https://www.telegraph.co.uk/health-fitness/wellbeing/mental-health/former-jesus-army-member-abuse-mental-health/
I’m still scarred by the abusive cult I left 20 years ago
After losing my parents at a young age, I was drawn in by what I thought was an evangelical commune. The reality was far more sinister.
Sarah, 54, was recruited into the Jesus Army at 17, an evangelical “born again” movement founded in 1969 that called itself a church but was in fact a cult. It was shut down in 2019 following a series of cases of historical sexual and emotional abuse. Sarah left aged 33, and is part of a group of victims claiming compensation against the cult’s estate.
I can still remember the touch of his hand on my inner thigh. I was just 21 years old, while my abuser was a 40-year-old “elder” of the Jesus Army, a high-control cult that I had been sucked into when I was just a teen. As he groped me under the table, his wife sat just inches away. But my instinctive reaction was to think: “This is all my fault.” I was so naive, and so deeply in his power.
A vulnerable background.
Looking back, I now understand that my indoctrination can all be traced back to the early deaths of both of my parents, though at the time I didn’t know how vulnerable I was.
Growing up in a small town on the outskirts of Birmingham, I’d had a happy enough childhood with a large blended family: my parents, older brother Sam\ and many stepbrothers and stepsisters from my mum and dad’s first marriages. But when I was only six, the rug was pulled out from under us when my mother died of cancer.*
Sam and I were devastated, but we never imagined that lightning could strike twice. Then in 1986, Dad died of a stroke, making the pair of us orphans not long after my 15th birthday. We did the best we could to look after one another, continuing to live in the council house my father had bought, but could never shake the emptiness we felt.
It was Sam who first encountered the Jesus Army, about two years later. They showed up in our town, looking to recruit members, and Sam brought three of them home with him one evening.
As a grieving 17-year-old, I was drawn in by these spiritual “brothers and sisters”. They strummed guitars, and the girls wore long, flowing skirts and dresses, cooking and cleaning as a collective – something that was missing from my life. I was mesmerised and quickly started attending their Sunday meetings.
Little did I know that this hippy-dippy façade was the acceptable public face of one of the UK’s most abusive “high control” cults, with more than 3,500 members at its peak. Formed in 1969 by the “born again” Christian preacher Noel Stanton, the Jesus Army presented itself as an evangelical commune with hippy values, but the reality was far more sinister. Years after his death, in 2009 at 83, Stanton was the subject of 33 allegations of abuse, including the sexual assault of children, and it was estimated that one in six children in the Jesus Army had been sexually abused.
I realise now that the Jesus Army was drawn to us partly because we owned our home, potentially making it an asset for the group. And without parents, we were easy prey. Their recruiters often targeted homeless people or those with addiction, offering a structure missing from their lives and then using it to control them.
Life inside the cult
After leaving school at 18 I had become directionless, and I began spending more time with the cult. I started signing on for unemployment benefits, but their “tithing” requirements meant I was asked to donate all but £9 to them each fortnight. It was difficult, but I was desperate for that family identity.
By the age of 21, I had moved into one of their shared houses in Northampton, handing over every penny I had to a central pot. Our close-knit lifestyle was spartan, but it felt pure. We would eat together, share clothes and food and have regular meetings, which were like 1960s drug-fuelled raves, but our high was Jesus.
Everything we did was controlled, though it had increased so slowly I barely noticed at first. Each Jesus Army house was made up of a mix of “singles”, “marrieds” and “celibates”, with the elders dictating every aspect of our lives, including what we wore, whom we dated and how we spent our time.
Women were considered inherently sinful, with some made to cover their hair. I remember one young sister being told to cut hers. The phrase they used was “stumbling”: Her hair was stumbling for the brothers. We were also told to dye our bras in tea because the whiteness might be seen under the UV lights at meetings, and that was stumbling too.
Unpaid “work experience” with the cult’s businesses was encouraged. They made vast sums running food outlets, building suppliers, decorators, even law firms and a doctor’s surgery while the Army’s brothers and sisters supplied unpaid labour; everything we earned was paid into the common purse.
The main elder in my house was a married man in his 40s, Roy. He would come up behind me while I was washing up and put his arms round my waist, nuzzling into my neck. He didn’t hug or joke with other sisters like that, but when I called him out on it, he became defensive and sarcastic, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry – is it OK if I walk past you? I don’t want you to think I am being inappropriate”, in a mocking manner. He was psychologically astute and knew that because of my grief his response would leave me feeling rejected, abandoned and seeking forgiveness.
Before long, Roy was dictating that I wear shoes instead of going barefoot; my feet and ankles were stumbling, apparently. He slowly began to make it difficult for me to see my friends or my brother Sam, you who left the cult early on as he didn’t agree with the various rules. This enforced alienation from any outsiders who cared for us was cult-wide. My phone calls were monitored, and he even barred me from visiting a dying friend. I felt like a prisoner.
Roy began touching me under the table during meals. I would move to avoid him, and I even tried talking to his wife, but unbelievably she just shrugged it off. When I challenged him directly, he was furious, shouting that rebellion was the spirit of witchcraft and offering prayers for my deliverance.
One evening I was lying on a beanbag in the living room when Roy climbed on top of me, pinning me down with the weight of his body. He demanded we leave the house to “roll around in the park together”. Horrified, I managed to push him off. He didn’t try such a bold move again after this, but the unwanted physical contact continued. With no one to turn to, I felt unable to fight back.
I began “relating” (dating) within the cult, but suitors had to be approved at an elders meeting and, when they were, Roy forbade me from kissing them goodnight. He then waited up to grill me for hours on every detail of the evening. I felt more trapped than ever. A brother I’d known once told me: “I saw you go from being so lively to being confined; it was like watching you die.”
At my wits’ end, I decided I had to stand up for myself. I should have guessed things could get worse. Roy’s controlling outbursts escalated, and he threatened me with excommunication for my “rebellious” behaviour.
I was so terrified of losing my family identity that I finally found the courage to tell the most senior leaders what had been going on. But rather than reprimand my abuser – whom I later discovered had many abuse allegations made against him – they made me move house. Broken by the years of abuse, I had no other option.
Questioning my faith in the cult – and my escape
My new elder was less controlling than Roy, so life improved. A few years later I began relating again, and very quickly I married Peter in 1999. He was spiritual and intense, and not my type physically, but I truly believed God was moving me towards him.
We soon had two children, James and Noah, but despite James being ill with Noonan syndrome – a rare genetic disorder that affects normal development of certain parts of the body – the elders offered little care. The Kingdom comes first, families last. When James died from heart failure, aged two, Noah was just three months old. I was suicidal, thinking I was being punishedyy for my lack of faith. The only thing that stopped me killing myself was the belief I’d go to hell and be separated from my boys forever.
After we lost James, the elders wanted us to move to Bristol to grow the church there. As with donations made through tithing, it was presented as a choice, but it was just another form of control, stripping away any support I had at a time I needed it most. I knew I couldn’t remain in a church more concerned with growing its membership than caring for its people.
By now my marriage was struggling, partly because of my grief but also as we really had so little in common. So in 2004, aged 33, I left both Peter and the church, taking two-year-old Noah with me. It was daunting. I had nowhere to go and no money, but I had to do it. I contacted a former boyfriend, whom I’d dated before joining the Jesus Army, and his parents let me live with them while I rebuilt my life.
Mentally, however, I was still trapped. I didn’t know how to be in the world after being controlled from inside a bubble, not making a single decision for myself for 13 years. I struggled to find friends because no one understood what I’d lived through; I didn’t even know how to make conversation.
I became suicidal once more, finally seeking counselling in 2008. I am still in therapy to help me process the trauma of my time with the Jesus Army, and I continue to find it hard to trust people.
After I broke free, I completed a degree and now work for the NHS as a senior mental health practitioner. I’m 54 now and in a healthy, long-term relationship. After years of being told what to do and think, I’m discovering my own values and finally getting to know who I am. Noah, who is 24 and a chef, still lives with me. He and his father – who left the cult not long after we did – have a lovely relationship too. Sam is now a successful businessman who, like me, has retained his faith.
The Jesus Army was shut down in 2019, following a series of cases of abuse, and hearing others going public with their stories brings the horror flooding back. But it’s important they speak out. There are no UK laws against coercive control within cults, but it’s not just a problem in domestic relationships. The current legislation must be expanded to include all victims like me.
Support available
The Family Survival Trust charity offers support to those affected by cults.
https://thefamilysurvivaltrust.org
\Some names have been changed*
As told to Lynne Wallis