By Magdalena Sanchez 
Introduction: a path that continues to reveal wounds
A few weeks ago, we began this series on spiritual abuse—that form of power that disguises itself as faith and uses the name of God to dominate. In the first blog, “Power disguised as faith,” we explored how this type of abuse arises, how it infiltrates churches, and the distorted image of God it leaves in its victims.
In the second blog, “From the altar to the body,” we examined how spiritual abuse paves the way for sexual abuse, showing that physical or sexual violence does not appear suddenly, but often takes root in toxic spiritual dynamics that normalize blind obedience, guilt, and submission.
Today, in this third step, we address silence—that most subtle yet equally destructive form of complicity.
Silence not only protects the abuser; it betrays victims and disfigures the face of Christ within the community.
The mechanism of silence
Silence has many masks.
Sometimes it is called prudence; other times, reputation; and often, it dresses itself in spirituality.
How many times have we heard phrases like:
- “Let’s not talk about this so we don’t damage the church’s public image.”
- “God will take care of it; let us not judge.”
- “If you forgive, don’t bring it up again.”.
But behind these pious phrases there is often fear: fear of losing donations, membership, prestige, or power. In communities where authority is considered unquestionable, silence becomes a system of institutional self-protection.
In Latin America, this mechanism repeats itself in parishes, congregations, seminaries, boarding schools, and religious movements. In many cases, leaders knew what was happening but chose to remain silent “for the good of the ministry.” The result is generations of people who have lost their faith, their sense of belonging, and often their mental health.
The spirituality of silence: when piety conceals injustice
There is a form of spirituality that sanctifies silence.
It teaches that speaking about pain is a lack of faith, that denouncing abuse is resentment, or that the victim must “leave everything in God’s hands.”
This spirituality—an heir to a patriarchal theology of sacrifice—produces docile, obedient, and resigned believers, but not free disciples.
The theologian Alda Facio would say that institutional patriarchy needs this kind of religiosity in order to perpetuate itself: a structure that protects itself while victims bear the guilt of speaking out.
And Jon Sobrino reminds us that the principle of mercy—the heart of the Gospel—does not consist in remaining silent in the face of suffering, but in making it visible so that it can be healed.
When silence disguises itself as spirituality, it ceases to be a virtue and becomes a structural sin: the sin of omission.
Consequences for victims
Institutional silence retraumatizes.
Every time a victim hears “don’t say anything,” they relive the original abandonment of the abuse.
Every time a church protects its reputation before the truth, it says—without words— “Your pain matters less than our image.”
In pastoral accompaniment sessions, I have heard phrases such as:
- “The pastor asked me to forgive and not say anything because it could affect the ministry.”
- “When I spoke up, they told me I was destroying the work of God.”
These individuals do not only lose trust in leaders; they lose the ability to trust in God himself.
Silence, in its cruelest form, breaks the spiritual relationship victims once had with the Gospel, because they can no longer distinguish between the voice of God and the voice of their oppressors.
The voice of the prophets and the urgency to speak
Scripture does not know a God who remains silent in the face of injustice.
From Genesis 4:10—when Abel’s blood cries out from the ground—to Amos 5:24, which calls for justice to “roll down like waters,” the Bible reminds us that silence has never been holy.
Isaiah 1:17 confronts us directly:
“Learn to do good; seek justice; defend the oppressed.”
Jesus himself breaks the silence every time he touches the excluded, names the invisible, or confronts religious power.
To remain silent in the face of abuse is not fidelity to the Gospel; it is its denial.
Breaking the silence: an act of faith and justice
Breaking the silence does not destroy the Church; it purifies it.
It is an act of faith, because it trusts that truth can heal more than concealment.
And it is an act of justice, because it restores dignity to those who were stripped of it.
Leonardo Boff, in Saber cuidar, affirms that care cannot flourish where fear reigns.
Caring for victims requires naming the harm and assuming institutional responsibility.
Only then can the community become a space of restoration rather than a site of repeated trauma.
Conclusion: from silence to a prophetic voice
Silence is easy; speaking hurts.
But if the Church wants to resemble the Christ who walks alongside the wounded, it must learn to listen to the cries rising from the ground of history.
For God’s question still echoes from Genesis:
“Where is your brother?”
And the answer cannot continue to be silence.
It must be a Church that looks suffering in the face, that weeps with those who weep, that names evil and rises to repair it.
Only then will faith cease to be complicit and become a path of liberation.