“Disciples of Christ”
This article was originally a record of how I refuted a fellowship group leader. But later, I realized that I shouldn’t write my personal essays in an argumentative style. When I write this way, I cannot avoid the tendency to prove myself right and place myself above others. Instead, I should write my reflections and confessions as if crafting a novel—focusing more on depicting events, actions, and details rather than arguing for my viewpoints.
Since arriving in Barcelona in mid-July last year, I have attended an international church’s activity group every Monday. However, after the group leader returned from vacation, the discussion format changed drastically. I listened in silence but felt increasingly uneasy afterward, eventually deciding to speak with him directly.
The specifics of our conversation no longer matter, but after our talk, I became certain that he had only a superficial understanding of the Christian faith and even exhibited strong heretical tendencies. This led to immediate misunderstandings, especially with the first Christian I met in Barcelona—a kind-hearted Chinese girl who cared for me to the point of suffocation. She had been the only one who supported my decision to talk to the leader, but when I hastily tried to explain the severity of the issue, she outright accused me of arrogance, self-righteousness, and a lack of empathy. No matter how I tried to explain, all I received was deeper misunderstanding.
In my anger, I considered leaving the church altogether, even abandoning my upcoming baptism. However, with the help of brothers and sisters from another group, I began to pray, and they prayed for me. Steve told me, “This week is important for you. You’re about to be baptized—be extra vigilant against the enemy’s attacks.” At that moment, everything became clear. I called myself a Christian, yet I often acted like a materialist—unable to see God’s work and unaware of Satan’s schemes. I had charged into what I believed was a spiritual battle, completely blind to the bitterness and pride in my own heart.
I never returned to that group, but I often fasted and prayed about the situation. Months passed, and no one addressed the issues with that leader. Even when I tried to report it to the church staff several times, various matters always delayed the conversation. I’d doubted myself many times, some also advised me to let it go, but I felt that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to give an account before God.
In November, I asked an elder pastor to pray for a brother who had left the church because of that group leader, and I once again mentioned my concerns. Yet, instead of addressing the issue, the pastor repeatedly suggested that I attend a Chinese church.
At this point, my frustration had reached its peak. In my mind, I continuously criticized the sister who misunderstood me, believing she had no common sense or judgment. She constantly acts as if she’s so spiritual, but is no different from that hypocritical group leader. No wonder she could attend his group for so long without realizing any issues.
I further began to doubt this church: Why do sisters who have been shepherded here for so many years lack basic common sense and judgment? Why do some pastors truly see themselves as others’ mentors?
I started looking at the church I had committed to with distrust. During worship, I found myself unable to sing. When I heard emotional sermons, I felt a sense of manipulation rather than inspiration.
But on the other hand, every time I saw that sister from far away during Sunday worship, I couldn’t help feeling sad. I wanted to go and greet her, to hug her, but I didn’t have the courage. By early December, I had finally had enough and wrote directly to the lead pastor, in a very serious tone. The matter was finally brought to the attention of the church.
I do not regret the things I did; I must go through doubt and criticism to truly learn to love. It was just that I couldn’t stand the test, I couldn’t exercise love.
So I feel deeply ashamed. The value of this church in God’s eyes is far greater than in mine. Since it is His church, what right do I have to look down on it?
At the same time, my C-PTSD tormented me. In June, back home, I was triggered, and childhood memories of pain flooded back, not subsiding until late July. Even after arriving in Barcelona, my condition did not improve. In fact, the unfamiliar environment, higher cost of living, and social pressures only made the sense of freedom fleeting, replaced by even greater anxiety and fear.
On September 29, I was finally baptized. By then, the weather had turned cool, and I had developed pityriasis rosea, often itching so badly at night that I couldn’t sleep. Someone warned me that believers are especially vulnerable to spiritual attacks in their first year after baptism, and my first thought was: Would Satan make my mother suddenly fall ill, forcing me to return home?
Even after the rash subsided, the anxiety remained. I suffered from sleepless nights, imagining my mother’s pain after I left the country, dreaming of her kind side but sometimes turned into a devil —yet I seemed to have completely forgotten the harm I had endured. I began to question why God had led me here. At times, I even felt that my life had been more stable when I was in China. Occasionally, I doubted whether I had truly been guided by God to this point.
I was just like the Israelites in the wilderness, longing to return to Egypt and be enslaved again.
During those months, I almost forced myself to attend the weekly group meetings, as if it were a task to be completed. I would often drift into a dissociative state, staring blankly, and then suddenly snap back to attention when it was my turn to answer the ice-breaker question. Often, after speaking more than usual, my entire body would tense up with muscle spasms. On my way home alone, my brain would suddenly become hyper-excited, continuously replaying the details of the gathering, unable to stop.
Until December, three days after I reported the situation to the lead pastor, at a small group Christmas party, I appeared to be having fun, but when I returned home, I was consumed by extreme anxiety and sleeplessness. My mind was once again filled with thoughts of my mother—not thoughts of love and longing, but of the fear and shame. Yet, I couldn’t distinguish between the two.
Then, suddenly, a memory resurfaced—one that spanned across different stages of my life.
I remembered how my mother proudly recalled one thing from my childhood. When I couldn’t feed myself, she had taught my older cousin to slam the table and yell, “The police are coming!” Then, she would coax me, “Hurry, take a bite, and the police won’t take you away.” Every time she did this, I would obediently open my mouth and swallow my food.
This was not an unfamiliar memory to me, but the moment it resurfaced, I felt extreme pain, and then awoke from a deep illusion. I tried to empathize with my younger self—a child who could only eat under fear. And that child, in turn, whispered to me: “She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t even treat you as a living soul”
I couldn’t stop crying. I begged God to save me, to forgive my betrayal, to love me.
The next day, I asked brothers and sisters to pray for me. I told them, “If the church is not my family, then I truly have no family.” I didn’t dare look at my phone or face the outside world. From afternoon until night, I watched different versions of The Pilgrim’s Progress on YT, crying as I watched and felt liberated. When I finally opened my phone, I found countless heartfelt messages of concern, which moved me deeply.
If the complexities of this world are a spiritual battle, then as a single soldier, I can only see the battlefield I stand on, unaware of the greater war. I had been like a lone warrior, nearly swallowed by darkness—until that day, when golden light broke through, and the armies of angels arrived. At last, I understood: I was never abandoned.
On the same day, the sister who had once misunderstood me suddenly sent me a message, checking in on me and sincerely apologizing. She told me that she had recently been facing some challenges related to that group leader. She finally understood how I had felt and could now relate to my struggles.
In that moment, all the bitterness in my heart vanished, as if the past months of struggle had never happened. More than anything, I felt relief for her—regardless of what she had gone through, she was no longer deceived. And I felt like I could finally hug her again when I saw her at church.
Not long after, the group leader left Barcelona due to work, and the Monday group “Disciples of Christ” disbanded.
Before I knew it, 2024 had come to an end. This year held far more than what I have recorded here—moments of beauty and moments of pain. And in its final days, I listened to different versions of Be Thou My Vision every day. It was the first time since I came to Barcelona that I felt peace and joy.
The sovereignty over my life rests in God’s hands. And every battle I am about to face—He has already won for me.