may involve:
Gaslighting (making someone doubt their own memory or perception)
Triangulation (pitting people against each other to maintain control)
Isolation from outside support systems
Institutional betrayal happens when church systems protect the abuser rather than the abused, through denial, cover-ups, or blaming the victim. This is often the final blow that drives people away from faith communities altogether.
You might be carrying a story that doesn’t fit neatly into one category. Or maybe it touches several at once. You may still be trying to name what happened or whether it even qualifies as abuse. That’s common.
If it left you confused, ashamed, silenced, or spiritually disoriented, it’s worth paying attention to.
You don’t have to use the exact right words right away. You don’t have to convince anyone it was “bad enough.” If something harmed your sense of self, disrupted your relationship with God, or left you unsure of your place in the world, it’s important.
Table of Contents
I. Discern Your Readiness — Is now the right time to share your story?
II. Begin With the Right People — Who to trust first and why it matters.
III. Document Everything — How to preserve memory, clarity, and evidence.
IV. Protect Your Identity (If Needed) — Wisdom for those who need to speak safely.
V. Tell Your Story: Nothing Less, Nothing More — What to say and how to say it.
VI. Stand Firm and Guard Your Peace — How to withstand pushback and stay grounded.
I. Discern Your Readiness
Telling your story is an act of courage, but courage is not the same thing as urgency.
When we’re overwhelmed, heartbroken, or furious, the desire to speak can come rushing forward. That’s understandable. Your body and spirit are signaling a truth that needs attention. But before that truth is spoken beyond your most trusted circle—before it’s shared in a public setting, or with people who haven’t walked closely with you—it needs to be processed and held well. Stories carry weight, and if you speak before you’ve had time to reflect, grieve, or heal, that weight can crush rather than liberate. Stories need a steady vessel.
This is what I mean by a steady vessel:
Your heart.
Your mind.
Your nervous system.
Your spiritual grounding.
When those parts of you are anchored, your story can come forward with strength and coherence. You can name what happened and still feel steady in who you are.
You don’t have to wait until you're fully healed, but if your emotional weather is still in a storm, it may serve you better to pause for your own protection.
Being steady doesn’t mean being emotionless. It means you’ve done enough internal work to hold your story without collapsing under it. It means you’ve named what happened, sorted through your own part in it, and are prepared for the emotional and spiritual weight that truth-telling can stir up. It means you’ve clarified what your story reveals and why it’s worth bringing into the light.
Among those emotions that can be stirred up, anger often rises quickly. It’s a natural and sometimes righteous response to betrayal or abuse. But when storytelling becomes a means of retaliation, it often ends up harming you more than anyone else. The sharp release may feel satisfying briefly, but the aftermath can fracture rather than restore.
Dan B. Allender writes in The Wounded Heart and To Be Told about the importance of both courage and clarity in the journey of sharing hard stories. Speaking alone isn’t enough. The soul needs tending. Your emotions need care. Your spiritual bearings need to be realigned. That’s what turns a story into a witness of truth and healing.
Ask yourself:
What do I hope will come from sharing this?
Is my intention to protect, warn, or heal, or am I hoping to make someone hurt like I did?
Even if no one affirms me, will I feel peace in having told the truth?
Pray or think through these questions. Invite God to ready your heart. When your story rises from clarity more than from impulse, you’ll know the vessel is steady.
A note on my own story: if I had told it in the weeks or months after Erik threw me under the bus and then disappeared, I would have only been able to draw the emotional landscape of a woman betrayed by a man. I was devastated, angry, confused, and waiting. Waiting for him to come back so we could bring what had happened to an emotional worktable and sort through it all in an effort toward closure.
That would have been a very different story, because it would have been just one tiny part of the whole. And I hadn’t seen the whole yet.
In fact, I did try to tell that early version of the story anonymously on the r/LCMS subreddit. What I met there was a disgusting display of judgment, accusation, and condescension. Today, I honestly don’t care what those men think or say. At this point, I give them as much trouble as I please. But back then, I was raw, and they pushed my head underwater.
Don’t let people drown you. Wait until you’re strong enough to swim on your own and hold a lifeline for others drowning around you.
II. Begin With the Right People
You don’t have to tell your story to everyone. In fact, it’s often safer—emotionally and spiritually—to start small.
When something deeply disorienting has happened, the first step isn’t public exposure. It’s protection. Your story needs shelter before it needs an audience. That means choosing someone who is wise, compassionate, and grounded enough to hold what you share without minimizing it, dismissing it, or turning it into gossip.
You may be holding a story that has legal implications, spiritual implications, or the potential to fracture relationships. In those cases, telling someone trustworthy is not only brave, it’s a safeguard. It creates a record. It draws a line in the sand. It begins to break the power of secrecy.
Start with someone who knows you: your character, your context, and your heart. That might be a spouse, sibling, friend, or mentor. Or it might be someone outside your personal life entirely: a trauma-informed counselor, a pastoral care provider, or an abuse recovery coach.
Begin here:
A family member or trusted friend
A licensed counselor or trauma-informed pastor
A spiritual mentor
A support group or survivor circle
A journal entry to help organize your thoughts
As you begin to name what happened, you may start to understand your story in new ways. Sometimes clarity comes through telling, especially for those who process verbally. That doesn’t mean rushing into the public square. It means allowing the story to unfold in layers, at the pace of your own healing.
There may come a time when your story needs to be shared more widely, especially if the harm involved a leader, a system, or a pattern that could affect others. In those cases, speaking publicly may serve a greater purpose: protecting others, confronting patterns, or refusing to let harm remain hidden. That kind of telling must be rooted in clarity, not chaos. It must flow from conviction, not retaliation.
You’ll know you’re closer to ready when the story no longer burns your hands to hold. When it steadies you, as I mentioned above, more than it shakes you. When you speak to bear witness, not to be rescued.
And remember: telling even one person is a step out of silence and toward light and safety.
A note on my story:
The first person I told was actually the pastor of the LCMS church my husband and I were attending while I was having an affair with Erik. Again, if you’ve been reading my story, you know all about Pastor B.
I went to Pastor B in an effort to expose what, at that time, had been going on for two months. I thought if I told him what was happening, he would hold me accountable, help me tell the truth, and walk with me into the light.
Instead, he brought Erik into the conversation, which gave Erik space to control Pastor B, the narrative, and me. Once Erik stopped meeting with Pastor B under the guise of being counseled, he pursued me with even more clarity and gusto than he had in the beginning.
I share this to expose a big mistake I made: I should have gone to a licensed professional at best, and a leader outside the organization in which Erik was a spiritual authority at the very least.
When my husband confronted Erik in April of 2023, the first person I went to was a pastor outside the LCMS and then a licensed trauma specialist. Those were the right people for me to go to, and I thank God for them in every retelling of this story.
III. Document Everything
When you’re in the midst of emotional or spiritual trauma, memory becomes unpredictable. Details blur. Conversations overlap. The order of events gets jumbled. This happens because your body is trying to protect you.
In moments of crisis, your nervous system shifts into survival mode. The amygdala—the brain’s fear center—becomes highly activated, while the prefrontal cortex, which governs rational thought and memory, becomes less active. According to Dr. Arielle Schwartz, a clinical psychologist and expert in trauma recovery, “During traumatic stress, the brain’s memory systems become fragmented. This is why trauma survivors often have vivid emotional or sensory memories, but difficulty recalling the full narrative sequence” (Schwartz, The Complex PTSD Workbook).
This fragmentation is a survival mechanism. As the University of Northern Colorado’s Assault Survivors Advocacy Program explains, the brain’s priority during trauma is not to encode memory, but to escape danger. Memory loss, confusion, or emotional flooding are natural biological responses, not evidence of unreliability (UNCO, Neurobiology of Trauma).
The problem is that while this response keeps you alive, it complicates truth-telling later. If the threat remains unresolved, or the betrayal comes from a spiritual leader you once trusted, your nervous system may stay in a heightened state. Over time, this leads to disrupted sleep, anxiety, and a shrinking “window of tolerance,” which is a concept described by Dr. Dan Siegel and other trauma researchers as the emotional range in which a person can function well (Highland Park Therapy, “How Trauma is Stored in the Body”).
This is why documentation matters.
Why documentation matters:
1. It protects your story.
Memories fade, especially under stress. If you wait too long, others may rewrite the narrative. Keeping detailed, time-stamped records ensures your story remains intact and rooted in fact.
2. It gives you clarity.
Journaling and documenting help you parse through the fog. You’ll begin to see patterns, name what happened, and understand how different moments connect. The act of writing can help bring coherence to an experience that felt chaotic.
3. It's a safety net.
If you ever need to report what happened to a pastor, a counselor, or a legal authority, contemporaneous documentation is one of the strongest witnesses you can bring. You won’t have to rely on fragile memory. You’ll have evidence.
How to begin documenting:
Save texts, messages, emails, and voicemails in a secure folder.
Write a timeline while events are still fresh.
Record your emotions, even if they shift.
Note names, locations, dates, and patterns.
Back up everything offline, preferably with password protection.
You may never need these documents. But if your story is questioned, or if a leader denies wrongdoing, they will matter. Not because your memory is flawed, but because your body did its job: it survived. Your job now is to gather the pieces with care.
Documentation isn’t just about proving something. It’s about preserving the truth, so that one day, when you’re ready to speak, you can do so with clarity and strength.
A note on my story:
To me, this is one of the most significant pieces of my story.
In the moments just before my husband confronted Erik, I was on the phone with him. One of our final conversations included Erik telling me to delete all of the messages between us. He asked if I knew how to clear my cache, then said the best way to protect myself was to delete everything.
I cannot stress enough how grateful I am that on this one occasion, I didn’t listen to Erik.
Even in the chaos of that moment, I remember thinking, Why is this what he’s focusing on? It was a red flag. Something inside me registered it, and I made a mental note: Whatever you do, don’t delete anything.
Part of that was self-protection. But part of it was something else. Those messages were my story of us; my record of what had happened. So I kept everything.
A month later, I went to President Hagan. If you’ve followed my story, you already know this part. I told him I wanted to report a case of clergy sexual misconduct involving Erik Herrmann. By the end of that conversation, our focus had shifted to how I would safely deliver an official copy of my evidence to Hagan so it could be passed to the investigative team.
(This evidence was an HTML download of the entirety of Erik’s and my conversations on Facebook. Tens of thousands of messages.)
If I hadn’t kept that evidence, I can’t say for sure that Hagan wouldn’t have believed me. But I can say this with certainty: Erik would not have resigned. Why would he? All he would’ve had to do was deny it. Say I was lying. And move on with his life.
More importantly, I wouldn’t have felt the freedom to tell my story publicly. And had I not told it publicly, I wouldn’t have uncovered the deeper scandal that still hasn’t been addressed:
The LCMS, Concordia Seminary St. Louis, and now the Institute of Lutheran Theology have yet to tell the truth. None of them has been willing to publicly acknowledge that they are supporting the secrets of a public figure who spent over a decade shaping the pastoral formation of men now behind pulpits across the country.
Erik Herrmann was a professor and administrator at Concordia Seminary, a direct leader to five years’ worth of deaconesses, and a rostered pastor in the LCMS. He was regularly invited to preach and teach, not only at the seminary, but at Timothy Lutheran Church in St. Louis, Concordia University Wisconsin, Best Practices in Ministry, and beyond.
Mine isn’t just a story about a man and a woman having an affair. It’s a story about silence, secrecy, and the institutional unwillingness to confront what happens when spiritual leaders abuse their power.
Now we know.
IV. Protect Your Identity (If Needed)
Not every story can or should be told under your real name—especially at first.
If safety, job security, or family dynamics are at risk, it is not cowardly to protect your identity. It’s wise. Sometimes the wisest thing you can do is create distance between your truth and your name, so your story can take its first steps without putting your life in unnecessary danger.
There are ways to speak with care:
Create a pen name that feels authentic to your voice
Use a secure, separate email account for communication
Disable metadata when sharing files, screenshots, or images
Remove identifying details unless they’re essential for credibility
Consider publishing through a trusted intermediary or survivor platform
If you do choose to speak anonymously or pseudonymously, be thoughtful about your digital footprint. Many platforms track IP addresses. Screenshots can be reverse-searched. Documents can carry embedded information. None of this means you shouldn’t speak—it just means your safety deserves the same care as your story.
Sometimes, over time, you may find the courage or clarity to attach your name. Other times, you may not. That choice remains yours. You are not required to bleed in public to be believed.
Your story does not lose its truth because it is told quietly or under a different name. It still matters. It still carries weight. And it can still be the beginning of healing—for you and for others.
A note on my story:
The first email I sent on this topic went to Dennis Bielfeldt. I also sent one to Issues, Etc. (never heard back), Brothers of John the Steadfast (never heard back), and Matthew Harrison (who I learned did read it but chose to kick it down to Lee Hagan). All of these initial emails were under a pseudonym. The first weeks of my Reddit writing were also anonymous.
Then came the calls for evidence from users on both r/Lutheranism and r/LCMS. Eventually, I figured they had a point. If Erik had lied about why he resigned, and if even Thomas Egger—the President of Concordia Seminary, St. Louis—didn’t know the truth, and if Dennis Bielfeldt at ILT admitted they hadn’t vetted Erik before hiring him, then I reasoned: “Well, I have a choice here. Share the evidence and let myself be known, at least in part, or just stop telling the story.”
Or at least, I thought I had a choice.
Looking back, I thought I was making a free choice when I began to share my name and my evidence. People were demanding proof. Leaders were staying silent. I believed that if I didn’t come forward openly, no one would believe me, and the truth would disappear.
Now I see that wasn’t really freedom. It was pressure. The kind of pressure that arises when institutions don’t do their job. When those who could have told the truth quietly choose to protect themselves instead, the burden shifts unfairly onto the one who was harmed. I still chose to speak, and I don’t regret that. But I can now see that I was navigating a narrow and costly path. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone else.
That’s why I want you to know this: you can tell your story without revealing your name. You can protect your safety, your privacy, your job, and your family. The truth doesn’t lose its power just because it’s told wisely.
V. Tell Your Story: Nothing Less, Nothing More
You don’t need to embellish. The story, told clearly, is enough.
Stick to what happened.
Avoid speculation or sweeping statements.
Speak plainly. Let the weight of reality do the work.
When you’re telling a story shaped by betrayal or abuse, it can be tempting to add emphasis, like you need to convince someone, or make them feel how wrong it was. But the truth is, a simply told account doesn’t need amplification. Just clarity, precision, and honesty.
Every man and woman who has shared their story with me revealed the problem without needing to be eloquent. And the more stories I hear, the more quickly I recognize the patterns. I’m not even a counselor. So let that be your reminder: if you share the facts, they will speak for themselves.
Don’t try to “sound” believable. Just be believable. Say what you know. Name what you saw. If you don’t remember something, or if a detail feels fuzzy, say that too. It builds trust when you name what you’re certain of and what you’re not.
You’re not crafting drama. You’re telling the truth. That’s enough.
A note on my story:
When I first started speaking publicly, I did share in narrative swaths. That’s who I am. I’m a writer and a theatre artist; I think in “drama.” I wanted to express myself clearly and emotionally enough to capture the nuances without writing them all out. But that’s just how I am all the time. So, please don’t think you need to set the stage for your listener. You don’t.
There is also a lot of my story with Erik that I haven’t told. A lot that came after, too. There’s a reason for that: I didn’t want to.
So there’s also that. “Nope” is a full sentence.
VI. Stand Firm and Guard Your Peace
People may ignore you. They may say it didn’t happen. They may question your motives, your memory, or your character. Some will try to rewrite your story in real time—or erase it altogether.
And some of you will face even harder roads. You may have pastors, church leaders, seminary presidents, or entire communities who see your story only through the eyes of the person who harmed you. Especially if they share a pew, a theology, or an institution with him. It may feel like everyone has already picked a side. That’s not fair. But it happens.
Expect it. But do not let it sway you.
Return to this: Why am I telling this story? Who is it for?
Let that answer steady you.
You do not owe your story to everyone. You can say “no” to questions that feel invasive or performative. You can step away from conversations that try to bait, diminish, or distract. You are allowed to guard your energy, your heart, and your healing.
There is a difference between being open to truth and handing your story over to everyone who asks. If you’ve spoken with clarity and care, then you’ve done what was needed. That’s enough.
A note on YOUR story:
One thing that has come to light in the past few months is that the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod does, in fact, practice excommunication. I’ve listened to a few men and women who’ve either been threatened by it or fear they might, and their stories are deeply troubling. I want to be clear that I am not a member of the LCMS, so I am not at risk of losing membership, position, or spiritual community for telling the truth.
But I know many of you are. And I want to acknowledge that.
So if you’re reading this and weighing the risks of telling your story, please know that I am not urging you toward a decision without understanding its cost. This is not a light thing. Your safety matters. Your livelihood matters. Your faith community matters. If you're not ready or able to speak right now, that does not make you weak or unfaithful. It means you are wisely discerning your next step.
Tell the truth, yes. But tell it safely. Let wisdom walk beside your courage.
Please reach out to me if I can help you in any way. If you would like me to read your story or help you tell it, I will try.
Disclaimer:
I am not a licensed counselor, psychologist, or legal professional. This guide is based on my personal experience, reflection, and the insights I’ve gathered from others who have walked similar roads. It is not intended as a substitute for professional mental health, legal, or pastoral care. If you are in crisis, facing abuse, or navigating significant trauma, I strongly encourage you to seek help from a qualified, trauma-informed provider. You deserve that kind of care.