‘It felt like a demon was inside me’: young Christian missionaries allege spiritual abuse
One Sunday last summer, 5,000 young people packed into the Wembley Arena for a “mass gathering of gen Z Jesus followers”. They danced to Christian rock, hugged, wept and sang. Between performances, charismatic leaders proclaimed something “huge” was afoot. “Tonight kicks something off,” said Andy Byrd, a leader of Youth With a Mission (YWAM). He told the crowd they were witnessing the start of a “spiritual awakening”. Soon, the UK would send out “thousands of missionaries” to preach the name of Jesus – and “see every tribe, tongue and nation worshipping before the throne”. The event, called The Send, was a hit. Hundreds of attenders scanned a QR code committing to devote their lives to Jesus. Some poured into London and preached to passengers on the tube. The organisers of the event say it heralds a new era for the UK. Since Wembley, pop-ups from St Albans to Sheffield have recruited more people to the cause. “What we’re seeing – [our generation] have never had this. It’s one of those history-making moments,” a Send volunteer said. For those who are no longer in the fold, its rise rings alarm bells. Daniel* from Bristol signed up with YWAM, the global organisation leading The Send UK, aged 19. He moved to Perth, Australia for a training course, later leading mission trips to countries including India, Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Mozambique. At first, it was everything he’d hoped for: fun, adventure, a shared sense of purpose. “It was an experience that not many people get to have.”
But behind the scenes, there was a darker side. Back at the base, there were strict rules about morality, purity and sexuality. Daniel, who is using a pseudonym, felt closely watched by the base leaders, who were “treated like royalty” and viewed as messengers for God. There was an expectation of obedience and absolute transparency, with regular confession of “sins”. People publicly repented for perceived moral transgressions, including disobedience, negativity, masturbation and homosexual thoughts. Sometimes, they underwent “healing” to banish demons. “The reaction was ‘This is a deep sin, so we’re going to need to cast this out’,” said Daniel, who was privately questioning his own sexuality. At one point, he considered leaving. But base leaders said it wasn’t God’s plan and told him to “go away and re-pray”. He stayed for another two years. “I thought, ‘Maybe God really is saying this,’” he said. For centuries, Christian missionaries have travelled the world preaching the gospel. In the 1800s and 1900s, western missionaries helped spread Christianity in Africa, Asia and Latin America. It was “very mixed up with colonialism”, said Rev Canon Mark Oxbrow from the Oxford Centre for Mission Studies. Today, the flow of western missionaries has slowed. “In Britain and Europe, there’s been a pretty steep decline,” said Brian Stanley, professor emeritus of world Christianity at the University of Edinburgh. At the same time, YWAM (pronounced why-wam) has thrived. Founded in 1960 by American Loren Cunningham, it has bases across more than 180 countries and trains young people to spread the gospel in “the nations”, often on short-term trips. Key targets include “the Muslim world”, “the Hindu world”, “tribal peoples”, and “the poor and needy”.
The Observer has spoken to 21 current and former YWAMers whose experiences span two decades and 18 countries. For each of them, their first exposure to YWAM was a discipleship training school (DTS). Costing £5,000 to £10,000, the programmes, which follow a similar structure at all YWAM bases, are a “gateway” to the movement, combining an outreach trip with lectures on topics such as “sin, repentance and restitution”, “spiritual warfare” and “discipling nations”. Afterwards, graduates can stay on as unpaid volunteers in roles ranging from mentoring new students and leading mission trips to cooking and cleaning at a base. One former missionary, Lena Stary, 26, from Bristol, signed up for a DTS at YWAM’s base in Switzerland after leaving school. She said her A-levels hadn’t gone well and she was wondering “what on earth” she would do. Growing up in a churchgoing family, missionaries had been “revered”, so she began researching YWAM. Scrolling through the website for the YWAM base in Lausanne, near Lake Geneva, Stary, then 18, was captivated by the “whimsical, Swiss adventure vibes”. She took on two jobs to save £6,000 for the programme, room and board. At the base, she shared a room with five other young women and had a schedule of lectures and prayer sessions from “when you wake up to when you go to sleep”. Outside the classroom, she recalls rules on general life, including restrictions on dating, expectations about what people would wear, and how often they could leave to visit family. Early on, there was a message drilled in that “the best thing to do with your life is be a missionary”. She claims that leaders suggested “people who had left had backslidden” and that lectures were “very shame-driven” and “heavily focused on obedience, submitting to God and laying down your rights”. On the third day, students were invited to a “testimony night”, the first of many during Stary’s 18 months there. In a room in the headquarters – a converted hotel – they sat in a circle and confessed their sins. “You’re expected to share all your secrets,” Stary says. “If you were more reserved, it’s like you weren’t really committed to giving your life to Jesus.” Ex-missionaries from bases around the world describe similar sessions – often lasting late into the night or held over several days at a time. For some, it could feel cathartic. One British woman who did a DTS and trained as an outreach leader in London in 2019 said she spoke about “classic teenage insecurities” and that the sessions could feel like “counselling”. Other times, it felt punitive. People admitted to kissing outside marriage, homosexual thoughts, masturbating, having abortions, using sex toys, illegally streaming TV programmes and speeding. They could be prayed for, made to apologise, questioned in front of the group – or face punishment. A man in his 20s who admitted to having masturbated said he was asked to step back from a leadership role. Sources across multiple bases described how people were also put under pressure to confess to sinful thoughts – such as thinking highly of themselves or disagreeing with leaders, which was seen as “having a rebellious spirit”. Anything related to sex outside marriage was particularly problematic because of the belief that it leads people to form “soul ties”, soaking up each other’s sin. In this context, some people disclosed suffering sexual abuse. One woman who said she had been raped was prayed for by the group.
At a base in Brazil, two British ex-YWAMers described how a man and woman were forced to apologise to the group after they were found to have “hooked up”. The other missionaries then voted on whether they should stay. Others were subjected to “healing” rituals similar to exorcisms. At a base in South Africa, a British ex-YWAMer described rituals branded as “inner healing”, which were used for people who had sex outside marriage. “We ‘prayed off’ all the demons and sin and asked God to forgive them and make them whole again.” Daniel recalled a similar ritual in Perth, where a man who admitted sexual relations with other men was subjected to a “casting out”. Leaders laid hands on him, chanting prayers as he convulsed on the floor. “People would say it was the opposite of God in you. I saw it as the spirit of homosexuality which needed to come out.” These “repentance and forgiveness” rituals are alleged to have been part of a wider picture of control. Former YWAM volunteers described rules ranging from an alcohol ban to restrictions on what music they could play, what clothes they could wear, when they could visit relatives and who they could date. Sammy*, 24, from Sheffield, joined a DTS during her gap year in 2018 at a now-closed YWAM base in King’s Cross. At first, she loved it. But when she returned for a leadership course, she found it “quite controlling”. At one point, she was put under pressure not to attend her ill grandmother’s birthday because it clashed with a church service. When she started dating a man from a Christian dating app she says she was told it was “ungodly”. “[The leader] said, ‘It’s your choice. You do what you want to do,’ but also, ‘It’s really bad.’ I got on the train home and cried a lot. There is shame that seeps through, even if you disagree.” At other bases, women were told not to wear leggings or strappy tops to avoid “tempting men” and opening “a door to the devil”. “There was so much [pressure] on the woman not to ‘let the brothers stumble’. It just makes you feel shit to be a woman,” an ex-YWAMer said. In South Africa, a woman was reprimanded by base leaders after telling friends she was considering getting dreadlocks. In an email, she was told not to get the hairstyle because it was linked with “rebellion, false worship, mind control, witchcraft … ostracisation from society, destruction and death” and would compromise the “spiritual integrity” of the base. “We thank you in advance for your submission to this boundary,” the email said. The woman said her time in YWAM had left her feeling “very trapped” and that the email was the “cherry on top”. Since leaving, she has had to unlearn what she had been taught about sex and the way women should behave. “It’s so damaging,” she said. “You are programmed that you have to hide yourself and that sex is wrong.” Many who shared their stories caveated them by saying it was not black and white. They made friends for life in YWAM, missed the strong sense of community and said the bad experiences were mixed with good ones.
But several described the intense control and insular community as feeling “cult-like”. Though everyone was technically free to leave, they said there were practical and psychological barriers. “You’re not physically restrained, but the level of thought control – and the level of influence other people had over the way that you were living your life – made it hard,” said Stary. Often, YWAMers were young, thousands of miles from home, and reliant on YWAM for their housing and visas. Many say they were discouraged from taking outside jobs and encouraged to raise donations that were paid to YWAM for living expenses. One fundraising guide advised listing the names of “everyone you know, literally everyone” to ask for support. Some say they struggled to cover their basic needs, let alone extras like plane tickets. “I’d have to sell my furniture at the end of each month and then buy it all back again,” said one YWAMer. Eudo Albornoz, 35, a Venezuelan political sciences graduate now living in Bristol, left YWAM in December 2019 after spending seven years in Switzerland, Albania, and the Dominican Republic. He did missionary work in homeless shelters and orphanages and felt like he was “doing a good thing”, but found the experience “alienating”. “You feel like you are a saint, because you’re a missionary. And you feel like the leaders hear God more directly than your family would,” he said. “You don’t know how to get back to a regular church. You start mistrusting everybody outside YWAM.” Some say they were directly put under pressure by leaders not to leave. Emily Garcés, 43, a former YWAM staff member who now runs a Facebook group for those who have left, says she was told by base leaders in Argentina in 2005 that she could not leave with their blessing. “We sat in this big circle of leaders and they said, ‘We don’t think you should be doing this. If you go, you will fall into sexual sin.’” In the mission field, meanwhile, people described having a genuine desire to help the communities they served. YWAM says it aims to address “practical and physical needs” through relief and development initiatives. But looking back, some question the impact of the work. Daniel, the former outreach leader based in Perth, said teams would often work with people in extreme poverty; during one trip to Indonesia, he preached the gospel to sex workers in a Jakarta slum and collected statistics on how many people had been saved. “We would promise them that Jesus would change their life. But then a week later it was, ‘See you later! Bye! Have a nice life!’ And they’re still living in the slums,” he said. “I really look back and think, what was the fruit of our labour?”
Others recall finding themselves in risky situations with little practical training – and being praised by leaders for their devotion. One YWAMer described smuggling bibles into countries where it was banned or strictly controlled. “No one said: ‘Don’t do this.’ It was more, like, encouraged. But if you are caught with them, you can go to prison. It was putting young people in really vulnerable situations,” he said. In South Africa, a young woman described going into a red light district while posing as the partner of a man hosting a sex party. The idea was to gather data on the sex trade and share the evidence with the police, but “there were a lot of gangs … watching these places and we were going door to door, trying to find the youngest girls”. Looking back, she says there was a lack of safeguarding, with “red flags left, right and centre”. “There was also this element of, if you’re doing something that’s a bit scary and a bit dramatic, it’s seen as more radical. We were praised for it. But actually, what was radical about it? We were being so stupid.” In response, YWAM said that while many people had positive experiences, some had suffered “spiritual abuse”, which it “deeply regrets”. It said it had sought to strengthen its policies, encouraged people to speak out and took safeguarding seriously. It has a decentralised structure, which devolves responsibility for bases to local leaders. In England, a spokesperson said YWAM held “traditional Christian views on sexuality and marriage” but was actively reviewing how it taught those views to ensure it did not cause “shame or rejection”. They said the organisation “strongly opposed” pressured public confessions; that no one should be shamed or made to apologise; and that “healing prayer must be conducted only with informed consent, trauma-awareness and appropriate spiritual and pastoral oversight”. They also condemned any practice that traumatised people or associated them with demonic influence. “We are deeply grieved to hear reports that spiritual practices intended for healing were used in coercive or shaming ways,” they said. YWAM Perth said the same, adding that while it held “traditional Christian convictions” about marriage and sexuality, it recognised that “in the past, some of our methods of encouraging this have lacked grace or sensitivity”. It was “truly saddened” by any negative impacts and never aimed to “coerce or control” anyone. It said a voluntary audit of its practices by an external agency in 2021 had led to it improving its policies and reporting structures. YWAM Lausanne denied missionaries were subject to strict rules, saying they could take six weeks of holiday a year, and that “instruction on what to wear” involved advice for their protection, such as when travelling to countries with a malaria risk or playing sports. It denied suggesting people who left had “backslidden”, saying it valued “every form of engagement in society equally”. It said claims that people felt alienated from the outside world did not reflect its beliefs or practices. “We encourage relationships and good communication with family, friends and the local church,” a spokesperson said.
In relation to mission trips, a YWAM England spokesperson said teams were given thorough pre-departure briefings, including training in cultural sensitivities, and dangerous trips were discouraged. Teams also had an orientation on arrival. “We understand that these briefings are consistently practised across YWAM,” they said. Ex-YWAMers said they wanted the organisation to improve its complaints processes and to strengthen central oversight of bases, to improve the safety of both young missionaries and the communities they serve. Olivia Jackson, a researcher at Durham University who worked as a human rights consultant to mission movements and spent 10 years in YWAM herself, said the current decentralised structure allowed for “plausible deniability about abuse and poor behaviour”. When people did complain, she said concerns were not always escalated. “You’re told: ‘If it’s not on a par with what Jesus suffered for your sake, then you’ve got no right to complain.’” Sammy from the London base felt her concerns about leadership had not been taken seriously. She said there had been a “clear hierarchy” if another student or volunteer was accused of wrongdoing – but not when it was a base leader. “I remember talking to my [YWAM] mentor and the response was just: ‘Our leaders aren’t perfect,’” she said. While there is a decentralised structure, YWAM is founded on principles that apply across all bases. The University of the Nations, an unaccredited university that oversees training schools, sets the direction of courses and has codes of conduct that students must follow. These say “any moral violation”, including “sexual immorality”, is grounds for disciplinary action. Individual bases are more explicit about their policies, including a US base which lists fornication and homosexuality as immoral behaviours alongside incest and bestiality, and another which says changing gender “goes against God’s will”. Leaders have also made their views clear. In 2020, Lynn Green, founder of YWAM England, published a blogpost urging the human race to repent “for ignoring the laws of God”, blaming abortion and “the homosexual agenda” for “bringing destruction”. For Daniel, who was struggling with his sexuality, knowing YWAM had strict rules on sex outside marriage meant it initially felt like a “safe space”. Any niggles he might be gay became “more and more silenced”. “It felt quite nonexistent. There was nothing going on there,” he said. Witnessing the treatment of other gay people eventually made it impossible to ignore his own sexuality. He began believing his heart was “not clean” and said he felt that “fundamentally there was something wrong” with him. He would regularly repent of his thoughts and dreams. “I felt as though this demon was inside of me and I needed to get my heart right,” he said. “It was this constant struggle to be accepted by God.” At YWAM England’s HQ – a 48-acre campus in Harpenden, Hertfordshire – The Send UK and Ireland’s director, Josh Cutting, distanced the movement from problems of the past. He emphasised safeguarding, saying The Send was working with an external organisation which had given it a “vision” of how to “help people make good decisions”, prevent spiritual abuse and “avoid the power play” that could arise. And he said The Send was open to all. “Everyone’s in. We go on the journey together of people that are willing to say yes to [Jesus].” Cutting added that while The Send was closely connected to YWAM, it works in collaboration with 60 other churches and Christian groups, including those supporting people to do missions work at home as well as abroad. “The thing we have in common is we want to follow Jesus and obey his words and share the good news,” he said. Some ex-YWAMers say that, even so, it makes them “nervous”. With slick TikTok and Instagram marketing, The Send’s website pitches it as a modern movement for those who have shunned the church as a “tradition of the past”. But behind the marketing, there is a strong link to the evangelical right, including groups opposed to same-sex marriage and abortion.
The Send itself was born out of The Call, an American prayer movement whose co-founder, Lou Engle, has caused controversy with his radical views, including speaking at a rally supporting Ugandan anti-gay laws, calling for the criminalisation of abortion and saying Muslim proclamations were fuelling the “demonic realm”. Asked about The Send UK’s link to Engle, who was pictured on its website until last week, Cutting provided a written comment saying the organisation was aware of “past statements” made by Engle which “do not reflect the culture or tone we want for The Send UK & Ireland”. He said that, while Engle played a role in the movement’s “early days” in the US, its UK team operated independently, adding that it held a “traditional Christian view of marriage” but rejected “any approach that fosters fear, exclusion, or internalised shame”. When the Observer spoke to Cutting, he said The Send had “an orthodox view on the things Jesus says” and that there was an “alignment” with Engle on issues such as marriage, but that he hoped that, in practice, this would “look slightly different in the UK because of how we would do it”. “It’s less polarising; it’s more nuanced,” he said. “That’s not to take away from what we believe.” In his written statement, he said The Send did not endorse, condone or facilitate public confession, coercion, shame or forced “healing”, adding that it had clear processes for reporting concerns. He said he was aware of concerns within YWAM and supported efforts to bring the issues to light, adding that The Send UK was committed to “fostering a message of respect, service to others and love”. For Sarah*, a current volunteer with YWAM and The Send, “submitting to Jesus” has been “the most releasing thing”. The 24-year-old said she had previously been living a “lukewarm lifestyle” with one foot in her religion and one out. So she quit her job at a PR agency in London to do a DTS in Hawaii. She now runs Send events in the UK and said she felt “honoured” to be part of it. Felicity Davies, a designer from Yorkshire, said she had joined YWAM at 18 because she was passionate about her religion and “really wanted to help people”. But she said her six years at bases in New Zealand and South Africa had left her feeling “suffocated” and “not good enough”. “I constantly had to do certain things in order for God to love me,” she said. After leaving, she came out as queer. She also began questioning the version of Christianity she had been taught. “I think there’s a lot of solid good bits in the Bible, but the version I’d seen just didn’t sit right,” she said. Now 34, she said movements such as The Send made her “nervous” for the next generation – and hopes speaking out will help young people make a more informed choice. “I learned so much about generosity and community in YWAM, so it wasn’t all awful. But people should be aware that this isn’t all happy-clappy,” she said. “A lot of people get traumatised. And no one’s held to account.” *Names have been changed
