Abuse in the Church

Abuse in the Church

BLOG ABUSEThis is a topic I never dreamed I would write about.However, we haven’t grown used to talking about abuse in the church or in religious families. In recent years, we’ve heard about priests preying on young children. They’ve received the most press. Sadly, that is only the beginning of what is starting to be reported and what is really happening.

This article will highlight some areas in religious circles in which abuse is now being reported. It has opened my eyes and made me weep for the many victims of another person’s rage emotional domination or cruel control. The sufferers of abuse are many. They cannot put off the damage to their person-hood like you take off a coat. Rather, it takes years, often a life-time to put to rest the demons unleashed through abuse. And the lies believed.

I was browsing the web to find a Baptist mission’s address. I came upon an article about a man, a missionary doctor, who had sexually abused different missionaries’ children and summer interns. I recognized his name. Early in his missionary career, this doctor had been reprimanded for an adulterous affair with an intern, but received counsel and then continued on with serving on the field. The first young woman to formally accuse him of sexual molestation, a fourteen year old, was forced to recant by the mission board by signing a confession that she had made it up. Years later, other women came forward reporting the same thing had happened to them. Several molestations were reported.  I remembered the doctor from when I went to college. His work on the mission field was highly respected. This was shocking! The mission board had been slow to act after the victims came forward, preferring to stall and keep it in-house, rather than having an outside group do some fact-finding. It ended up costing the president of the mission organization his job.

A woman in a group I am in was describing her childhood. She told us about the abuse she suffered as a child cloistered away in a fundamentalist institution of higher learning. The victims were the children of staff members, families who lived on the grounds. Her father was on staff. The family was not given freedom to go elsewhere. The Christian authority was strict and demanding. This woman has a video where she describes what it was like to live in such a situation where you have no alternative, and no outlet. Yet, there was the sexual abuse.  I listened to a video of the current president addressing the issue and its investigation. He does not deny that wrongdoing has happened, he acknowledges that something happened. He continued on to say that it is a past chapter, and that the college is handling the reports in-house. I have to feel that this must seem very unsatisfactory to the victims. They deserve more than a brush-off. But, that is only my opinion.

A woman I know was sexually abused by someone in her church. She was a teenager. It was on-going. Today she is still trying to deal with the destructive memories that come unbidden as her mind replays the abuse. In the church? More than we realize. It has come close to home.  I can think of two people I know who have preyed on others. Men of the church known for their upright views. Their wives, unsuspecting at the time. One of the men was convicted and went to prison. In the other situation, a  woman, close to forty, told me about her youth leader, a man who led in several capacities in the church, had made overtures toward her at various times.  I’ve read several personal stories of women who were sexually abused by someone in the church.  They need to heal and restore. It appalls me that anyone would use their position in the church to take advantage of a child or youth. But, it happens. Probably more than we realize. I can imagine the scar, and the mixed feelings about church and religious people and God, that love-hate thing.

Much is wrong with this picture. Another story was written by a man who has recently written a book chronicling the abuses by catholic priests. He has written a blog where he quotes a man who still has faith but not belief, that is, belief in the one apostolic church. The church has robbed him of his beliefs but not of his faith. His abuser was never brought to trial for his crimes and is now dead. The church covered up the priest’s tracks would “move” him when the seat got hot.The man said that there would never be justice because the church doesn’t care about the victims. That’s scary stuff.

Part of me grew up in a state of denial. I would read an article like this and think people were fabricating the information. I didn’t want to believe it could be true.  I am aware why a church might cover-up a situation. It doesn’t bode well for the church. But, when the allegations are not believed or are ignored, the victim then realizes that the church doesn’t really care about them. When this is the case, the church or institution cares more about its programs and its reputation than its people. . How can a church be so callous, so uncaring? Pretty easy, it seems. They know the perpetrator and like him or her. They also may have a measure of doubt. And, quite possibly, they just don’t care about the right things.

I am a strong believer in the church’s roles and responsibilities. We MUST be aware and proactive in protecting our children and young people. I believe we must be vigilant in making sure that everyone is safe in our programs. We must be bold where it is needed. We must create plans and structures to prevent opportunities for abuse to happen behind closed doors. We must not leave children alone with one adult. Lastly, we must be kind with those whom have known abuse, helping them with their recovery.

Honesty is the best policy. It’s true. The church needs to address the issue when there has been abuse. The church needs to offer help for those who need to go through a healing process. We must become aware and active.  True religious belief MUST be bound to Christ, not to a man

A statement about those who abuse or have abused: I believe God can and will forgive, heal and set free. I believe in forgiveness and the power of redemptive love. I also believe one should make right, restitution, when one has caused pain to another whether emotional, physical, or sexual. What hurts the most is when no-one says it was wrong or acknowledges that there was wrong-doing. A girl, who was hurt despicably in her home, once said, “The hardest part was that no-one said to me that what was happening to me was wrong.”Most of all, we cannot be silent any longer, and we must be proactive in preventing sexual abuse, we also must provide place where those abused can find healing and rebirth into emotional freedom.

What I Learned from my Grandmother’s Letter

A Tribute to Faith Swihart Weigold

A visit with Grandma Weigold in her home. Great Grandma with Josh and LaVonne. 1984

A visit with Grandma Weigold in her home. Great Grandma with Josh and LaVonne. 1984

I HELD THE LETTER in my hand after reading its contents, struck by its difference from all the others. My thoughts were journeying as I reflected on  recent times of anguish and hardship. Grandma Weigold’s letter was one of the last in a short stack of envelopes addressed to my erring mate, letters he had gathered over the past few months received after he had disappeared and abandoned the children and me and then resurfaced in another state a couple of months later. In the letters were pleas and concerns. Some I had penned to him.  Now he was back and we were trying to figure out a way to forgive, heal and put the past behind us. It was painful reading. My grandmother’s letter to him, despite his actions, was one of hope and affirmation. She saw the needy person rather than his hurtful actions. She let him know of her concern for him and that she and God loved him. The other people’s letters read more like a scold or remonstration by telling him he needed to get “right with God,” and “care about his family” which was also true, of course, but not something he would acknowledge or could internalize at the time. Given the circumstances, her loving words were remarkable. A few years later, he would publicly speak of Grandma and her goodness to him at her memorial service.

Grandma didn’t judge.  She loved.

That is how my grandmother chose to live her life.
Some called her gullible and some said she was too trusting, but all said she was a loving person. My grandmother was a woman of faith. Now, it didn’t need to be that way. Life was difficult. She had every reason to feel cheated. Grandma’s mother died of a pregnancy-related hemorrhage when grandma was only twelve. Her sixteen year old sister left home to get married which left grandma to care for her three younger brothers, the youngest only two. Her preacher papa would never remarry. To make ends meet, her family operated a farm in Indiana, a lovely place with hand-hewn timbers in its barn and its own natural pond. (My parents took our family there one time) Grandma’s father was a preacher in the brethren community. But times were lean. Her father was kind and caring. In good faith, he loaned money to people who came to him destitute and unable to pay their bills. The bank lenders weren’t so understanding. In time, my Great-Grandfather Swihart lost the farm. It broke their hearts. Grandma said it was because the people didn’t pay her father back.

Grandma’s  father located a pastorate in Arizona.
When it came time for the family to move, my grandma kissed the side of their farm house knowing she was leaving her childhood with its memories behind. The little church in Arizona was welcoming. However, musical instruments were frowned on as worldly entertainment. The first time she played piano in church, one of the deacons who was sitting in the front pew, in protest,  stood up and walked out. That didn’t stop her. Accompanying on the piano for church worship was one of grandma’s happiest joys in life, something she did for the rest of her life.

Grandma waited to marry my granddad until her youngest brother was old enough to look after himself.
She was a woman of devotion to God.  God was real to her. Through sacrificial effort she made sure my mother was given violin lessons and my aunt was given piano lessons (that’s a story in itself). My siblings and I grew up singing with my grandmother. In my earlier years, Grandma took my sisters and me to sing trios for convalescent homes and for invalids in their own homes, people whom my grandma knew but the world had forgotten. Grandmother was a composer, a songwriter of spiritual music. We mostly sang her songs during our performances. I learned to give to others partly because grandma helped me learn how to do so. She gave us a great gift by sharing music with her family. It is something my siblings and I have used in our churches as well.

A year or two before Grandma came to the end of her journey. We spent a week with her. Here we are ready for church.

My children and I spent a week with Grandma shortly before she came to the end of her journey. Here we are in front of her porch ready to go to church with her. 1994 (?)

Faith honors God and God honors Faith

Faith is something hard to describe.
Grandma lived it like it was the breath of life. Faith was in her through and through. And Faith was her name. Her prayers were meaningful. It was easy to believe they would be answered. She kept a miniature black notebook on the headboard of her bed. It contained her intercessory prayer list. A penciled in date marked when each prayer was answered. (I didn’t know this until I lived with her for a year when I was twenty-four.) Grandma’s hugs were bountiful and her smiles greeted us when we met her at the porch door even at midnight on Christmas Eve, after a five hundred thirty mile trip to Southern California. I can’t remember her ever being angry or upset. Even trials were met with a peaceful spirit.

I, quite possibly, appreciate my grandmother more now that I am a grandmother.
I realize that a grandparent has an important role with their impressionable grandchildren. And, my life has become more like hers. I have grown to love God much as she did. Her creative bent is in me, the love for beauty, living things, and how God works in unusual ways. Her song lyrics are much like my own written expressions, full of nature and God’s care. They read like a poem, an expression of love for the Creator. My grandmother’s  life continues to bear fruit.  Her influence by example lit the path to show the way for myself and many others who had the good fortune to know her.

“My Heart Believes” by Faith S. Weigold  (dedicated to her daughter, Louise)

My heart believes in miracles, A mystery of God,
My heart believes in miracles when grass breaks through the sod;
The changing seasons come and go, The balmy breezes blow,
The breath of spring and birds on wing, O I believe and know;

The singing bird, the honey bee, The rivers flowing out to sea;
The bursting bud, the tow’ring tree, Are miracles we all can see!
A life can change from cruel pain, Like sunshine after rain,
My heart believes in miracles, Oh! I believe and know.

The letter I held in my hand that day was a confirmation of the true state of my grandmother’s heart.
She was different because she saw people through the the vision of God. Grandma taught me through her letter that the love of God looks on the heart and beholds someone worth saving and loving. It was a powerful lesson. God does see people in that way. I have learned, so should I.

One of my grandmother’s books: Songs of Heavenly Praises

Grandma published some of her songs in two different books. Some of my favorites are in this one.

Grandma published some of her songs in two different books. Some of my favorites are in this one.

#MyFaithHeroine