Dr. Gillie Jenkinson, a researcher and counselor, describes four phases of post-cult recovery: 1) physical exit 2) psychoeducation 3) healing and 4) healed “enough”. Even though I began reading Dr. Jenkinson’s work two years after my last physical exit, I have found these phases to accurately represent my own recovery process. I have exited four unhealthy and controlling groups, two of which I’d identify as cults. After the third, I began the psychoeducation phase, reading books and listening to podcasts in order to understand my experience. After the fourth, my education shifted up a gear, I began counseling, and I also started experiencing some healing, mostly in the form of a decrease in anxiety and anger related to thinking about my past experiences. Surprisingly, one of the most helpful catalysts for this healing (besides three wonderful counselors) has been recognizing narcissistic traits in myself. It was necessary to learn about authoritarian control and narcissism, and recognize it in my former groups and leaders, but seeing these traits in others produced few practical applications except avoidance of these people. Admitting to my own narcissistic attitudes, however, focuses my attention on the one person for which I have some reasonable expectation of change: myself. In the following essay, I’ll provide an overview of two common types of narcissism, how to identify each one, and how recognizing some of the same traits in myself turned my attention to my own repentance and a healthier expression of my Christian faith.
Grandiose narcissists are the easiest to identify. One of my cult leaders claimed to have been transported to heaven where he rode a chariot across the sapphire sea described in the book of Revelation. He said he had been chosen by God to be an “apostle of love” and the leader of a paradigm-shifting revival that would change the expression of Christianity in the whole world in one generation. For many non-cult members, it may sound ridiculous to have taken these claims at face value. But grandiose narcissists, using common methods of authoritarian control, can be very persuasive. I was in this cult for seven years. Now, it is easier for me to identify grandiose traits, but still, on occasion, I catch myself believing a person for a little longer than the benefit of the doubt allows.
Vulnerable narcissists, on the other hand, are tricky rascals. In the last group I exited, which I don’t identify as a cult, the leaders demonstrated a different side of narcissism. They portrayed themselves as put-upon shepherds laying down their lives for the sake of their little flock. Their image of themselves was of qualified, trustworthy, gentle pastors chosen for the burden of leadership. But when they found themselves in conflict, they harshly dismissed their critics, pretended not to understand concerns that were presented to them, and retreated back to a position of unaccountable authority rather than take an honest look at themselves. Vulnerable narcissists trick people into feeling sympathetic towards them, and sympathy is much harder to let go of than the exaltation associated with grandiose narcissists.
What unites the grandiose and the vulnerable narcissist is an attitude of entitlement. Leaders with strong narcissistic traits believe they are entitled to other’s agreement, support, and admiration. In short, they think they are entitled to other’s submission to them. These leaders do not care much about acting in such a way that would encourage a person to voluntarily follow them. Why should they? Their belief in their intrinsic “betterness”, regardless of the lack of real-world evidence, is all the justification they need to expect obedience. In their minds, other people exist solely to support their exaggerated self-image.
Most people simply don’t think this way. If anything, most people are consumed with feelings of failure and anxiety. It is very confusing to converse with an absurdly entitled person. There are not many of them.
However, what proved more difficult than identifying the grandiose narcissist, or even the vulnerable narcissist, was recognizing narcissistic traits in myself. I had never promoted myself as an apostle or prophet. I had also never taken on the image of the suffering servant, toiling away in small ways to the glory of God. But as I struggled through the pain and confusion of recovery, leaving behind unhealthy groups and relationships, I began to notice some troubling things about myself. I stubbornly nursed a fantasy that one day I would be the one to bring the chariot-rider’s ministry crumbling to the ground. I demonized the leaders that hurt me (perhaps being too quick to label them narcissists). I reduced complex issues to simple binaries and contentious debates to good vs. evil. I expected people’s agreement with my conclusions regarding the groups I had left and admiration of my intellect for coming to such conclusions. In short, I felt entitled to others’ submission to me.
I believe Jesus identifies this attitude as “pride”. It’s the little voice inside me that whispers, “You are better than they are.” For me, the “they” kept changing. Once, it was the spiritually dead cessationists. Later, it was the delusional charismatics. Sometimes, the “they” is my wife, my parents, or my friends. Pride doesn’t show itself in thoughtfully forming convictions but in burdening others with the expectation they must share those convictions. Why? Not because of meticulously crafted arguments or the weight of the evidence, even though those may be appealed to. No, the real reason is because you are better than they are.
What I find so captivating about Jesus is that he truly is better than all of us — smarter, more powerful, wiser, and more loving — but he never acts entitled to people’s submission. He releases people to make their own decisions regarding whether or not to follow him. If they don’t, he doesn’t retaliate in passive aggressive insults, pout, posture or point to the position title on his business card. One day, he will judge people according to his convictions. In the meantime, he is patient.
Jesus’ humility, his lack of entitlement even though he alone is entitled to everything, brings a measure of peace to my abused, bruised heart. I know one day he will put everything to rights. When I’m tempted to lose myself in the pain and anger of my mistreatment, and the stories of others who have suffered worse mistreatment, I am able to release my abusers from the expectation of their submission to my conclusions about them. Since I don’t have the power to make them see how much they hurt me, I’m free to move on, trusting Jesus to work for their good. I can focus on something within my power, and Jesus’, the transformation of my own heart from prideful to humble.
This perspective seems to bring my life into just the right focus, not too wide and not too narrow. I don’t need to concern myself with epochal change in Christian belief and practice, but I’m also not an insignificant pion whose only purpose is to grind it out until my reward. I expect my suffering, under the authoritarian thumb of narcissistic leaders, and the transformation of my heart because of that suffering, will have some sort of positive effect in God’s kingdom. Perhaps this effect will be mostly hidden from me in this life. One day it will be revealed. For now, there is a road of repentance for me to walk as long as I’m able.
