On Believing Victims and the Cost of Christian Silence

“Mr. President, what would you say to sex abuse survivors of Epstein who haven’t seen justice?” - Kaitlan Collins, journalist

“You know, I’ve never seen you smile.” - Donald Trump, President of the United States

There are moments that clarify things - not because they are new, but because they are public.

This was one of them.

A survivor-centered question. A chance - however small- for empathy, gravity, or restraint. Instead, it was met with mockery. A deflection sharpened into humiliation. A reminder that power, when unaccountable, does not merely ignore the vulnerable; it often ridicules them.

For survivors watching - especially those who have already been disbelieved, dismissed, or spiritually gaslit - this was not just another headline. It was confirmation. Confirmation that even now, even here, their pain remains negotiable. That justice can still be laughed off. That cruelty can still be rewarded with applause.

When leaders mock victims, they do more than reveal their character. They set a tone. They grant permission. They teach systems and followers alike what kind of harm will be tolerated - and whose suffering will be treated as expendable.

And for Christians, this moment demands more than outrage. It demands reckoning.

Because this cruelty does not exist in a vacuum. It is shielded - again and again - by religious language. By appeals to “Christian values.” By the insistence that this is a Christian nation led by Christian men. By a version of faith that confuses dominance with righteousness and loyalty with holiness.

We cannot pretend this has nothing to do with the Church.

The Christian tradition does not leave us guessing about where God stands in moments like this. Scripture is unambiguous: God sides with the oppressed, the abused, the ones whose voices have been silenced or distorted by power. The prophets rail against leaders who “trample the heads of the poor into the dust.” Jesus reserves His sharpest words not for sinners, but for religious authorities who protect themselves while burdening others.

Jesus never mocked the wounded. He never questioned a survivor’s tone. He never asked the vulnerable to smile to be believed.

Instead, He stopped crowds. He listened to women others tried to silence. He named harm plainly. He warned - explicitly - that it would be better for a millstone to be tied around one’s neck than to cause harm to the vulnerable.

If we claim Christ, we cannot excuse behavior Christ condemns.

Believing victims is not a political posture. It is a theological one. It flows directly from the conviction that every human being bears the image of God - and that violating another’s body or dignity is not merely a personal sin, but a moral crime that demands truth, accountability, and repair.

Yet too often, the Church has chosen proximity to power over proximity to pain. We have minimized abuse to protect leaders. We have spiritualized forgiveness while bypassing justice. We have warned survivors about bitterness while remaining silent about cruelty. We have baptized harm with phrases like “grace,” “unity,” and “God can use anyone.”

But grace without truth is not grace.

Forgiveness without accountability is not reconciliation.

Unity built on silence is not peace - it is coercion.

The world is watching how Christians respond in moments like this. Survivors are watching. Our children are watching. They are learning what our faith actually protects.

This is the moment for the Church to decide - not in statements, but in action - who we are willing to defend.

Will we continue to shield power while the wounded absorb the cost?

Or will we finally take our place alongside the defenseless, even when it costs us influence, comfort, or political leverage?

The Gospel does not ask us to be neutral in the face of cruelty. It asks us to be faithful. And faithfulness, in this moment, looks like believing victims. Naming harm. Refusing to mock suffering. And disentangling Christianity from leaders who wield it as a tool of control rather than a call to love.

History will not remember how loudly we claimed Christ.

It will remember who we protected when it mattered.

And I hope the silence isn’t as deafening as it is right now.