They Tell Me About the Abuse. I Wish I Could Tell Them to Run
A counselor’s perspective sheds light on a rising crisis: intimate partner violence against Black women, and the powerful role faith can play in shaping whether they stay or go. The post They Tell Me About the Abuse. I Wish I Could Tell Them to Run appeared first on Word In Black.
Black News 
Imagine listening to an unfolding story of a woman’s physical abuse and not being able to react the way your body and soul demand. Imagine having to hold an even expression, keep your voice steady and calm, hold your tears in check until the session ends, and — mercifully — the door closes behind her.
That is often the work of an intimate partner violence counselor: bearing witness and offering compassion to what should never be spoken, but must be said aloud.
LEARN MORE: Behind the Pulpit, Black Women Battle Violence and Silence
I have been that witness in more ways than one, a listener who’s heard admissions that go beyond the pale. A trained seminarian and pastoral counselor, I’ve been a crisis hotline worker and that friend with an open ear and waterproof shoulders. Almost as often, I’ve been that stranger on a bus who made the mistake of looking kind.
People tell me things. They always have.
What women tell me now — horrific stories of physical and psychological abuse within a supposedly Christian household — is heavier.
Patriarchy, Orthodoxy, Misused Faith
From North Carolina to Northern Virginia, from Louisiana to Florida, a recent surge of deadly intimate partner violence against Black women has become front-page news. While the church is not inherently complicit, it doesn’t always help. Too often, patriarchy, orthodoxy, and misused faith become a barrier to exiting the abuse instead of guiding the way out.
Prayer is not enough. At some point, the listening must be matched by truth-telling — not on hot lines or private rooms but in pulpits, in Bible studies, in the spaces where these ideas take root and hold.
I have learned to listen without flinching, or at least look like it. But the stories of women losing themselves to an abusive partner come fast and hard. Many of them are unexpected.
The high school friend everyone remembers as fearless — the one who would argue our teachers into submission — now measures her words at home, careful not to trigger the next beating.
The neighbor who moves zombie-like through her day: eyes down, conversations clipped short, always accounting for where he might be.
The client who speaks in fragments, editing herself in real time, trained through painful experience to avoid the wrong word, the wrong tone, the wrong pause that would set him off.
The parishioner who does not ask if she should leave, but how: where to hide cash, which friend can be trusted, what time of day offers the smallest window of risk, how to disappear without drawing his attention.
And the pastor — yes, the pastor — who told me that every Sunday before she stepped to the pulpit, her husband forced himself on her. Then she went to church and preached.
Calm Amid the Storm
I nod. I ask the next question. Inside, I am angry and screaming.
As the tale of abuse unfolds, everything in me wants to interrupt the script. I want to tear up the quiet logic that has been built around her suffering. I want to point out that what God has said about love and duty has been twisted. I am furious, not because I don’t understand fear, or danger, or the slow erosion of self, but because I do.
Because I also know what has been said to her in the name of the Lord:
“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands…”
Ephesians 5:22-23 comes up often because some well-meaning friend, some pastor, some church peer who stumbles upon her situation is sure to remind her of her wifely duties. Even though she went on a trip with the church and he threatened to beat her, or worse, when she returned.
What I have learned, over time, is that the question burning inside me — why does she stay? — is the wrong one. It assumes freedom, not constraint. It assumes clarity, not conditioning. It sees options that, in reality, may not exist in a safe or immediate way.
Survive the Day
Instead, I listen. I help her think through steps she may or may not be ready to take. I remind myself that courage does not always look like leaving today; sometimes, it looks like surviving long enough to plan for tomorrow.
RELATED: What Happens When Black Women Stop Pushing Through Pain?
And I pray — that she finds a moment, a person, or a realization that breaks through the fog. I pray that the same faith used as confinement might liberate her. I pray she recognizes that love and harm can’t coexist, and that God does not demand her silence.
But prayer is not enough. At some point, the listening must be matched by truth-telling — not on hot lines or private rooms but in pulpits, in Bible studies, in the spaces where these ideas take root and hold.
Because the way out should not be this hard to see.
The post They Tell Me About the Abuse. I Wish I Could Tell Them to Run appeared first on Word In Black.
