Loving the abused with the love of Christ
by Kelley Goewey
My name is Kelley Goewey. I first joined the ACNA in 2013, by way of Church of the Redeemer in Highwood, IL just after I graduated college. In 2019, I moved and began attending Church of the Resurrection in Wheaton, IL. During my time at Church of the Resurrection, I found it to be a supportive church home: since 2013 I have been battling incurable cancer that took a turn for the worse in 2020, and I received regular prayer and pastoral care.
I had attended Church of the Resurrection for nearly two years when the first announcement regarding Mark Rivera’s abuse was made on May 9th, 2021. I was deeply grieved for the survivors and their families. And due to my personal history of psychological and spiritual abuse that was thoroughly mishandled by the religious university I attended, I wanted to leave the church immediately. I didn’t, however. I decided to stay, because I trusted that the leadership of Church of the Resurrection would respond differently than the authority figures in my past. Then the second announcement was made on June 27th, 2021, shortly after Joanna published her story on Twitter.
A member of the clergy stood up and announced that there would be an update regarding the abuse in COLA and suggested that anyone with a history of abuse-related trauma could get up and leave the sanctuary if they were concerned such updates may be triggering. My first thought was that I wanted to leave, because I do have that history and I knew it likely would be triggering. My second thought was that I absolutely could not leave, because that would immediately disclose the fact that I am a survivor of abuse to hundreds of strangers. My third thought was that leaving wouldn’t do any good, because the sound and the display of the service are on several screens in the lobby and even if I made it out of the sanctuary before the start of the announcement I would still hear whatever awful thing they had to disclose.
Before I could think any further the announcement was underway, and I heard three things that made it impossible for me to keep attending Church of the Resurrection any longer:
First, the church’s leadership learned about the abuse two years ago, and was only now disclosing it to the congregation.
Second, I understood from what they said that the bishop, along with all other involved clergy and legal counsel, had allegedly been unaware of their status as mandated reporters.
And third, an abuse survivor had gone on Twitter to accuse the church leadership of not centering and supporting survivors in their handling of the abuse.
Before I even found a friend who uses Twitter who could show me the relevant thread, I knew from this announcement that I had to leave Church of the Resurrection. Because when the words “not centering and supporting survivors” were said, I immediately recognized that as a precise description of how the authorities involved handled my own experience with abuse. The way this was mentioned also caused alarm bells to ring in my head: the word “Twitter” was mentioned with a faintly amused look and a rhetorical shrug that prompted a responding laugh from the congregation. The implication I received was clearly, can’t believe everything you read online, am I right?
I sat there, sick to my stomach. Apparently the desperation of taking to a public stage to reveal such a painful experience was, in the eyes of the clergy member, both funny and a little pathetic. Before I knew anything further about the situation, I saw myself in Joanna. That was the exact attitude I had received from every authority figure in my own abusive situation and subsequent struggle for justice.
I left the church quietly. I dithered for a long time about if I should notify anyone and who that could be. Ultimately, I emailed two members of church staff to tell them I was leaving, citing my own past abuse and mishandling thereof by the relevant authorities, along with my inability to pay for the mental health care that I would need if my abuse trauma were to be significantly triggered.
I emailed Deacon Val McIntyre, with whom I was meeting for pastoral care related to my terminal cancer. At the time, I was unaware of her deeper involvement in the situation, and suggested that we might remain in touch in a capacity unrelated to Church of the Resurrection. She responded to tell me that she was on sabbatical and would contact me via her personal email address after she returned. I also emailed Kevin Sheehan (the Rez children’s pastor) to let him know that I was leaving the church and would no longer be available to help with childcare. He responded, telling me he was sad to see me go, and that he was concerned about me due to my health situation. He asked if I would allow him to have a clergy member check in with me in a few months. I did not reply, because I could not think of a polite way to tell him how abhorrent I found the idea. It was already too late to prevent my trauma from being triggered.
I would like to be very clear: I did not personally experience any abuse during my time attending Church of the Resurrection. But the leadership’s response to abuse within the church has caused me significant distress as a survivor of abuse. With every disclosure from ACNAtoo, UMD officials, and the ACNA itself, I see more and more similarities to my own experience. To my infinite regret, the UMD appears to be drawing from the same crisis response playbook the university officials at my alma mater used.
The way that it took years of me scheduling meetings with administrators and then having them rescheduled last minute, and the way that those same administrators suddenly kicked into damage control mode when I touched just the right nerve.
The way that the burden was on me, as the survivor, to handhold the people in power who had failed in their jobs, through the whole process, and also to keep my mouth shut and protect the reputation of the university.
The way that seemingly small details were adjusted from one email to the next (i.e. church staff received poor legal advice vs. church staff just being unaware that they were legally required to report child abuse vs. a combination of both), and the reluctance of people in power to address the inconsistencies or to hold anyone accountable.
The way that I, as the abuse survivor, was an enemy, and my abuser was protected by the institution.
My beliefs regarding the appropriate response to abuse have not changed much, from my time as an undergraduate student to now, a decade past graduation, sitting in a church service hearing leaders demonstrate their utter disregard for survivor care by blithely asking abuse survivors to stand up and self-identify to the entire congregation or risk triggering trauma. I firmly believe that the authorities involved in addressing the situation ought to respond, not out of fear or self-interest, but out of love and humility. I expected them to care, as I unerringly knew, both then and now, that Christ cares.
I’m aware that may seem deceptively simple. In truth, it’s incredibly hard, because if you’re going to care about someone who has been abused, then you have to walk through a lot of difficult feelings. You feel fury and rage, and grief and wretchedness and helplessness. You have to take those emotions captive and submit them to Christ. And then you have to act. You cannot just sit by and hope against hope and the evidence of your own eyes that someone “higher up” will do something about it.
It’s painful and messy and time consuming to love other people, to care when they are suffering or in danger. Our Savior was intimately aware of this—our Man of Sorrow, well acquainted with grief. And yet he consistently calls his people to love. Not to self-protection, nor the retention of power. We are called to love one another. Let me be very blunt: siding with and shielding abusers, be they ever so highly ranked in the denominational hierarchy, is loving to no one, and is certainly not the example demonstrated by our Lord.
When you love the abused with the love of Christ, you’re committing yourself to potential personal loss. If I were to rank the life situations in which it is most painful to lose your church home and community, then I would venture to guess that while dying of terminal illness runs a distant second behind while seeking justice for your abuse or a loved one’s abuse.
I learned that a place where I had felt safe was in reality incredibly dangerous, particularly to abuse survivors willing to seek justice and care, and I lost all the connections and support systems there at a very vulnerable time in my life. I imagine that dying of cancer is never easy, but dying of cancer while retreading a mental health crisis related to abuse trauma is a one-two punch I dearly hope no one else in the UMD is currently experiencing. And yet, though I personally avoided becoming the target of any abuse while attending Church of the Resurrection, I could do nothing other than leave that support and community behind.
As an abuse survivor myself, but even more so as a follower of Christ, I cannot be complicit or silent in the face of abuse, even if it would be more personally convenient to do so. The deep grief and horror of abuse in the Church impacts the entire Church. Dear Children, let us not love with word or tongue, but with actions and in truth.
The action to which we are called looks different from person to person. It may be like Helen, called to speak truth as a member of the Bishop’s Council as long as the Lord led her there, or like Audrey, called to advocate for survivors and relentlessly seek justice. And if you’re like me, you may be called to walk away from a place of comfort into the wilderness, to commit yourself to praying for justice, for blind eyes to open. May His Kingdom come, His will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Amen.