Let There Be Courage

By Jenai Auman

I sought refuge in stories as a child. In bed with sheets over my head, I’d use my book light to wander the halls of Hogwarts. Having not been raised in any faith tradition, I knew more about Aslan and Albus Dumbledore than I did Abraham. But in my 20s I nurtured a habit wherein I went line by line to understand the biblical narrative. I read stories of life and death, hope and hurt, liberation and oppression—things my young heart already knew. In Exodus, I read of a weary people fleeing Pharaoh’s strong arm. I witnessed their strength and courage as they forged ahead into the promised land to later find rest on all sides in Joshua. Narnia and Hogwarts carried me through adolescence, but it was my spiritual ancestors—those like Rahab and Ruth, Joshua and Jesus—who taught me that brokenness can be resurrected. Their courage taught me healing was possible in my own story.

People never lived unscathed lives. Both Narnia and Hogwarts reveal how quickly our lives can whiplash and rupture. The Old and New Testaments teach of an evil lurking in all stories. Even Jesus—the Incarnate God—suffered his own wounds. There’s always a villain. You learn to stay away from the bad guys in life—playground bullies often behave like pompous Roman soldiers. Fiends who shout and berate are easy to spot, but it is harder to identify the foe in the face of a friend. No one expects Brutus’s knife. None easily believe a trusted friend could trade a friendship for treasure. Yet, that is the trope found in many of our stories, particularly for those who have weathered abuse in the church. Brutus and Judas are within sanctuary walls, among beloved people. Learning this through fiction or scripture can prepare you, but it doesn’t soften the blow of spiritual abuse when it bears on you.

Church hurt sounds trite, but the reality is spiritual abuse and religious trauma are tearing people apart. One injustice may be sustainable, but when the injustices grow, the wound deepens. You become angrier, more grief-stricken. A pattern of sin and death among a community championing grace and life is crazy-making at best, life-shattering at worst. We train ourselves to muster courage when we recognize hostile territory—you can’t walk through a literal or metaphorical minefield without bravery. But we never expect to find the minefields in sanctuaries or tripwire around communion tables. Religious trauma is tearing people apart, and it’s destroying the dwelling places of God, too.

Stories taught me that leaders can and do get it wrong, and it can be deadly. I’ve met faith leaders like Cornelius Fudge, a Prime Minister living in the world of magic with Harry Potter. If you’re familiar, you’ll know their world faces growing evidence, pointing to the return of Voldemort—the face of evil. Fudge uses his leadership to deny a truth he couldn’t face. In fear, he ignores the darkness rather than face it. It was Fudge’s ignorance that cleared a path for Voldemort to grow in power and sow death. Is this not the story many are living within our own churches and faith communities? Like Fudge’s denial, pastors, shepherds, and friends who continue to ignore abuse in the church open the pasture gate for the wolf to come. Thankfully, the magic world is saved when a young boy, consistent in truth, continues to stand in courage against the lurking darkness. Harry Potter did this for Hogwarts. We can do this for the Church. We can point to the sin crouching at her door.

The stories in scripture are our own. Line by line, we can weep as our wounds find resonance with ancient saints. Our stories name evil and the bravery to face it. They unmask the villain and reveal the hero’s heart. Our spiritual ancestors lived through abuse, trauma, and wickedness. They were betrayed by friends, faced the desert, and lived as outcasts generations before any congregation could push a congregant into the wilderness. Those who came before us know exile, famine, and sorrow, but they also were held and kept by more. They met a good God bringing light to shadow. A God undoing the darkness. A God-man, battered, bruised, abused, and betrayed, who is resurrected and made new. From Genesis to Jesus, God’s promises extend light and love to the hurt and harmed. In his story, he lavishes his beloved with invitations to heal and be made new. In courage, the people accept his welcome and find rest on all sides.

In C.S. Lewis’s The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Lucy Pevensie—a child whose heart trusts in Aslan, the great lion of Narnia—sails through utter darkness, gripped with fear. She cries out, ““Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.” And she hears Aslan gentle whisper: “Courage, dear heart.” The darkness over the water fades; light breaks and shows the way ahead. Lucy and the sailors could see. The threats in their journey were real, it still lurked around the corner, but Lucy remembered they were not alone. Unseen, Aslan moved with them, bestowing courage.

Whether fiction or scripture, you know the themes of these stories. Life and death. Hope and hurt. Oppression and liberation. Gripped with fear, you’ve seen the darkness growing on the horizon. Listen for the whisper of God in your story: Be strong and courageous (Joshua 1). John’s Gospel—our good news—tells us that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it” (John 1:5). Like Harry Potter, stand firm in truth. Like Lucy Pevensie, be bold in your cries. Move toward God’s promises as his people. God sees your ache. Unseen, he moves with you. If the story of Christ’s resurrection is real, so is yours. Rest and let God breathe life into you, and in faith, you will heal. Courage, dear friend.

Jenai Auman

Jenai Auman is a writer, passionate about healthy spiritual formation and advocating for those abused within Christian environments. She lives in Houston, TX with her husband, children, and growing collection of books.
You can connect with Jenai on Instagram and Twitter at @jenaiauman.