The Church’s Silence on Violence

I was 15, with a long history of abuse. He was 25 and did not carry that history. I fell in love with safety—being warm, being housed, not worrying about basic needs. I also bonded deeply with a toddler who had two very unstable parents. At 15, I was being dropped off at high school by my much older boyfriend or his mother. Sometimes I brought the toddler with me to school, and later to college. No one questioned it. No one stepped in.

We quickly became involved in church and ministry, and everything was framed as a matter of faith and prayer. I carried deep guilt, which made me easy to influence through scripture.

Across my adult life, only two pastors—on two occasions I deliberately sought out—ever spoke directly about child abuse, sexual harm, or domestic violence. That silence increased my isolation. He was charismatic, humorous, and very talented, especially musically. I rarely attended services alone; when I did, people asked why he wasn’t there. I learned to stay quiet. He did what he wanted, and I didn’t yet have the language or safety to speak up.

Later, in college, I met people who helped change that. Through my hero, Kim Bushore-Maki, I learned about abuse, boundaries, and women’s rights. I also met Jamie Winston Tudico and her husband, Paul. I may never have told them this, but Paul taught me how to ask questions—to pause and examine teachings instead of accepting them automatically. He helped me recognize flawed arguments and understand how to step out of them.

By around 2007, I was no longer easily controlled. I began to question behavior I had previously been taught to tolerate. What happened to me, and what happened while he was away for long periods, was no longer acceptable. The emotional and spiritual manipulation stopped working. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice myself anymore. I had questions—about direction, about purpose, about why my survival always seemed to require my silence.

At different times, between my biological children and foster children, I was caring for as many as fourteen kids. From the outside, I was admired and even publicly recognized as a mother. Inside, I was overwhelmed and deeply unwell. I now understand I should never have been expected to carry that much responsibility while I was still living in survival mode myself. I tolerated harmful behavior in others the same way I had been taught to tolerate it in my marriage. I told myself it was love. I told myself it was faith. I was wrong.

What I see now is that accountability—not silence—is aligned with justice. Institutions and systems failed to protect me and the children in my care. Decisions were made that prioritized appearances over safety. I don’t place blame on individuals who were inexperienced or following direction, but I do recognize how deeply those failures mattered.

Most people did not know what was happening to me, and I take responsibility for not telling. I also hold deep gratitude for the friends who, when they learned the truth later, responded with care and horror rather than disbelief.

But some people did know. Leadership within my faith community allowed harmful behavior to continue publicly, even while serious concerns existed privately. When I sought help at Northridge Community Church, the focus was redirected onto my mental health rather than the behavior causing harm. The only time clear boundaries were enforced was in a different church community, Heritage Baptist, where leadership acted decisively once they understood the situation. That moment mattered. It showed me that accountability was always possible.