Over my years of working with children, I’ve witnessed many forms of abuse — physical, emotional, sexual, and neglect. But there’s one kind that has always left me deeply unsettled because it’s rarely spoken of, almost invisible: spiritual abuse.
It hides behind prayer meetings, religious authority, and “good intentions.” It is so normalised that even those suffering under it rarely recognise it for what it is — abuse.
When Faith Becomes Fear
I’ll never forget Rhea (name changed), a quiet twelve-year-old girl from South Goa. She had stopped praying at school. When I asked her why, she whispered, “My father said I don’t deserve to talk to God anymore.” Her father was known in his community for his religious devotion — the kind who led prayers loudly but silenced his child with shame.
Each time Rhea questioned him, he said she was sinning. When she cried for her mother, who had left an abusive marriage, he’d tell her, “God punishes disobedient daughters.”
Rhea began to fear God — not out of reverence, but out of terror. That was when I realised: faith, when twisted, can wound deeper than any belt or fist.
And I’ve seen it again and again.
A 15-year-old boy from Margao was forced to fast every Friday because his mother said his “sins” — being gay — needed cleansing.
A woman from North Goa was told to submit to marital rape because her husband said scripture granted him that right.
A young catechist was shamed publicly by her church elder for questioning his “teachings.”
The pain in all these stories isn’t just personal. It’s spiritual — a deep violation of trust, love, and belonging.
What Is Spiritual Abuse?
Spiritual abuse happens when religion, faith, or belief is used to control, shame, or manipulate another person. It’s not tied to one religion or group — it can happen anywhere faith exists.
Most examples of spiritual abuse involve church elders, priests, or faith leaders misusing their authority — creating toxic cultures within congregations, shaming or silencing members, and manipulating them through fear of divine punishment. They hide behind titles, pulpits, and scripture, weaponising faith to demand obedience.
But it doesn’t stop at the church gate. It happens inside homes — parents using religion to control children, partners using faith to justify violence, and teachers using “God’s will” to silence curiosity.
It’s faith, distorted. Love, corrupted.
Goa is a land of faith — where prayers echo from temples, churches, and mosques alike. Faith shapes our festivals, families, and even our politics. But what happens when that faith — so central to our identity — becomes a tool of harm?
I’ve seen children shamed for not memorising prayers perfectly, told that their illnesses were “God’s punishment,” or that their trauma was a “test of faith.” I’ve seen girls guilt-tripped into silence when abused, because “forgiveness is godly.” I’ve seen boys stripped of their curiosity because questioning a catechist or guru was branded “disrespectful.” This is spiritual abuse — but no one names it. We don’t have vocabulary for it in our everyday conversations. Because how do you call out something that hides behind “holiness”?
Within religious spaces, spiritual abuse often thrives in the name of discipline. A priest may demand blind obedience. A pastor may label dissent as “Satan’s influence.” A guru may convince followers that their suffering is “karma.”
In many cases, survivors of domestic violence or marital rape are told to pray harder and forgive. In others, followers are isolated from family, friends, and the outside world — told that questioning leadership equals questioning God.
It’s a toxic mix of authority, fear, and shame. And it’s happening quietly in Goa’s faith institutions too. We don’t talk about it — perhaps because it’s uncomfortable to imagine that harm could come from those we trust with our souls. But denying it only feeds the silence that keeps victims trapped.
The Scars You Can’t See
Spiritual abuse doesn’t leave physical marks — it leaves spiritual ones. Victims often describe feeling cut off from God, ashamed of themselves, and guilty for even thinking they’ve been wronged. One young survivor once told me, “I can’t pray anymore. Every time I do, I hear his voice telling me I’m not worthy.” That’s the cruelty of it — when prayer, meant to bring peace, becomes a trigger for pain. The fallout is profound — depression, loss of identity, distrust in faith communities, and sometimes, abandonment of faith altogether. But here’s the truth: they’re not losing faith in God. They’re losing faith in the people who misused God’s name.
We Need to Start Talking About It
Goa, we have to start this conversation. Spiritual abuse is abuse. Full stop. It deserves the same outrage as physical or sexual violence. We must train our faith leaders — priests, pastors, catechists, and religious educators — to recognise when guidance crosses into coercion. We must empower children and adults alike to know that questioning isn’t sin — it’s strength. We must make space for survivors to heal — through counselling, community, and compassionate spiritual care. And most importantly, we must separate faith from fear.
If You’re Experiencing Spiritual Abuse
If someone uses religion to silence you, shame you, or control your choices — that’s not faith. That’s manipulation. Reach out. Talk to someone you trust — a counsellor, a friend, a compassionate faith leader. Create an emotional safety plan. Reconnect with your beliefs in ways that bring peace — through music, reflection, nature, or prayer that doesn’t punish. You do not owe your silence to anyone. Not even to God — because true faith never demands your suffering.
I still think of Rhea. After weeks of counselling, she handed me a drawing — a small candle with the words, “God still loves me.” Her light wasn’t extinguished. It was just waiting to be reignited — without fear. That’s what healing from spiritual abuse looks like: reclaiming faith as freedom, not fear.
In all my years of working with children and families, I’ve seen how spiritual abuse slips through cracks — dismissed as discipline, disguised as devotion. But it’s time we said it out loud: this is abuse, and it harms deeply.
Faith should heal, not hurt. Spirituality should liberate, not enslave. And no child should ever grow up believing that God’s love is conditional. If your faith demands silence in the face of pain — it’s not faith. If your religion justifies control — it’s not sacred. If your leader uses shame as scripture — it’s not holy.
Goa, we pride ourselves on our faith traditions. Let’s also be proud enough to protect them from distortion. Let’s talk about spiritual abuse — in our churches, temples, mosques, schools, and homes.
Because healing begins the moment we stop pretending it doesn’t exist. And maybe, just maybe, when a child like Rhea prays again — she’ll finally know that God was never the one who hurt her.
The writer is an Assistant Professor of Social Work, Goa University, and Founder, Human Touch Foundation
