(RNS) — Is there a reason survivors of sexual abuse at Southern Baptist churches and institutions continue to show up for meetings of the nation’s largest Protestant denomination?

It is a good question, one I often ask myself. I choose to attend, even though it can be costly — only in the past few years have amazing donors, many we will never know, given to a fund established by Jules Woodson, and continued by Pastor Keith Meyer, to make sure we can afford to go to the annual meeting of the Southern Baptist Convention to advocate for ourselves and others, for change.

Why would any survivor go?

It is walking into what feels like a den of lions. What is supposed to be a loving, nurturing fellowship of believers is instead, for many of us, “a trauma inducing machine,” as survivor Christa Brown has often stated. Yet, for years, survivors and advocates have held rallies at the annual gatherings and attended the Executive Committee meetings, despite near constant pushback and even harassment.

In 2018, headlines proclaimed the #MeToo movement had come to the SBC and documented the work of Cheryl Summers in organizing the first “For Such a Time As This” rally and creating space for survivors to be heard.

But, just a year later, survivors were told they could not gather in front of the convention, were not welcome inside, were left in the extreme heat next to smelly dumpsters. 

In 2020, amid nationwide racial justice protests and a national pandemic, the rally was a virtual one. And it felt then like maybe people were beginning to see a different side of things and waking up to the reality that things were not as they seemed, that maybe more could be done. While I missed those earlier rallies for personal reasons, I determined at this point I would not miss another.

In 2021, I went to my first convention in person, arriving alone and checking into a nearby Airbnb, hoping to lay low. At the convention, it was surreal and painful to see people who had been so awful to me online, walking around, speaking from stage, crossing paths. But there was beauty too. I met fellow survivors and advocates, people I’d only known online. I heard their stories of grooming and abuse. I found a small army of people who, to this day, are standing for what is right and good, who have risked any and all relationships or possible platforming within the SBC to stand for and alongside us.

Yet, the general convention believed us to be part of the “woke” agenda of “liberal justice” troublemakers. We were not seen as the wounded sheep Christ commanded his people to care for. No, we were the problem. The people were instructed to look away and, for the most part, they listened and looked away but they looked down on us as well.

In 2022, I chose to go again, standing with other survivors who — despite the lack of movement toward any kind of meaningful reforms — wanted to give it another shot. A loop of videos, made by Carolyn McCulley of Citygate Films, played in our booth telling our stories as people walked into the convention hall. We were now inside and it felt like maybe people were beginning to pay attention, to listen to us. Many people told us they were following our work and voting Yes for reform.

Could it be that change was coming from the grassroots?

The messengers were listening. People were attending breakout sessions regarding abuse in churches, learning how to become safer spaces. The sea of yellow cards voting for abuse reform literally caught our breath. We were photographed at the moment it all seemed possible that the people were voting past the entities and roadblocks. The real voices of the SBC were breaking through, the messengers, not the gatekeepers.

But even in that moment of seeming victory, the cost was so high.

What we had to endure from those microphones, from some “pastors” and leaders, was beyond horrific. Over and over again they insisted that there aren’t that many survivors, that sexual abuse is not a crisis, that reforms will cost too much, that all of this is a “sham,” and worse. It was trauma inducing. And there are survivors who refuse to enter that room again. I really do not want to ever be there again.

And we all knew we still had an exceptionally long road ahead.

2023 felt like a step backward. The far right was stoking another fire to distract from the urgency around abuse reforms, redirecting energy toward a debate around female pastors. This, they said, was the “real” crisis to be averted. We knew what the strategy was and it hit its mark. It was a heavy blow. But the messengers held firm on abuse reform and carrying it forward. They will try again this year, with the Law Amendment, another PR move to keep everyone sidetracked, unfocused, unbalanced, unsure where the issues lie.

But I will be there. Not because I think my being there makes a difference, but because I have made a commitment to myself and others to be there until it does not feel right. I see their games and their hope is that we will give up. They are relying on age-old war tactics: Wear down your enemy, reduce their resources. But survivors will show up, some for the first time. And, like last year, I will warn them of how traumatizing it is. I do not encourage it, but I will stand by and with any who choose it as part of their stand. There is something to it, being present, to standing against it in person.

And there is a visual component for the messengers. When they see us, we are no longer just the enemy online that they attempt to portray us as — the fascist, feminist, woke, liberal, problematic voices. They see we are human souls, real people, men and women who were abused as children, as teens, even as adults.

We are united whether present or online and we will not stop. We will find a way. We will stand with survivors as they come forward, with churches who want accountability. We will name names, we will keep track, we will continue to say enough is enough. We are an army of survivors, too many to count, so many still coming forward.

After the 2022 convention, a gentleman wrote to me. I read his story with such reverence, as we do when holding another’s pain. He was 74 years old at the time and had watched the convention from afar that week. He had been following me for years, he said, and had cheered on my and other survivors’ pushback. And now, for the first time, he had just told his family that he had been abused by his pastor’s son when he was 12. He carried it in total silence for over 60 years. He said, “there are intrinsic costs I don’t see too many people talking about.” He wished he had begun the healing 50 years or more before and wondered what his life and relationships would have looked like if he had. I think it is so beautiful and courageous that he is doing it now.

He said something that sticks with me every day: “you have no idea how many people (directly and indirectly) upon whom you have had an impact. No doubt your reward in Heaven will be enormous. I thank God for you and pray for you daily.”

I cried and sobbed, sitting there for hours, just in it. His letter tapped into a deep healing and opened a reservoir of resolve inside me. I cried for us all. I cried for those I met that week who stopped me and shared their stories in passing, in messages, in survivor spaces.

It was because of our courage that he found courage. He is why so many survivors have committed to stay the course, to keep showing up however each of us sees fit or is able. We all are different pieces of the same torn tapestry and puzzle, trying to bring wholeness and healing by reform.

(Tiffany Thigpen is an SBC abuse survivor and advocate for reform within the SBC. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)