How I Survived An Ultra-Secretive Christian Sect

Editor’s note: This story contains descriptions of childhood sexual abuse.

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 2x2 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 2x2 leaders. Historically, women have largely been the victims of this patriarchal sect. But now, they’re standing up and saying enough is enough.

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THE TWO-BY-TWO SECT, OR THE 2X2S, was founded in the late 1800s in Ireland by Scottish evangelist William Irvine. He believed the Christian church should follow the guidelines for preaching set out in Matthew 10, a chapter of the Bible in which Jesus instructs the apostles to leave their houses and belongings and travel from home to home, preaching the gospel. The sect’s name, coined by ex-members, refers to the belief that their celibate ministers, called “workers,” should travel to members’ homes in same-sex pairings. (Both men and women are allowed to become workers.) These workers are allegedly not paid, but they are housed, fed and clothed by church members, called “friends,” typically sleeping in a different house every few nights.

By the turn of the century, Irvine’s teachings had already spread outside of Ireland; by 1904, they had reached Canada. Today, many 2x2s are unaware of the early history of the church and refuse to acknowledge that there was a founder—my own grandparents convinced me that their church is descended directly from Jesus and his apostles.

It’s taboo for 2x2s to own a television or pricey electronics, listen to secular music, dance or drink alcohol. Women have long hair that is worn in braids or a bun. They wear long dresses or skirts and avoid makeup or jewellery (though a wedding band is acceptable). They do not celebrate Christmas or Easter, do not believe in wearing crosses or any other type of Christian symbolism and meet in homes rather than in a church building. The 2x2s separate themselves from all other Christian denominations and claim that their beliefs are the only way to salvation.

I never fit into a tidy box with the 2x2s. My mother, who is Catholic, raised me on her own. She was my father’s second wife. My paternal grandparents had been part of the sect since early childhood; my grandfather’s side may even have been a part of the first generation in Ireland. My father has “professed”—publicly committed to God and the group—on and off for most of his life. He was not part of the sect when he was with my mom or for much of my early childhood.

I recently learned that my father’s mother once called my mom “Hagar.” An enslaved concubine, Hagar was given to the Hebrew patriarch, Abraham, by his wife, Sarah, when she couldn’t produce an heir. Sarah was so jealous of Hagar that Abraham eventually sent the woman and her son into the desert. If my mom was Hagar, then I was Hagar’s illegitimate child—and that was how I felt as a child. I’d occasionally try to get into my grandparents’ good graces, attending events they invited me to in order to please them.

I’ve never been an active member, but I have remained familiar with the 2x2s’ goings-on. In June 2023, a relative texted me about a private Facebook group for ex-members that had exploded with a flurry of activity: New sexual assault allegations were leading to a mass exodus from the church. Kari Hanks and Abbi Prussack, two of the four main administrators of the Ex-2x2 Support Group, say they’ve received more than 1,000 reports of alleged abuse against more than 500 individual perpetrators, many of whom were in positions of power.

“Most survivors didn’t volunteer the location of their abuse, but at least 18 said that their abuse happened at conventions,” says Hanks. In addition to convention grounds, alleged abuse would also often occur inside the homes of members.

For Lyndell Montgomery, a former member who says she was abused by a 2x2 worker during her teen years, finding the Facebook group felt like the start of a revolution. “There was a feeling of validation that came over me,” she says. “It was like imagining a colour I’d never seen.”

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MONTGOMERY WAS ADOPTED AS AN INFANT into a 2x2 family in 1974. They were what she calls a typical white-picket-fence family: Her father was an elder—a chosen leader within the church—in the Vancouver area. The family hosted Sunday morning gatherings, called “meetings,” inside their home. By all appearances, her relatives were upstanding members of society. But Montgomery’s home life was suffocating and violent. “[My childhood was] so repressive in every single way...it felt like every element that brought me joy was squashed,” says Montgomery, now 50. “Every section of [my] life was monitored, controlled, criticized, critiqued and then punished.”

In 1989, when Montgomery was 14, the situation with her family reached a boiling point, and the RCMP and social services became involved. In her recollection of the situation, local authorities, including two police officers and a social worker, made her family negotiate a peer-to-peer living situation rather than involving a foster family. “I ended up being put in a vehicle with [a] Lee-Ann McChesney and taken to her parents’ house,” says Montgomery. McChesney held a position of authority in the church and likely would have been perceived as a positive role model. But Montgomery says that McChesney, who was 24 at the time, sexually abused and exploited her. (Montgomery’s allegations have not yet been proven in court.)

More than 30 years later, after reading about another 2x2 member’s experience of sexual abuse in the local newspaper, Montgomery came forward about her own abuse. This January, McChesney was arrested on one count of sexual assault and one count of sexual exploitation. She pleaded not guilty in May, and a trial by jury will commence in September 2025. (McChesney’s lawyers did not respond to Chatelaine’s request for comment.)

In the aftermath, Montgomery requested that the courts not put her name under a publication ban. “I felt like, ‘Finally, I’m not afraid of any of these people. I’m not afraid of the experience of going through this court process,’” she says. “What I need more than anything else—for my healing—is to hear myself speak up, because over and over and over again, as a child in the 2x2s, our voices were silenced.”

Emma was also raised by devout 2x2 parents in a small town near Calgary. (Emma is a pseudonym used to protect her privacy and safety.) Both of Emma’s parents were former workers who’d chosen to leave their positions (which required them to be celibate) and start a family together.

“My entire life, as far back as I can remember, involved everything with the 2x2s. Everybody I knew was part of it,” says Emma, 25. She attended school dressed in 2x2 fashion: “long skirts, long hair, very plain.” Her parents were strict about social gatherings, disallowing Emma to play sports or attend group get-togethers with other kids her age. School life was incredibly isolating, but so was church life. Emma’s parents were older than her peers’ parents, and they were more conservative and strict than other 2x2 families.

Instead, Emma formed friendships with adults who visited her home. One older 2x2 man, who began attending Sunday morning gatherings in Emma’s home in the 2000s, inserted himself into her family life. “He would get invited to our house for dinner all the time,” she says. “He had access to me multiple times a week.”

Emma was 10, she says, when the man started sexually abusing her on convention grounds in rural Alberta. “He used almost every opportunity he had access to me to abuse me for the following two and a half years,” she says. She didn’t share the abuse with her family until her alleged abuser died.

When Emma was a young teen, she spiralled into addiction, left home and ceased contact with her family. “I almost died a few times,” she says, until she was offered the opportunity to work at a mine in Northern Canada. “I had a reality check, detoxed in the middle of nowhere and then completely turned my life around,” she says. It has been more than 10 years since Emma left home, and she is now married and has her own young family.

Heather Davison, who has written about her experience with the church, is a former third-generation 2x2 member in British Columbia. Her maternal grandfather was one of the first workers to emigrate to Canada from Ireland. She has a lot of good memories from her childhood. “My parents weren’t abusive or overly rigid when it came to church rules,” she says. But when she was four, she says, she was sexually assaulted at the home of a 2x2 member.

Davison was in and out of the church, returning multiple times throughout her adult life. (Leaving a high-control religion means risking the loss of many relationships, and it often takes multiple attempts to make a final break, according to many of the ex-members I spoke to for this piece.) After her first divorce and remarriage, Davison craved her faith community and decided to return to the 2x2 sect, but she was barred from speaking during meetings because of her divorce. “That was devastating to me,” says Davison, now 68. She says that being silenced by the church community as an adult, especially after being silenced by the very people who perpetrated her childhood abuse, had a detrimental effect. “There is so much suppression, and there’s so much depression,” she says, “and we’re not allowed to be who we’re supposed to be.”

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I’VE BEEN REPORTING ON THE 2x2S’ sexual abuse scandal for more than a year. During that time, I struggled with the fact that I was publicly sharing the stories of others while privately wrestling with my own experience. When I was four years old and visiting my father, I was molested. So when I discovered the Facebook group filled with stories like mine, it felt like coming home.

“I didn’t have a [good] reputation because I did everything wrong, and now there’s a sense of validation in myself,” Davison says through tears. It’s a sentiment I shared after each of my calls with survivors: Finally, we’re being heard.

In February 2024, the FBI announced that it was investigating the 2x2s and requested that victims come forward. When reached for comment about a Canadian investigation, a spokesperson for the RCMP told Chatelaine they could not make any statements until charges in a case are laid. Multiple alleged members of the 2x2s, however, have recently been charged. Because there is no formal structure or documentation within the church, it’s difficult to connect people who have been charged with crimes to the church, though many online forums have highlighted their connection. (Prominent 2x2 members from both Ontario and B.C. did not respond to requests for comment.)

Validation often comes up in conversations I have with survivors and ex-members of the 2x2s. Many of the survivors I have interviewed have felt alone for so long, and the virtual and communal sharing of stories online has broken open the floodgates for further sharing.

“What did I feel?” Montgomery asks. She’s on a ferry, on her way to visit a friend, and people nearby can hear her. But she tells me she’s not ashamed to speak anymore. “I felt validated. I felt empowered. I felt sick. I felt all the feels. Mostly, I felt this aliveness that I hadn’t had access to in years.”