Unmasking the Church’s Abuse Response: How Evangelical Culture Protects Abusers

Photo by Vince Fleming on Unsplash.com

I’m deeply grieved by the responses I’ve heard recently from well-meaning Christians—responses that reveal just how far we still have to go in understanding how to respond to abuse, especially when the accused is a respected leader or a beloved Christian celebrity.

One of the first things I’ve learned to pay attention to when a leader publicly addresses allegations against them is how they position themselves. Are they presenting as the victim—or even the hero? All too often, we see the same pattern: they speak of being “under spiritual attack,” framing both the survivor and Satan as aggressors. These leaders craft their narrative in a way that earns them applause from the very congregation that ought to be asking hard questions. What needs to be a moment of humility and accountability becomes a public performance, where the abuser is centered, applauded, and affirmed.

In an upcoming eBook resource I’m releasing—“A Pastoral Guide for Responding to Sexual Abuse or Assault Disclosure in Your Church”—I address this dynamic directly:

“In some cases, the abuser may even preemptively reach out to leadership to ‘confess’ a softened or spun version of the events, portraying themselves as humble and misunderstood, thereby gaining sympathy and getting ahead of the survivor’s full account. This manipulation often results in the survivor being viewed as divisive or untrustworthy.”

I remember encountering this playbook firsthand in 2016 when I was serving as a worship leader. A pastor I worked under had to address allegations of misconduct to our congregation. He minimized what had happened, became the hero, and ended up receiving a standing ovation. One of the campus pastors even praised him publicly, saying, “I’m so thankful that we have such an authentic pastor.” That experience was disorienting. But over the years, I’ve realized just how common it is.

Last fall, I took a public stand with my friends Jared and Megan. Megan was bravely speaking out against the pastor who abused her—someone I had also known for years (Read Story Here). I wanted to be unequivocally clear that I stood with her. That I believed her. And that I did not support his actions. In response, I was attacked so viciously online that I had to shut off comments and take a break from social media altogether. Meanwhile, when her abuser and his family would post, they were met with praise and encouragement—thousands rallying to his side as if he were the one who had been harmed.

This same narrative of spin and applause played out in 2018 when Tennessee pastor Andy Savage addressed the church about his abuse of a 17-year-old girl when he was a 22-year-old youth pastor in Houston. He stood on stage and said, “I regretfully had a sexual incident with a female high school senior in the church.” He never mentioned her age. He never used the word “abuse.” He called it a “sexual incident.” This reframing is common. Abusers often sanitize the truth to maintain sympathy and support. Savage received a standing ovation.

On June 8th of this year, Brady Boyd, senior pastor of New Life Church in Colorado Springs—a church that I once was a part of—addressed the congregation after Julie Roys released an article detailing that he had known about Robert Morris’s abuse of Cindy Clemishire from when she was 12 and he was 21. Boyd didn’t abuse anyone directly. He offered vague and fuzzy details that have since been contradicted by both Roys and New Life’s own elders. He took a moment to paint himself as under spiritual attack, even taking a jab at Julie Roys. And once again, the congregation applauded.

Shortly afterward, New Life’s elders demanded Boyd’s resignation, which he submitted the following Wednesday. And still, many who love him continue to defend him blindly. On June 22nd, when the elders announced his resignation publicly, members of the congregation shouted, cursed, and walked out. Some stood up interrupting the elders and demanded that the matter be put to a vote. A Facebook group has now formed in support of Brady, with over 400 members who believe he was treated unfairly. Why? Because it’s painful to process new information about the leaders we love. That cognitive dissonance creates a storm inside us—and rather than sit in it, many try to calm it by rejecting it or offering grace quickly, bypassing accountability entirely.

That same week, allegations broke against Michael Tait, former lead singer of the Newsboys, involving the sexual assault of multiple people. Christian radio stations and the band’s label dropped them. On June 22nd, the Newsboys took the stage at Highlands Church in Scottsdale, Arizona, to address the situation. They shared their pain—which I don’t doubt was real—but they didn’t center the victims. Not once did they say, “People have been harmed by our organization, and we are going to do everything we can to ensure that never happens again.” I find it hard to believe they didn’t know, given my background in the professional music world. But even if they truly didn’t, what matters now is how they respond as the public face of a system that clearly needs reform and accountability.

In their videoed response, they elicited applause and sympathy from the crowd—once again casting themselves as both victims and heroes. Again, it’s a pattern we know too well by now.

The Church continues to be ill-equipped to handle abuse allegations, especially when the accused holds power or celebrity status. But our inadequate responses reveal more than just a theological gap. They expose a deep cultural fracture—one that confuses grace with enabling, forgiveness with platform restoration, and accountability with vengeance. And in that confusion, we choose to protect the image of what we believed to be “God’s anointed” over the safety and dignity of survivors.

We have to stop. We must tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. Because every time we cheer an abuser or defender of abuse from the stage, we send a clear message to victims: your pain matters less than our comfort. And that is not the way of Jesus.

These responses have become ingrained—baked into our instincts and formed by years of cultural conditioning within the Church. For many of us, they function like muscle memory. When abuse allegations surface, our reflex is to defend leaders, preserve institutions, and protect the image of the faith. Most of the time, it seems like the intentions are good and Christlike. If we want real change, we must first recognize the destructive nature of these tendencies—and become deeply discontent with them. Both congregants and leaders who shape church systems must be willing to examine their role, confront their blind spots, and grow in self-awareness. Only when we acknowledge how easily we fall into the trap of siding with abusive leaders and harmful systems can we begin to shift toward protecting victims and building something more faithful to the way of Jesus.

We need to do better.

Choosing Misapplied Forgiveness Over Courageous Accountability?

Within many Christian circles, the impulse to “forgive and forget” overrides any genuine pursuit of justice and safety. If a leader even vaguely gestures toward regret, we're quick to call it a Gospel win. We often assume restoration to God includes restoration to leadership position. But this isn’t biblical. It’s sentimentality disguised as mercy, and it’s a dangerous distortion.

The gospel doesn’t eliminate accountability. In fact, it highlights it. Justice doesn’t negate consequences—the gospel often meets us when the light fully shines on the darkness. Real integrity tells the truth, even when it costs. Real love protects. Grace, when rightly understood, does not sweep harm under the rug.

What the Bible Really Says About Leaders and Accountability

Ephesians 5:11 says, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.” This verse is often quoted in personal moral conversations, but its context—and its command—reach much further. The Church is not only called to avoid sin; we are charged with the responsibility of exposing it. That is especially true when it involves those in leadership.

Yet in practice, many Christian communities do the opposite. Rather than bringing darkness into the light, we hide it in the name of unity, loyalty, fear of losing our witness, or grace. Instead of transparency, we protect reputations. Instead of defending the vulnerable, we defend the powerful. The impulse to shield a ministry, a church, or a beloved leader becomes more important than telling the truth. The result is a cover-up culture, where institutional self-preservation takes precedence over justice and healing.

In these environments, victims who come forward are often met with skepticism, silence, or even hostility. Their motives are questioned, their stories dissected, and their credibility challenged—especially if the accused is a well-liked leader. Meanwhile, the alleged abuser is surrounded by supporters, offered sympathy, and, in many cases, allowed to resume ministry. Sometimes they are even publicly celebrated for their "repentance and transparency," while the one they harmed is left isolated, discredited, or pushed out entirely.

This isn’t biblical. It’s abusive. It’s a betrayal of both the Gospel and the people the Church is called to protect. The call of Ephesians 5 is not just about personal holiness—it’s about communal courage. The kind of courage that chooses truth over image and loyalty to a leader. That refuses to confuse grace with enabling. That understands protecting the Church means protecting people—not institutions, not platforms, not personalities. Anything less is not just a moral failure. It’s a spiritual one.

Why We Keep Getting This Wrong: DARVO and Cognitive Dissonance

To understand why these patterns repeat, we need to look at the psychological dynamics that shape them. One of the most common manipulation tactics used by abusers and their defenders is something called DARVO: Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender. It’s a predictable cycle. First, the accused denies the allegation. Then, they or their defenders attack the character or credibility of the victim. Finally, they reverse the roles and claim that they are the ones being persecuted. This strategy confuses onlookers, isolates victims, and allows abusers to regain control.

Because so many Christians are conflict-avoidant and steeped in quick forgiveness culture, they fall for it. It feels Christlike to defend someone they love. But it’s not.

Another key dynamic at play is cognitive dissonance—the psychological discomfort we experience when new information challenges what we’ve long believed about someone. If a beloved pastor or Christian celebrity is accused of abuse, it’s easier to dismiss the accusation than to admit we were wrong about them. Especially when that person’s ministry “did so much good.” But if our theology makes it harder to believe victims than to confront evil, it’s not from Jesus.

So How Do We Do Better?

We must return to a practice that holds justice and mercy together, not in tension, but in integrity. Protecting the vulnerable must become our first instinct—not an afterthought. Our response to abuse can no longer center the reputation or narrative of the abuser. It must center the needs, voices, and safety of those who’ve been harmed—and those who are at risk of being harmed in the future.

To do that, we need to become more informed. Understanding trauma, manipulation tactics like DARVO, and the patterns of spiritual abuse equips us to recognize the difference between repentance and performance for sympathy. Without this awareness, we become susceptible to “grace” narratives that are actually cloaked attempts at image control. We must resist the urge to use spiritual-sounding language to sidestep accountability and hard truth.

Accountability must become a non-negotiable for Christian leadership. Restoration with God and others does not automatically mean restoration to leadership. In some cases, the most loving and redemptive act we can offer someone who has abused others is to remove them permanently from positions of power—so that they cannot harm again.

Creating safer churches won’t happen by good intentions alone. It requires intentional steps: trauma-informed structures, clear reporting processes, and accountability mechanisms that don’t depend on loyalty or celebrity. Above all, we must become communities where truth can be told—even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it costs us something.

A Personal Inventory: What To Watch For

When allegations surface about a leader you admire or love, what thoughts and emotions rise up in you? Is it possible that you’re experiencing cognitive dissonance—that internal tension when new, painful information clashes with your long-held belief about who that person is? Often, our first impulse is to protect the version of them we’ve known, not because the evidence isn’t compelling, but because accepting the truth would require us to reexamine something that feels foundational. What would it look like for you to pause, sit with that discomfort, and wrestle, rather than rejecting the new information outright?

When a leader publicly responds to allegations, try stepping back and observing the moment from the outside. Remove yourself from the crowd’s reactions, the applause, the emotional momentum. Ask yourself: what’s really being said? Does it pass the test of truth and humility, is it victim-centric, or does it seem like a well-crafted performance?

Pay attention to some of the image-repair tactics often used in these situations—many of which have been outlined by Julie Roys and Dr. Julia Dahl:

• Denial: Flat-out rejection of the allegations as false or exaggerated.

• Evasion of Responsibility: Claiming ignorance, lack of control, or misunderstanding to shift blame.

• Minimization: Downplaying the seriousness of the harm, or reframing it as a lapse in judgment.

• Bolstering: Highlighting past achievements or moral character to regain trust.

• Mortification: Admitting fault and apologizing, often vaguely or without concrete action.

• Transcendence: Deflecting to spiritual language or a higher mission to redirect focus.

• Reverse Victimization: Casting themselves as the ones under attack.

• Attacking the Accuser: Undermining the credibility or motives of the person coming forward.

• Restoration Promises: Vague assurances of future change, without specific commitments.

I would also add a tactic that’s especially common in Christian settings: framing accountability as spiritual attack. Leaders frame the exposure of wrongdoing not as accountability, but as demonic opposition—further shielding themselves from consequence and scrutiny.

Recognizing these patterns doesn’t make you judgmental. It makes you discerning. And discernment is a responsibility.

A Better Witness

The Gospel is not about pretending people never did harm to offer grace and love. It is about telling the truth, making room for repentance, and pursuing justice, mercy, and humility side by side. If the Church wants to be known for its love, it must be known for its integrity. If we want to reflect Jesus, we must stop defending those who cloak harm in spiritual language.

There is a better way forward. One rooted in the teachings of Jesus, shaped by the boldness of the prophets, and aligned with the heart of the Gospel—a Gospel that does not protect power, but protects vulnerable people. A Gospel that tells the truth, exposes what is hidden, protects the vulnerable, and still believes in redemption—but redemption that begins with justice.

Let’s be the Church that chooses that path. As both leaders and congregants, we have a choice: to either perpetuate destructive patterns or help reform our systems into something that truly reflects the heart of Jesus.