How I Survived An Ultra-Secretive Christian Sect
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I HAD MY FIRST PANIC ATTACK inside a massive white tent while surrounded by hundreds of members of a church with no name. A bead of sweat dripped down my back. I was 17, and my red flip phone was hidden in the pocket of the shawl that covered my bare shoulders. The preacher droned on about salvation and deliverance from damnation. My father sat beside me in a full suit, seemingly unaffected by the summer humidity. On the other side of me, my grandmother nodded her head, meeting my eyes briefly and willing me to soak up the preacher’s words. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, like a hummingbird fighting to get free. “I am not good enough,” I thought. If I didn’t follow the church’s teachings, I was destined to spend eternity in hell.
A breeze rustled the tent slightly, and I noticed a gap in the fabric—just large enough for a small person to squeeze through. My chest felt tight and my vision blurred. I lunged toward the gap and quickly crawled through the hole, nudging my hips until I was freed from the stifling tent. I didn’t look back, afraid I’d catch a shadow of disappointment on my father’s or grandmother’s face.
My family has been part of an ultra-secretive Christian sect for nearly a century. Every year, my grandmother would attend the sect’s annual community gathering, a four-day-long event in rural Ontario. The gathering, called “convention,” is a way for members to meet with each other and listen to speakers. Conventions across the globe are hosted by approved families who offer up their property for members to set up their sea of tents and trailers. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of members of the insular group attend.
After my escape from the church tent that day in 2007, I explored the grounds, following a trail deep into a forest. It was only the third time I’d attended convention with my father and his family, whom I desperately wanted to please, even if I could not get on board with their religion. (My parents separated when my mother was pregnant with me.) It didn’t matter that I believed in God and attended my own church at home with my mother in Brampton, Ont.—in order to be saved, I would have to join this church.
On the forest trail, I felt safe under the canopy of trees, far from the droning voices preaching their narrow path to salvation. What I didn’t know then was that conventions like these were a breeding ground for the sexual abuse of children. A hiking trail was one of the most dangerous places for a young person to be. In fact, many adults who were sexually abused as children in the church reported that it had happened as they wandered these trails at convention.
I walked through the grounds that day unharmed. But for decades, the 2x2s—as ex-members call the unnamed sect—have used religion as a shield for abuse, power and control. Leaders and members have remained unaccountable for years, avoiding public scrutiny despite the fact that the 2×2 church is active around the globe.
But now, a cohort of both current and ex-members have gathered online to demand change. A reckoning is underway: Survivors have come forward with their stories, speaking publicly about their abusers. Their testimonies have captured the attention of the FBI, which in February 2024 launched an investigation into the rampant abuse perpetrated by 2×2 leaders. Historically, women have largely been the victims of this patriarchal sect. But now, they’re standing up and saying enough is enough.crawled through the hole, nudging my hips until I was freed from the stifling tent. I didn’t look back, afraid I’d catch a shadow of disappointment on my father’s or grandmother’s face.
Content retrieved from: https://chatelaine.com/longforms/2x2s-abuse/.
