Discipled, Damaged, Discarded: My Story with Soul Survivor

The Closet

I was always slightly out of sync with the world around me.

Small for my age, shy, and unsure of myself. I was late to puberty and even later to self-confidence. I didn’t fit into the school cliques - the sporty lads, the academic overachievers, the cool kids. I was somewhere in the middle: quiet, awkward, invisible. And I don’t say that for sympathy, it’s just the truth.

Growing into my teens in the early ’90s as a boy who wasn’t straight (though I couldn’t yet say that out loud) was like existing in a constant state of tension. We didn’t have the vocabulary or representation young people have now. We had Section 28, AIDS panic, and the word “gay” thrown around as an insult in PE lessons. There were no role models, just warnings.

So when I made my decision to step into the Christian world as a young adult, I thought I’d found a sanctuary.

The songs, the smiles, the sense of purpose, it was intoxicating. Here was a place that didn’t care how fast you could run or how cool your trainers were. A place that seemed to welcome the awkward, the earnest, the searching. And for someone like me, desperate to be seen and safe, that was everything.

But the welcome came with terms and conditions. Unspoken, but understood. Be enthusiastic, be pure, be available, and above all, be straight. I learned early on that any expression of queerness needed to be buried deep and prayed over even deeper. The closet wasn’t just a metaphor, it was a ministry strategy.

I lived in that closet, tidy and obedient. I told myself if I gave enough of myself to God, He’d fix the bit of me that was “off.” The part I couldn’t name but had always felt. The part that stirred when I looked at boys the way I was supposed to look at girls.

And that’s where the story really begins - with a teenage boy, locked in a closet built by shame and scripture, hoping that God might eventually let him out.

The Course

In 1997, I signed up for a 6-month discipleship programme called BodyBuilders, run by Soul Survivor. I’d been swept up in the movement, its stadium-style worship, its big charismatic personalities, its buzz of something holy happening. Soul Survivor wasn’t just a church; it was a vibe. A spiritual brand with merch, conferences, and the promise of transformation.

I thought: this is where I’ll finally find peace. If I serve enough, pray enough, give enough, maybe the voices in my head will quieten. Maybe I’ll stop feeling so different. Maybe this is the place God will make me “normal.”

And in some ways, it started off well. I felt seen. Chosen. I was one of the lucky few accepted onto the course. We lived, prayed, and worked together. We studied, worshipped, volunteered and helped run youth events. We talked a lot about giving your life to God, but very little about what to do when your life didn’t fit the mould.

Halfway through the course, I summoned every ounce of courage I had and told one of the leaders that I was struggling with feelings for other boys. It wasn’t a scandalous confession, I wasn’t acting on it, I just wanted to be honest. I thought that’s what discipleship was for.

But the reaction I got wasn’t one of empathy or guidance. It was: “You need to pray about that. Give it to God. He can heal that part of you.” No one told me it was OK. No one said I was still loved exactly as I was. No one even asked how I felt.

Instead, the message was clear: If I wanted to stay in, I’d need to shut that part of myself down. And so I did. I became the model student. Enthusiastic, reliable, helpful, holy. I poured everything I had into being acceptable. I performed. I served. I disappeared.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that I was erasing myself, one worship night at a time.

The Crash

When the course ended, I was exhausted, hopeful, and convinced that I had earned my place in the Soul Survivor world. I thought I’d be invited into the next layer - working behind the scenes, maybe even mentoring future BodyBuilders. I was told I was “anointed,” that I had potential, that I might shadow some of the leaders.

I believed them. Why wouldn’t I? That’s the power of charismatic leaders, they make you feel like you matter until you don’t.

But the doors didn’t open.

Instead, a new cohort of BodyBuilders (now called Soul Timers) arrived, and the spotlight shifted. I went from being a “future leader” to being… forgotten. I tried to stay connected, offering to help, showing up, waiting for a call that never came. But it became painfully clear: I wasn’t part of the inner circle. I wasn’t one of the golden ones.

I felt like a burden. A failed investment. An awkward reminder of a story they’d already moved on from. That rejection cut deep- not just because I lost a role, but because I lost a sense of identity. My whole world had been tied up in Soul Survivor. The people. The rhythms. The language. And now, without it, I didn’t know who I was or where I belonged.

But perhaps the cruelest irony was this: the very community that told me I was loved had no use for me once I stopped being useful.

The Exit

Eventually, I left. Not with fanfare or confrontation, but with quiet heartbreak. I faded out of the Soul Survivor orbit and stepped into what we’d been taught to call “the secular world” - you know, that dangerous place outside the four walls of Christian community.

And to my surprise, I didn’t find sin and chaos waiting for me. I found kindness. Acceptance. Love. I found people who weren’t perfect but didn’t pretend to be. People who didn’t need me to filter my personality or censor my story. People who didn’t ask me to pray away my sexuality before inviting me to dinner.

It was liberating. And terrifying. Because while I was finally free to explore who I was, I had no idea how to do that healthily. I hadn’t been taught anything about emotional or sexual wellbeing, only abstinence and shame.

So I made mistakes.

My sexual awakening came late, and it came fast. I hadn’t been allowed to talk about desire in church, so I explored it in backstreets and strangers’ bedrooms. Not because I was depraved, but because I was desperate. Desperate for touch. For validation. For something that felt real after years of spiritual performance.

Some of those experiences were exciting. Others were lonely. Some were dangerous. And none of them were talked about. Because when the Church kicked me out of the conversation, I found another one - raw, unfiltered, and far more honest, if not always safe.

The Awakening

Years on, I still carry the marks of that time. I still feel the ache of rejection and the disorientation of trying to rebuild a faith that was once used to shame me. But I also carry strength. And clarity. And an unwavering belief that I never should have been put in that position in the first place.

I’m no longer waiting for the Church to catch up. I’m not waiting for apologies that may never come. I’ve learned to make peace with a God who never asked me to be anyone other than myself. My queerness isn’t a problem. It’s not a test. It’s not a theological dilemma. It’s just me.

And if your church can’t hold that truth with tenderness, then maybe it’s your theology, not my identity, that needs to be healed.

I write this now not for closure, but for connection. For the others who’ve been pushed out, prayed over, or patronised. For those still trying to reconcile faith with queerness. For those still waiting for someone to say: You are whole. You are worthy. You never belonged in a closet to begin with.

This is your invitation. To step out. To speak up. To take up space.

And to know: you are not alone.

The Reckoning

So, what now?

What does someone like me - exiled, excluded, but no longer ashamed want from the very institution that once claimed to be my spiritual home?

Let me be clear: I’m not here to throw stones or write angry blog posts from the sidelines. I’m here because I believe that truth matters. That integrity matters. That if the Church is to have any credibility left, it must first learn to listen, to say sorry and to make things right.

So here’s what I want from Soul Survivor. And I don’t think it’s unreasonable.

1. Honesty

The first step toward healing is truth. Soul Survivor must be willing to own its past. Not the watered-down PR version, but the actual truth; messy, uncomfortable, painful though it may be. The institution harboured and empowered a man who caused extensive harm, and the culture that allowed it must be named and dismantled, not rebranded.

2. Apology

Not a vague “we’re sorry if anyone was hurt” statement. A real apology. Personal. Specific. Public. Addressed to the many of us who were pushed out, abused, gaslit, spiritually manipulated. To those who gave our hearts, our youth, our money, and our trust only to be fed shame, silence, and a system more interested in control than compassion.

3. Reparations

Yes, I said it. Reparations. Some form of restitution for those of us who invested time, energy, and finances into courses and ministries that, thanks to the Mike Pilavachi scandal, we now know were tainted by toxic leadership and coercive control. I attended the BodyBuilders course in good faith. I believed it would equip me to serve. Instead, I was spiritually suppressed and psychologically damaged.

That course was not what it claimed to be. I want my money back. And frankly, I want it with interest.

4. Engagement with Survivors

Not in secret, and not on your terms alone. Soul Survivor must commit to an ongoing dialogue with victims and survivors - not as a box-ticking exercise, but as a sacred duty. This includes listening to queer voices who were silenced or shoved aside. It includes offering platforms, not just platitudes.

5. Structural Change

If the same leadership structures, theological frameworks, and power dynamics remain in place, then nothing has really changed. I want to see Soul Survivor reform not just its branding, but its bones. A full audit of its governance, teaching, and safeguarding. A commitment to transparency and independent oversight moving forward.

6. Courage

Courage to face the consequences of the harm done. Courage to admit where things went wrong. Courage to do more than simply distance yourselves from Pilavachi but to acknowledge how the system itself enabled him.

I am, here and now, issuing an open invitation to Soul Survivor.

Engage with us. Sit down with us. Talk. And more importantly, listen.

I hope to visit Soul Survivor Watford soon. Not for closure, but for accountability. I want to look the organisation in the eye and ask the questions that so many of us still carry in our hearts. And I will be asking, formally and publicly, for a refund for a discipleship course that was not delivered with integrity or safety. A course that was sold to me as holy, but turned out to be a lie.

Because this is not just about money. It’s about honesty. It’s about justice. It’s about standing up and saying: this happened to me, and it matters.

And if Soul Survivor truly wants to survive - not just legally or financially, but morally and spiritually - it must face the people it hurt.

My door is open. My story is public.

The question now is:

Will yours be?