(In memory of Jen Lyell and every woman silenced in the name of Jesus)
“Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.”
~ 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫
I did not know Jen Lyell personally, but I ached for her. I followed her story, believing fully in her account, because it mirrored parts of my own—not in every detail, but in the playbook—the one that protects power and punishes pain. The playbook that keeps abusers cloaked in influence and anonymity, and casts the wounded out as a threat to unity. Not in the specifics, but in the system. The machinery. The machinations. The calculated grab for, and preservation of, power at the expense of the wounded.
I believed Jen because I know what it is not to be believed. To be the subject of whispers and speculation, but never questions. Never inquiry. Only judgment.
Why ask, anyway?
Once one has been preemptively discredited, there is no need to be disproven. It is a brilliant, if shameful, ploy. It’s the ones with the platform, the following, and the microphones, after all, who craft the narrative. And they rarely use it to heal.
Jen brought light to her abuse. She named what was done to her. And the Southern Baptist Convention—the very institution charged with protecting her—punished her instead. As they gathered to meet this week, her death—tragically, but not surprisingly—merited not even a mention, until one was specifically requested, days later.
They erased her. Diminished her. Discredited her.
They circled their wagons, not around the hurting, but around the powerful.
And it nearly killed her. Until, finally, a few days ago, it actually did.
She died at 47. A series of massive strokes, they say. But I can’t help but wonder how much weight her body carried that was never meant to be hers.
The trauma.
The character assassination.
The gatekeeping.
The loneliness of being bullied by the very people who claim to speak for God—and then disbelieved by those under their sway.
And something rises in me that I thought had long been laid to rest: Righteous anger.
Because while my abuse was different in form, it was no less devastating. It was emotional, destructive, spiritual, systemic. It was abandonment at my moment of greatest need by the very men tasked biblically with my care.
On the heels of shattering grief came a campaign to remove me. And, once discarded, to silence and erase me.
It nearly did me in. It is only by the grace of God that I am still standing—stronger and more convinced of His goodness now, than at any other point in my life.
The message, however, from the powers that be?
Not “unity” over honesty—because unity implies mutual love and shared purpose.
What they demand is allegiance.
Allegiance over conviction.
Image over truth.
Silence over healing.
And they cloak it all in the name of Jesus.
But here’s what I know now:
Truth welcomes inquiry. It doesn’t fear it.
Jesus never asked the broken to stay silent.
He asked the powerful to stay humble.
The spotlight is seductive. The stage, alluring. The applause, intoxicating.
If the “mission” is the sole driving force—the only motivating factor—then those who succumb to the lure would not rest until the damage left in their wake is remedied. Scripture mandates that, by the way. Repentance. Restitution.
But, for me, nearly five years later, there’s been neither.
Just silence. Callousness. Refusal.
Jen Lyell deserved better.
So did I.
So do the countless others still suffering in silence.
So I write—for Jen.
For every woman who dared to tell the truth and paid dearly for it.
For every woman crushed beneath the weight of institutional cowardice.
For every friend cast aside for choosing compassion over complicity.
For every survivor handed shame instead of support.
For every castaway grieving not just what happened, but what wasn’t done to make it right.
For every woman who bears the brand of Hester Prynne—who bows her head, averts her eyes, and wonders with each unexpected encounter, “What have you come to believe about me?”
For every victim still in hiding, wondering if it’s safe to come out.
It wasn’t safe for Jen.
And I’m under no illusion it’s safe for me.
My scars testify to the danger of truth-telling in places where image is god.
But maybe, if we speak loudly, clearly, and relentlessly, it might become safer for someone else.
And maybe that’s how we honor her.
Not with silence.
But with courage.
With resolve.
This is not bitterness, by the way—that word has been weaponized too often to silence those who refuse to go away quietly.
This is not rebellion. It’s revelation.
This is not vengeance. It’s bearing witness.
This is not about a pound of flesh.
It’s about the Word who became flesh. It’s about the grace that abounds when flesh creeps in—the grace that moves in and makes its home among the wounded.
May our truth-telling be a holy disruption.
Because the only thing more dangerous than a corrupt system is a silenced soul.
And, for today, at least, I am done being silent.
Done protecting platforms that prey on the very people they claim to serve.
Done keeping peace at the expense of the broken.
Done protecting systems that would rather crucify the sheep than confront the shepherds.
Done pretending Jesus cares more about authority and submission, than demonstrations of religion, pure and undefiled.
What happened, for any of us, wasn’t just theological malpractice.
It was spiritual abandonment.
So yes, I’m angry.
Because I know what it cost me to survive.
And I know what it cost Jen not to.
But anger, when tended by truth and bathed in love, can be sacred. It can become a torch passed from hand to trembling hand—not to burn it all down, but to light the path forward.
So may we not fear to speak truth.
Not to punish, but to protect.
Not to shame, but to shine light.
Not to center ourselves, but to make space for others who can’t yet speak.
Honesty is not hostility—it’s a hallmark of the very faith under which God’s representatives lead. If truth makes others uncomfortable, perhaps it’s not the tone that’s the issue, but the integrity it demands.
The church was never meant to be a stage.
It was meant to be a sanctuary.
And it cannot become that until the wounded are believed, the powerful are held accountable, and the silence is broken for good.
We owe Jen that.
We owe Jesus even more.
So, my beloved sisters, may the God who sees in secret strengthen your voice, cradle your ache,
catch your tears, and consecrate your courage.
You are not alone.