How legal authority and groupthink turn marital pain into unquestioning allegiance — and make destruction look like deliverance.
As church doors open across America this Sunday, sunlight will pass through stained glass onto people carrying grief, resentment, and unfinished arguments. After witnessing a family tragedy unfold in slow motion — a chain-reaction collision in which everyone watches the car ahead and nobody sees the pileup forming — I find myself considering what that light exposes.
A courtroom has witnesses. So does a life. Their judgments do not necessarily agree.
My experience in family court has introduced me to a crowded cast of unofficial advisers. Professional women familiar with these conflicts have warned me about the circles surrounding a marriage in crisis. I have heard every description: “the sisterhood,” “the coven,” “flying monkeys.”
Think of a homeowners’ association for someone else’s marriage: the Karens have convened, and your appeal has been denied.
These are barbed descriptions. Recently, someone offered a more revealing comparison: “It’s like a cult.”
The point was the surrender of independent judgment.
Cult researcher Janja Lalich identifies influence, control, suppression of questioning, and an us-versus-them mentality among characteristics associated with cultic groups. Those mechanisms illuminate any circle that makes disagreement a betrayal.
A distressed spouse seeks support. The circle supplies certainty, enemies, and deliverance. Support becomes instruction. Instruction becomes allegiance. Reconsidering the separation feels like betraying everyone who helped organize it.
Conscience grows quieter as the chorus grows louder.
The first article of faith is that legal proceedings deliver moral clarity.
Law has evidence, standards, and legitimate authority. But a proceeding cannot contain a marriage. An allegation is not a finding. A motion presents an argument. A ruling answers particular legal questions.
Inside the circle, these distinctions fade. Legal documents acquire the authority of scripture. The lawyer becomes the interpreter. A contested account becomes the authorized history.
An apology must conceal manipulation. Kindness must be calculated. Every objection confirms the accusation. The account becomes impossible to disprove.
Financial incentives deepen the captivity. Ethical attorneys contain conflict. Predatory ones find a renewable resource in resentment. Another motion promises vindication. Savings disappear. Debt grows.
The machinery consumes the future it claims to protect.
A favorable order may settle a legal question. It cannot absolve everything done to obtain it.
The second article of faith is that agreement equals love.
True friendship asks: What happened? What have you contributed? What would repair require?
Sometimes it says: “I love you, but that description does not fit the person I know. Let’s slow down before making irreversible decisions.”
The divorce chorus offers easier answers.
“You deserve better.”
“You owe him nothing.”
“Don’t let him manipulate you.”
Repeated as doctrine, these answers prohibit examination. Approval rewards certainty; doubt brings pressure. As losses mount, reconsideration would mean acknowledging damage already inflicted.
Then comes the fallback recitation: “Move on.”
When the portrait of the spouse as a monster becomes difficult to sustain, the discussion shifts. Stop examining what happened. Stop asking whether repair remains possible. Just move on.
The conclusion survives even when its explanation collapses.
The most arresting version came from a mature woman who had herself been married for years.
“Maybe she fell out of love.”
It stopped me in my tracks. She meant it as an explanation sufficient to settle the question. I could not fathom someone with that much experience invoking a change of feeling as though it answered what becomes of vows, responsibilities, and a shared life.
I have heard such explanations repeatedly, especially where faith has disappeared from the conversation. Feelings receive exhaustive consideration. Sacred obligations barely receive a hearing.
Christianity asks something more difficult — and more freeing.
A Christian may be wrong. Broken. Frightened. Pain may distort judgment. Trusted advisers may encourage a terrible mistake. Confessing that possibility opens a door the closed circle keeps locked.
The prodigal son’s return begins when he “came to himself.” Before homecoming comes recovered judgment: seeing his circumstances, acknowledging his choices, and imagining another way.
That is where deprogramming begins: recovering the freedom to question the script.
Marriage understood as covenant places both spouses before obligations beyond emotion, friendly approval, and legal strategy. Advisers answer for their influence too.
Protection remains essential where there is danger. But protection can coexist with truthful examination, accountability, and freely chosen reconciliation.
Grace gives fragile people somewhere to bring the truth about themselves.
The Sunday light falls on everyone: spouses, lawyers, friends, and those certain they have only helped.
Be careful what you wish for. You may secure the order and discover that your conscience still requires an answer.
Our lives stand before God. Betrayal does not become innocent because it felt justified. “Moving on” cannot move us beyond responsibility.
Open the doors. Let the light expose what the circle concealed.
There is judgment beyond the courtroom — and mercy still calls us to tell the truth.