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Some Faith Leaders Victimize Rape Survivors Again

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By Jazelle Hunt
NNPA Washington Correspondent

THIRD IN A SERIES

WASHINGTON (NNPA) – Simone Oliver had always been called, as they say in the religious community. She was active in the Baptist church throughout her youth, playing piano for the youth choir and even ghostwriting sermons for several pastors as a teen. She loved Scripture, loved preaching, and loved God. For her, church was heaven-on-earth.

But it was also hell. At 15 years old, Oliver’s then-pastor called her into his church office, grabbed her, put his tongue in her mouth, and fondled her until she broke away. It was the third time in her life she had been sexually assaulted, already a rape survivor at 12 years old at the hands of her sister’s first husband, and again at 13 by a family friend staying in her home.

Still, her faith did not waver. In fact, it grew stronger as Oliver transitioned from being a public school teacher to a minister.

In the mid-2000s, she took on an associate pastor’s role at a non-denominational church in New Jersey. The founding pastor tried to court her for years until she finally acquiesced and the two began a secret relationship. However, a year later, he decided to marry someone else. Still, the affair continued.

“I couldn’t get out. It was almost like sinking into an abyss,” she remembered. “I had gone to someone in the church to let them know this was going on. And they pretty much turned on me.”

And no group leans on the church more than Blacks.

“While the U.S. is generally considered a highly religious nation, African-Americans are markedly more religious on a variety of measures than the U.S. population as a whole, including level of affiliation with religion, attendance at religious services, frequency of prayer and religion’s importance in life,” according to a report titled, “A Religious Portrait of African-Americans” by the Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life.

Black Women are the Most Religious

And among the most religiously committed, no segment is more committed than African-American women. The report found that 84 percent of Black women say religion is very important to them and 59 percent say they attend religious services at least once a week.

As committed as she was, Oliver eventually left that church, broke off the affair with the pastor, began dating the man who would become her husband, and was accepted into Princeton Theological Seminary. As her life got better, her former co-pastor’s behavior grew worse. He sent threats to her regularly, and began stalking her and her then-fiancé.

She recalled, “He said to me – not of himself – but he said, ‘A man can commit murder, do his time, put on a suit, and still be a man. But when a woman’s reputation is ruined, she is ruined.’ Those were his threats to me.”

In 2011, five days before her wedding, the pastor’s behavior moved beyond idle threats.

“It’s a miracle story I’m here and alive, because this man stabbed me 30 times. I was paralyzed from the waist down,” Oliver recounted. Years later, she still remembers his final threat, prior to the day of the attack: “‘When I’m finished with you, you will not get married, you will not have a ministry, and Princeton will never have you.’ That was the last thing he said to me.”

Oliver was stabbed mostly in her abdomen and back, damaging her spinal cord and liver. Her former co-pastor was arrested walking down the street covered in her blood, still holding his hunting knife.

Survivors Need More than Prayer

Sharon Ellis Davis, a former criminalist in the Chicago Police Department and retired pastor, knows a bit about crime from more than one perspective.

She said, “I was married to a police officer, and there was a domestic abuse issue and sexual abuse. It was dismissed all the time. It was a matter of, ‘You all stop,’ or ‘Don’t be so bad,’ or ‘It’ll be okay.’ But never ‘I hear you, I understand you, I believe you.’ Even if [the department] knew the abuser was guilty, there was that code where you don’t rat on other police officers.”

So Davis channeled her frustration into something useful. She successfully lobbied for an internal domestic violence advocate, a civilian who would support and speak for domestic violence victims in police officers’ homes and became a full-time police chaplain.

But in Davis’ own church experience – first in the Pentecostal church as a child, then in the United Church of Christ as an adult – she saw parallels to the way she was treated by the police department.

“The church was nice to me, but they didn’t know what to do with me,” she said. “I need more than prayer, I need more than a hug. In fact, sometimes [survivors] don’t even want to be touched. I need more than a deliverance service, I need more than a Band-Aid on what forgiveness might look like.

“The two very important institutions that I was involved with – the church and the criminal justice system – both in the time that I needed them, failed me. Now they didn’t know they did, because they were not conscious of it.”

Davis feels that lack of consciousness grew from the problematic messages about women coming from the pulpit. For example she points out the Biblical stories that are emphasized, such as the false rape accusation of Joseph, and the ones that are largely ignored, such as the actual rapes of Dinah and Tamar as well as David’s coercion of Bathsheba.

To her, they all sent the message that the burden of sexual trauma is not welcome in the sanctuary.

“The church has not become the safe place it needs to be that would give some women in church permission to disclose,” Davis said. “The consequences of not having church as a safe place…you can kill the souls of the people that are there. People can lose their faith.”

Sex and sexuality remain taboo in many faith communities.

“How is it that the church is going to really be advocates for victims of rape in the Black church when even having normal conversations of sexuality can’t happen? How can we talk about patho-sexuality if we haven’t talked about normal sexuality?” she asked. “We’re still stuck in many way on the thou-shalt-nots. We spend more time judging the behavior than helping someone understand this was not their fault.”

Even worse than a lack of knowledge among leadership is that perpetrators often exist within the church, their violence and damage unchecked and even covered up.

Oliver said, “I had a woman call me – I thought she was calling to check on me and see how I was – but she called to tell me her own story, about a pastor. Someone [else] told me a story. She was invited out to another church to preach, and was raped by the pastor who had invited her. When the third person, and fourth person, and the fifth time you hear these stories…. I’m like okay. Something is going on here.”

After more than three months of physical rehab, Oliver overcame her paralysis and learned to walk again. She testified in court against her attacker, who was sentenced to 21 years in prison.

For all their silences and inadequacies, many Black faith centers are adept at serving their communities and fostering communal solutions and cooperation. Both Davis and Oliver assert that Black faith centers have also made great strides toward addressing domestic violence, with permanent ministries and pastor trainings becoming more common.

“We’re better in the Black church at caring for people,” Davis explained. “But we’re not as good at having a model of pastoral care for people who have been sexually abused. We’re not having clergy exposed to the education that they need to understand these dynamics.”

Some outside the faith community recognize this as well, including Sherelle Hessell-Gordon, executive director of the D.C. Rape Crisis Center.

“The Word says faith without works is dead,” she says. “There has to be fruit, there has to be action, there has to be community…there has to be active justice,” she said. “The rhetoric of ‘It’ll get better by and by’ – nah. That’s just spirituals to move our souls. When you leave that room, you’re still carrying that cross.”

Oliver, now a full-time seminary student, said, “I’m a rape survivor, but I’m also a gender-based violence survivor, and it took the violence for me to really reckon with the rape,” she acknowledged. “In telling my story…I started to realize how many horror stories are in church.”


NEXT WEEK: Breaking the silence

Part I: Rape and the Myth of ‘The Strong Black Woman’
Part II: Rape’s Other Victims

(The project was made possible by a grant from the National Health Journalism Fellowship, a program of the University of Southern California Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism.)

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Activism

Oakland Post: Week of October 7 – 13, 2026

Oakland Post: Week of October 7 – 13, 2026

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OP-ED: Proposition 44 Would Put a Price on Trust

The danger in Proposition 44 is not only its 90 percent figure. It is that the meaning of “qualifying” spending will be worked out later. A clinic preparing a budget today may not know whether a navigator, health educator, transportation program, outreach worker, technology upgrade, or other patient-support service will be counted the way it expects. Yet the financial consequence of getting it wrong could be immediate.

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Oakland’s public conversation about health care must begin with a simple truth: a doctor’s appointment is not the same thing as access to care.

For a mother juggling work and child care, access may mean a text-message reminder, a bus pass, an evening appointment, or someone who can explain what Medi-Cal covers. For an older patient managing diabetes, it may mean help scheduling a specialist visit and understanding new medications. For a family that has been dismissed or misunderstood in medical settings, access may begin with meeting a community health worker who knows the neighborhood, speaks their language, and treats their concerns with respect.

Community health clinics make that kind of care possible. They are part medical provider, part navigator, part educator, and part trusted local institution. Proposition 44 threatens to narrow the definition of what counts as patient care in a way that could undermine the very supports that allow patients to receive it.

The statewide measure would require covered nonprofit community clinics to spend at least 90 percent of their annual revenue on health care or qualifying program services. The ballot measure directs the Attorney General to establish more detailed guidance on what expenses qualify. Clinics that do not meet the threshold could face penalties for the difference. The Legislative Analyst’s Office reports that affected clinics currently spend an average of about 80 percent of revenue on health care services.

A percentage may look like a clean measure of accountability. But health care is not cleanly divided between what happens inside an examination room and everything that enables a patient to enter one.

Consider the work that happens before and after a visit. Clinic staff maintain confidential patient records. They follow up after missed appointments. They keep information systems secure. They recruit and train employees in an expensive and competitive health care labor market. They coordinate referrals, process claims, purchase supplies, maintain buildings, and make certain that patients are not lost somewhere between diagnosis and treatment.

Oakland families should not be asked to accept the fiction that these functions are unrelated to care.

The danger in Proposition 44 is not only its 90 percent figure. It is that the meaning of “qualifying” spending will be worked out later. A clinic preparing a budget today may not know whether a navigator, health educator, transportation program, outreach worker, technology upgrade, or other patient-support service will be counted the way it expects. Yet the financial consequence of getting it wrong could be immediate.

The Legislative Analyst’s Office says clinics falling short of the requirement could be required to pay the shortfall amount to the state and could seek to recover the money only if they show compliance within five years. The same analysis estimates state enforcement costs in the low tens of millions of dollars annually, supported by fees.

That is a troubling arrangement for organizations that are expected to provide care to people with the fewest alternatives.

Oakland has learned that trust is not built through slogans. It is built when a patient is listened to, when a parent can secure an appointment for a child, when a clinic returns a call, and when a person receives help without being shamed for their income, insurance, language, immigration history, or prior experience with the system.

For Black residents in particular, trustworthy care is not an abstract goal. Persistent inequities in health outcomes and patient treatment are real. Community-centered clinics can help bridge the gap with culturally responsive staff, patient navigators, behavioral-health programs, and partnerships that understand the conditions shaping health outside the clinic door.

Proposition 44 could pressure providers to treat those supports as expendable because they do not fit neatly into a state-enforced formula. That would be a mistake.

Accountability is necessary. Clinics that receive public resources should be transparent, well governed, and focused on their mission. But good oversight asks whether patients are being served well, whether money is managed responsibly, and whether communities can obtain needed care. It should not rely on a rigid ratio that may punish clinics for doing the hard work of reaching people who need more than a brief medical encounter.

A broad coalition of providers and community organizations opposes Proposition 44, including the California Primary Care Association, the California Medical Association, the California Hospital Association, Planned Parenthood Affiliates of California, and the California Teachers Association.

Oakland needs health policy that expands the circle of care. Proposition 44 risks drawing that circle smaller.

The Oakland Post editorial board urges a No vote on Proposition 44.

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OP-ED: Proposition 40: It’s Time to Play Chess, Not Checkers

Proposition 40 would impose a one-time 5 percent tax on the wealth of Californians with more than $1 billion in assets. Most of that money would go toward health care, with the remainder supporting food assistance and education-related programs.

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I understand the frustration driving Proposition 40. I share our labor partners’ concerns about protecting health care and essential services at a time when working families are already under enormous pressure.

But labor itself is divided over Proposition 40, and there is good reason to look carefully at what this measure could mean beyond the money it promises to raise.

Proposition 40 would impose a one-time 5 percent tax on the wealth of Californians with more than $1 billion in assets. Most of that money would go toward health care, with the remainder supporting food assistance and education-related programs.

Those are worthy investments. The question is whether this is the right way to pay for them.

California’s independent Legislative Analyst says the measure could raise tens of billions of dollars in the short term. But that same analysis warns that California could eventually lose hundreds of millions of dollars a year in ongoing income-tax revenue if some wealthy taxpayers leave the state or change their financial behavior.

That matters because those dollars help support the General Fund and the broader system of programs and services Californians rely on.

So let’s be clear: This is not about feeling sorry for billionaires. Billionaires will be fine.

This is about protecting the people who will not be fine if we get the policy wrong.

For decades, those of us in Black media have watched public policy debates move from crisis to crisis. We have also watched Black communities deal with the consequences when decisions made in Sacramento or Washington did not fully consider what would happen two, three, or four moves later.

We know what happens when funding disappears. Community organizations struggle. Small businesses lose support. Programs serving young people are squeezed. Schools and local governments are asked to do more with less. The people with the fewest resources are usually the first to feel the consequences.

That history should make us cautious about making major changes to California’s tax system without considering the entire board.

If California believes billionaires should contribute more, then let’s have that conversation. There is nothing unreasonable about asking whether people who have benefited enormously from California’s economy should contribute more to sustaining it.

But we should build tax policy that is thoughtful, sustainable, and difficult to avoid. We should not create a temporary solution that could leave us confronting another revenue problem down the road.

This is also why I respect those in labor who support Proposition 40, even though I have reached a different conclusion. They are responding to very real concerns about health care and the people who depend on it. Those concerns should not be dismissed.

But neither should legitimate questions about Proposition 40.

Too often our politics tells us that if we agree with the goal, we must agree with the proposed solution. That is not how responsible public policy works.

You can believe health care must be protected and still question the mechanism being proposed to protect it.

You can believe billionaires should pay more and still ask whether this particular tax is the smartest way to accomplish that.

And you can stand with working people while insisting that California consider the long-term consequences for all of the public programs working people depend upon.

We need to stop treating complicated economic decisions like a game of checkers, where we look only at the move directly in front of us.

We need to play chess.

Look at the whole board. Think several moves ahead. Understand what happens after the first check is collected and spent.

The question before Californians is not whether billionaires can afford to pay more. They can.

The question is whether Proposition 40 is the right way to do it and whether we are confident enough in the consequences to make this kind of change.

Our communities cannot afford for us to discover the answer too late.

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