A Shield of Silence: How the Assemblies of God Grappled—Or Didn't—With Decades of Abuse

There’s a certain weight that comes with faith, isn’t there? A profound trust, often unspoken, placed in leaders and institutions that promise spiritual guidance, solace, and, crucially, safety. But what happens, you have to wonder, when that very sanctuary becomes — or is accused of becoming — a place where harm lurks, and where, some say, the vulnerable are left exposed?

For years, a shadow has stretched over the Assemblies of God, one of America’s largest Pentecostal denominations. It’s a shadow woven from devastating allegations: that for decades, this esteemed church, rather than confronting alleged child sexual abusers within its ranks head-on, effectively — perhaps even systematically — shielded them. And honestly, it’s a tough truth to face, particularly for those who found their spiritual home within its walls.

The accusations paint a stark, troubling picture. Survivors and advocates describe a pattern, chillingly familiar to anyone who’s followed similar stories from other religious bodies, where alleged predators — pastors, youth leaders, volunteers — weren't always reported to civil authorities. Instead, they were, in truth, often shuffled quietly from one church to another, given a fresh start, a new flock, often without proper disclosure of their past. Imagine, if you will, the quiet desperation of a victim, finally brave enough to speak, only to find the alleged abuser simply… moved on, ready to potentially harm again.

And what about the church’s response, you might ask? The national leadership, headquartered in Springfield, Missouri, has, for a long time, asserted that local churches operate autonomously. This decentralization, they argue, means that the onus for reporting and accountability falls primarily on individual congregations. But critics, including a growing number of former members and survivors, contend this structure — or perhaps, a convenient interpretation of it — allowed for a systemic failure, creating gaps that alleged predators exploited, leaving a trail of deeply wounded souls in their wake. It’s an administrative distinction that, for victims, feels entirely academic and profoundly unhelpful.

The stories are heartbreaking, each one a testament to profound betrayal. Children who looked up to their spiritual guides, who believed they were safe within the church community, found themselves, instead, targets. And the aftershocks, well, they reverberate for a lifetime. Trust, once shattered, is an agonizingly difficult thing to rebuild, especially when it involves the very institution meant to nurture it.

While the Assemblies of God points to updated child safety policies and a stated commitment to protecting the young, survivors often argue that these measures, while necessary, simply don't address the historical pattern of alleged concealment and the lingering trauma. They seek, quite rightly, greater transparency, independent oversight, and, yes, accountability for past failures, not just future precautions. It’s a matter of justice, plain and simple.

The path forward is, undoubtedly, complex. It demands a reckoning, a willingness to look unflinchingly at the past, to listen to the voices that were silenced, and to prioritize the well-being of the most vulnerable above all else. Because, really, what is faith if it cannot protect its children? The scars, though often unseen, remain a potent reminder of the heavy price paid when trust is broken and, perhaps, when silence becomes a shield for the inexcusable.