A True Story of Sexual Assault, Silence, and Spiritual Abuse Inside Lake Hills Church

I was barely nineteen when I first walked into Lake Hills Church.

At the time, I belonged to another church—a place I now recognize as healthy, steady, and grounded in a way I didn’t fully appreciate then. It had leadership without intimidation, structure without control, and a sense of safety I didn’t yet understand the value of. Looking back now, I regret leaving that church, because I did not realize at the time what I was stepping into. My parents had started attending Lake Hills, and they liked it. They were drawn in, and because I trusted them, I followed.

What started as a visit slowly became something more. I began attending regularly, and eventually I brought my boyfriend—who would later become my husband. Before long, we were no longer visitors; we were part of it. Jon Allen, the pastor of Lake Hills, married us, and not long after that, I became his pastor’s assistant. At nineteen, I didn’t question it. I believed I had been given an opportunity, that I was trusted and valued. Looking back now, it is painfully clear how naive I was. I was young, eager to serve, and easy to control.

In those early years, before our children came along, the church became the center of our lives.

We built our routines there, formed our relationships there, and shaped our understanding of faith within those walls. Several years later, our children were born, and Lake Hills remained the backdrop of our growing family. Some of my earliest memories of motherhood are tied to that place. It wasn’t just a church; it was where we lived our lives.

My role placed me at the center of the church’s daily operations. I answered the phones, handled reports, and put together the church bulletin each week. I oversaw the nursery, helping ensure that the youngest children were cared for while their parents sat in services believing everything was as it should be. I was the one people came to with questions, the one who kept things moving behind the scenes. Jon, as the pastor, held the authority. He also handled the money—or mishandled it, depending on how you choose to look at it. I wasn’t the one making those decisions, but I was close enough to see patterns that didn’t sit right. There was spending that didn’t make sense, trips that raised questions, and items that ended up stored away in the church attic with no clear explanation. At the time, I didn’t have the language for it. I only knew something felt off.

That proximity is what allowed me to see what others didn’t.

I didn’t know his history then. I didn’t know about Whispering Timbers in California or the alleged chaos that followed him from there. I didn’t know there were already patterns attached to his name, or that others had walked similar paths before me. All I knew was what

I was experiencing, and even then, something never quite settled right.

Jon had a way of presenting himself one way in public—confident, composed, authoritative—and something entirely different behind the scenes. He lied easily. He badgered. He pushed. There were conversations that left me unsettled long after they ended, moments where I found myself questioning how a man who stood behind a pulpit could behave the way he did in private. At the time, I didn’t have the language for it. Now I do.

It was control.

Working closely with him meant I saw things I was never supposed to see. I became aware that he was being unfaithful to his wife. It wasn’t rumor or gossip. It was something I witnessed, something I knew. When he realized that I knew, everything changed. He threatened me—clearly and forcefully—never to speak about it. Then he began to do something just as damaging. He told me I was confused, that I had misunderstood, that what I thought I saw wasn’t real. That kind of pressure does not erase the truth, but it does wear on your confidence in your ability to hold onto it.

But I was not confused. I know what I saw, and I have always known what I saw.

That moment set the tone for everything that followed. It established a pattern built on intimidation, manipulation, and the expectation of silence. Over time, I came to understand that I was not the only one. Others have their own stories of being threatened, lied to, and controlled. One woman has said he allegedly pulled a gun on her. There were accounts from other ministries he had been part of, including University Baptist Church, where allegations surfaced of financial misconduct and intimidation. His former wife, Enola Nelson, told many of us that he had once threatened her life during a hike at the Grand Canyon.

Those are their stories to tell.

What I experienced—what I saw firsthand—was not alleged. It was real, and it created the environment where what happened next became possible.

The night of the assault came during a Vacation Bible School event. The church was full of children, noise, movement, and everything that should signal safety. I was standing in the foyer preparing to teach my class, wearing an orange Adidas t-shirt and blue windsuit pants—details that have stayed with me because trauma has a way of preserving what you wish you could forget.

He came up behind me and slapped my bottom, hard enough to leave a mark.

There was nothing accidental about it. There was no confusion about what had just happened. My body reacted before my mind could fully process it, and then the realization settled in with a kind of clarity that is impossible to ignore. The man who had married me, who I worked for, who stood in front of the church as a spiritual authority, had just sexually assaulted me.

He saw my reaction. He saw the tears welling up in my eyes. Instead of stopping or apologizing, he laughed it off and blamed me, saying my pants were too tight. Days later, he made sure I stayed silent by threatening me, reinforcing the same pattern that had already been established long before that moment.

Years later, after I had left Lake Hills, a woman named Judith—married to one of the good men who had served as an elder before leaving once they saw the corruption firsthand—told me something that brought all of that pain rushing back. She said that Jon had told the elders the incident was an accident, that he had slapped my bottom because he thought I was one of his children. Hearing that felt like being violated all over again, because it was not only untrue, it was a calculated lie meant to protect himself and discredit what had actually happened. It was clear to me that he was doing damage control. He knew I had been shaken by what he did, and instead of taking responsibility, he moved quickly to reshape the narrative in a way that would protect his authority and undermine my credibility before I ever had the chance to speak. There was nothing accidental about that moment, and there was nothing unclear about it then or now.

Looking back, the phrase “a wolf in sheep’s clothing” is not just a biblical metaphor—it is the most accurate way I can describe who he was. From the outside, he appeared to be exactly what people wanted in a pastor. He spoke with authority. He carried himself with confidence. He looked the part. But behind that image was something entirely different, something that fed on control, manipulation, and the misuse of power.

That is what makes spiritual abuse so dangerous.

There is a difference between church hurt and spiritual abuse, and it is a difference people need to understand. Church hurt comes from human weakness. People fail. Leaders make mistakes. Conflict happens. Those experiences can be painful, but they can still lead to growth, maturity, and a deeper understanding of faith when they are handled with honesty and accountability.

Spiritual abuse is not about weakness. It is about power.

It happens when someone in a position of spiritual authority uses that authority to control, manipulate, and intimidate others. It often presents itself through language that sounds biblical—calls to submit, obey, and surrender—but those words are twisted into tools of control rather than expressions of faith. It creates an environment where questioning leadership feels like questioning God, where fear replaces trust, and where people begin to doubt their own instincts in order to stay in good standing.

One of the clearest ways to distinguish between church hurt and spiritual abuse is to ask a simple question: do you feel pain, or do you feel fear? Pain can exist in healthy environments and still lead to growth. Fear, especially the kind rooted in control and intimidation, signals something much deeper and far more dangerous.

Sexual assault, at its core, is non-consensual sexual contact. It does not have to be prolonged or violent to qualify. An intentional act—like a man slapping a woman’s bottom without her consent—is recognized as crossing that line in many jurisdictions, including Arkansas. It does not matter if it is dismissed as a joke, minimized, or reframed after the fact. Consent is the line, and in that moment, there was none.

For a long time, I carried this quietly. I questioned myself when I shouldn’t have, and I stayed when I should have left. I allowed someone else’s authority to override my own instincts.

So why am I rehashing all of this now, after so many years?

Because in a startling turn of events, two of Jon Allen’s children have attempted to rewrite the narrative, suggesting that their father—and their family—were somehow the victims. That claim is not only misleading, it stands in direct contrast to what I experienced and what others have quietly carried for years.

I do not say that lightly.

I understand loyalty. I understand the desire to protect a parent’s legacy. But loyalty does not change truth, and it does not erase the harm that was done. What I lived through was real, and it was part of a larger pattern that did not begin or end with me.

I plan to continue writing about this. I will continue sharing what I experienced and, where appropriate, the documentation that has been gathered over the years that reflects the level of control, manipulation, and misconduct that surrounded his leadership. Not to sensationalize it, but to bring clarity where there has been confusion, and truth where there has been silence.

Jon Allen has been dead for many years now, and yet there are moments when it still feels like his influence hasn’t fully released its grip. Not because he holds power, but because what he built—and what was allowed to stand—still echoes. At times, it feels like his reach continues through those who defend him, like something unresolved still reaching back, trying to reshape the story from beyond the grave.

But this time, the story will not be rewritten.

This time, it will be told.