16 Apr 2025, 10:49Pastor David Defoe, PhD, DMin Allegheny East Conference Family Ministries Director
What will we do with the power we hold?
Have you ever had something to say, but couldn’t find the words – or, worse, feared what would happen if you did?
That question was in my mind as I stood at the BUC Safeguarding Summit hosted by the British Union Conference in February. I had been invited to speak about the power imbalance that can exist in the church, and how we might better steward the power entrusted to us. We had come together to confront an uncomfortable truth: harm sometimes happens inside the church. And, more often than we’d like to admit, it’s protected by a culture of silence.
Silence can look like respect for a prominent person, an unspoken belief that certain people are beyond question. It can disguise itself as unity, where speaking out is seen as causing division. It can masquerade as loyalty, where protecting a person’s reputation takes precedence over protecting a victim’s well-being. Sometimes it even acts out the role of spiritual discernment, dressed in language that sounds wise but functions as avoidance.
Time and again I’ve sat with people, in pews or therapy chairs, wounded by those they had trusted to spiritually shepherd them. And when they finally gather the courage to speak up, they’re often met with suspicion, shame, or the spiritualisation of their traumatic experiences.
This is where that power that each of us has comes into play – not the power of authority, but the quiet, pervasive power of influence, proximity or relationships. Everyone has some influence that can either open the door for truth or build a barrier to it.
It can be argued that many survivors of abuse stay silent not because they’re unwilling to speak, but because they’ve been conditioned to believe it won’t make a difference. Some are afraid of being labelled as dramatic or divisive. Others fear spiritual retaliation, being told they’re out of order, unforgiving, or a threat to the ‘unity’ of the body. Many have seen others speak up and get cast out, ignored, dismissed and disregarded. Silence becomes a survival strategy, because they have learned that telling their truth comes at a high cost.
This silence is often passed down. Generations of families never talked about what happened, or why certain family members were not allowed to stay alone with children. We were taught to ‘take it to Jesus’ instead of holding someone accountable. The result? We see it played out in headlines, in our communities, and in our pews: stories buried; trauma spiritualised; accountability avoided.
The silence becomes systemic, and the system becomes self-protecting. We are then left with institutions more concerned with image than integrity, reputation than restoration, keeping up an appearance at the expense of accountability.
However, to steward our power well, we must be intentional; we must refuse to let charisma cover misconduct; we must hold leaders accountable regardless of their seniority, popularity or position; we must set up clear policies and independent reporting structures that don’t rely on the discretion of a single individual or hand-picked committee. We are called to be stewards of the vulnerable...and that stewardship must be courageous.
Silence doesn’t shield the institution; it shelters the abuser. And the longer it goes unchecked, the more dangerous it becomes. Left to its own devices, silence becomes emotional violence. It erodes truth, isolates victims, and normalises the quiet removal of the wounded while the perpetrator remains untouched.
If the church is to be a true place of safety, it must be a place where the wounded are not merely welcomed, but heard and believed; where telling the truth is not punished with exile; where speaking up doesn’t mean losing your place, your voice, your community, or your dignity.
Power, when used with intention, can shield the vulnerable, create safe spaces and make room for healing. But when mishandled it intimidates, suppresses and silences.
It can protect or paralyse; restore or ruin; build or bury.
The power itself isn’t the problem. The problem is how we choose to exercise it.
As Christians, we must believe in the power of redemption, but not at the expense of justice. We must believe in grace, but not without accountability. We must believe in unity, but not at the cost of honesty. And we must believe that protecting the individual always comes before protecting the institution.
So the question remains: what will we do with the power we hold?
"This article was originally published by Messenger UK and is reprinted here with permission."
Have you ever had something to say, but couldn’t find the words – or, worse, feared what would happen if you did?
That question was in my mind as I stood at the BUC Safeguarding Summit hosted by the British Union Conference in February. I had been invited to speak about the power imbalance that can exist in the church, and how we might better steward the power entrusted to us. We had come together to confront an uncomfortable truth: harm sometimes happens inside the church. And, more often than we’d like to admit, it’s protected by a culture of silence.
Silence can look like respect for a prominent person, an unspoken belief that certain people are beyond question. It can disguise itself as unity, where speaking out is seen as causing division. It can masquerade as loyalty, where protecting a person’s reputation takes precedence over protecting a victim’s well-being. Sometimes it even acts out the role of spiritual discernment, dressed in language that sounds wise but functions as avoidance.
Time and again I’ve sat with people, in pews or therapy chairs, wounded by those they had trusted to spiritually shepherd them. And when they finally gather the courage to speak up, they’re often met with suspicion, shame, or the spiritualisation of their traumatic experiences.
This is where that power that each of us has comes into play – not the power of authority, but the quiet, pervasive power of influence, proximity or relationships. Everyone has some influence that can either open the door for truth or build a barrier to it.
It can be argued that many survivors of abuse stay silent not because they’re unwilling to speak, but because they’ve been conditioned to believe it won’t make a difference. Some are afraid of being labelled as dramatic or divisive. Others fear spiritual retaliation, being told they’re out of order, unforgiving, or a threat to the ‘unity’ of the body. Many have seen others speak up and get cast out, ignored, dismissed and disregarded. Silence becomes a survival strategy, because they have learned that telling their truth comes at a high cost.
This silence is often passed down. Generations of families never talked about what happened, or why certain family members were not allowed to stay alone with children. We were taught to ‘take it to Jesus’ instead of holding someone accountable. The result? We see it played out in headlines, in our communities, and in our pews: stories buried; trauma spiritualised; accountability avoided.
The silence becomes systemic, and the system becomes self-protecting. We are then left with institutions more concerned with image than integrity, reputation than restoration, keeping up an appearance at the expense of accountability.
However, to steward our power well, we must be intentional; we must refuse to let charisma cover misconduct; we must hold leaders accountable regardless of their seniority, popularity or position; we must set up clear policies and independent reporting structures that don’t rely on the discretion of a single individual or hand-picked committee. We are called to be stewards of the vulnerable...and that stewardship must be courageous.
Silence doesn’t shield the institution; it shelters the abuser. And the longer it goes unchecked, the more dangerous it becomes. Left to its own devices, silence becomes emotional violence. It erodes truth, isolates victims, and normalises the quiet removal of the wounded while the perpetrator remains untouched.
If the church is to be a true place of safety, it must be a place where the wounded are not merely welcomed, but heard and believed; where telling the truth is not punished with exile; where speaking up doesn’t mean losing your place, your voice, your community, or your dignity.
Power, when used with intention, can shield the vulnerable, create safe spaces and make room for healing. But when mishandled it intimidates, suppresses and silences.
It can protect or paralyse; restore or ruin; build or bury.
The power itself isn’t the problem. The problem is how we choose to exercise it.
As Christians, we must believe in the power of redemption, but not at the expense of justice. We must believe in grace, but not without accountability. We must believe in unity, but not at the cost of honesty. And we must believe that protecting the individual always comes before protecting the institution.
So the question remains: what will we do with the power we hold?
"This article was originally published by Messenger UK and is reprinted here with permission."
