A woman opens Instagram and types a sentence she’s never said aloud: “My pastor told me to pray harder instead of leaving him.” Within hours, hundreds of comments flood in. “Same.” “Me too.” “You’re not alone.”
It’s not a sermon, but it reaches further than any Sunday morning message.
In the age of social media, survivors of domestic violence within faith communities are no longer waiting for permission to speak. They’re posting their pain, reclaiming their narratives, and forcing a long-overdue reckoning in institutions that have too often valued reputation over reality.
Among those listening, and helping the Church to listen better, is Pastor Michael Neely: a survivor-turned-advocate whose life’s work has become a bridge between faith and freedom. Through his organization, Black Eyes Sweet Talk, Neely educates and counsels survivors – particularly those burdened by spiritual guilt and community stigma – while training pastors and church leaders to create safe, survivor-centered spaces.
Before social media, survivors in the Church lived in a kind of exile. Abuse was reframed as a spiritual test, a “cross to bear.” Leaving was often discouraged as unbiblical. Neely calls it “the theology of silence”, a doctrine of denial built on protecting image over integrity.
“I grew up watching churches treat abuse as a private issue,” he recalls. “Victims were told to pray harder or submit more. That’s not faith; that’s bondage.”
As both pastor and survivor, Neely understands the double isolation: the fear of God’s disapproval and the shame of the congregation’s judgment. Online, that isolation began to crack. Early survivor blogs and Facebook groups became lifelines. Then came #ChurchToo, an eruption of digital testimonies that made visible what faith institutions had long concealed.
“These platforms,” Neely says, “are where theology meets reality. The posts people make in pain are sermons of their own.”
For survivors, posting online can be both liberation and exposure. Neely sees it as a delicate balance. “It’s part of the healing process,” he says. “Writing your story out loud helps release what institutions once withheld. But it also opens you up to scrutiny from those who don’t believe abuse is real or who blame you for staying.”
He’s watched survivors form what he calls “a digital fraternity of healing.” When one woman shares her story and critics rush in, others defend her – like “mama bears protecting their cubs,” he says. This peer-to-peer support is what makes social media both powerful and perilous.
Validation is immediate, but so is judgment. Likes and comments become emotional barometers. “People start measuring their worth by engagement,” Neely observes. “They think, ‘If my post didn’t get attention, maybe my pain doesn’t matter.’”
Even so, he believes the positives outweigh the negatives. “These online spaces have created a kind of global support group,” he says. “They help survivors connect, validate one another, and realize they’re not crazy or alone. That’s sacred work, even if it happens on a screen.”
Social media has also forced churches into unprecedented transparency. Screenshots, videos, and survivor testimonies are eroding the old power dynamic where leaders controlled the narrative. Neely calls it a “divine disruption.”
“God’s light is just using Wi-Fi now,” he says with a half-smile. “The Church can’t hide abuse behind scripture anymore.”
Yet the shift is uncomfortable. When survivors post about church leaders, congregations often respond defensively, framing public disclosure as “divisive.” Neely rejects that instinct. “Pastors are supposed to be shepherds,” he says. “When the flock cries out in pain, your job isn’t to protect the brand… it’s to heal the wound.”
Through Black Eyes Sweet Talk, he trains faith leaders to respond with repentance rather than public relations. He urges them to treat survivor posts as sacred confessions, not attacks. “When someone says, ‘Your sermon kept me in an abusive home,’ that’s not defamation, it’s revelation,” he says. “You can learn from it, or you can lose your credibility.”
Neely admits that speaking out as both a survivor and a pastor draws scrutiny. Some accuse him of performative advocacy. Others question his motives. He’s learned to tune it out. “In sports, they call it white noise,” he says. “I stopped reading the negative comments years ago. I know the Truth, and I know my purpose.”
That purpose is to offer what many churches have withheld: compassion without condition.
As social media reshapes how faith communities process pain, Neely believes churches must evolve. “Too many pastors preach about everything except justice and mercy,” he says. “But scripture commands both.”
His advice to fellow clergy is simple: stop fearing social media, start learning from it. “Pastors post about politics, sports, everything under the sun,” he says. “Why go silent about abuse? This is about doing justice and showing mercy, and about reminding people that God’s love doesn’t demand their suffering.”
He encourages pastors to become what he calls “digital encouragers.” Not influencers, but interpreters – offering scriptural clarity and empathy in a world where survivors are desperate for both. “We’re known for what we’re against,” he says. “We need to be known for what we’re for: healing, truth, and hope.”
For many who’ve lost faith in traditional institutions, social media has become a sanctuary of last resort. Survivors gather not under stained glass, but in comment threads. They pray in DMs. They find community in the aftermath of crisis.
“Social media has become a form of church for many survivors,” Neely says. “They may never say it that way, but for those who were silenced or shamed in the pews, the comment section is sometimes the first place they’ve ever been believed.”
The pulpit is no longer the only place where the gospel is preached. For many, it never was.
If your church ministry is ready to move beyond silence and create spaces of safety and healing, connect with Pastor Michael Neely today.
