Under the Banner of Heaven: Standing Up Against Abuse
I know I’m not the only one who finds the stories of faith deconstruction, of surviving cults and high-control groups to be healing. Memoirs, documentaries, blogs, films—no matter the format, I think telling our stories is invaluable in our collective effort to move away from harmful communities and relationships and toward healing.
I recently watched the limited series Under the Banner of Heaven on Hulu—almost all of it in one sitting because it resonated with me so very much I simply couldn’t do anything else. And there’s this moment in the last episode that I can’t stop thinking about.
(If you don’t want any spoilers, pause here and watch the show before you continue reading.)
Dianna Lafferty, Ron’s wife, has left him in Utah and taken their children to Florida for their own safety. She is afraid for her life because of Ron’s increasing violence and religious extremism, and she has reason to believe he is planning to kill her. She’s found, not by Ron, but by the police who plan to take her and her children into protection. But once she sees her children safe, Dianna slips away to travel back to the most dangerous place of all: home.
The detectives have predicted she will return to Utah, but for a very different reason. They believe she will return to be with her husband and honor the sacred covenant she made in the temple, as if she can never truly separate herself from the marriage even if it is dangerous.
But when Dianna returns home, she doesn’t look for her husband. She looks for her sister-in-law Matilda who is isolated in the family home while their husbands are gone, fugitives from the law. Dianna tells her they have to leave to be safe before their husbands return. At first, Matilda resists, too afraid to leave. She knows how life-threatening their situation is. But Dianna says if she stays, she will die just the same.
Matilda and Dianna run out of the house and get in Dianna’s car. On their way out of town, they stop for gas, but this turns out to be a mistake as one of their brothers-in-law, Sam, finds them before they can drive off. He calls Matilda “his brother’s property” then drags her out of the car, across the lot to his truck, pushing her down on the hood.
This is where I stopped breathing.
Dianna is screaming for help: “He’s going to hurt her!” She looks to every other person at the gas station to see if they will help save them from this clearly violent man.
And they stand still. They do nothing.
Desperate, Dianna calls after Sam: “Do you step on women’s necks because it makes you feel taller? . . . You’re not special. You’re not chosen . . . You are a small weak child of a man. This I know to be true. Show him how weak he is, Matilda.”
When Matilda hears these words, she seems to understand she is not powerless. She pushes away and runs back to Dianna as Sam, looking defeated, gives up and drives away.
As Matilda gets back in their runaway car, Dianna turns to the bystanders at the gas station and sees a little girl standing with her father and watching everything that has happened. Dianna’s eyes are full of heartbreak as if she can see the girl’s future in the patriarchal Mormon community. Perhaps this realization is what causes her to cry out, “Shame on all of you!” before leaving forever.
I know many women who can relate to this very scenario. Perhaps it didn’t happen in a public place like a gas station; perhaps it did. Uncountable times, women asking for help. And receiving none.
This particular story takes place in a Mormon community. All those bystanders watching Matilda being kidnapped were probably Mormons. They were part of the Laffertys’ faith community and possibly even knew them by sight.
Watching this scene play out, I felt like I was watching what I have already witnessed and experienced in my past faith communities. Abuse within religious circles is too often treated as dirty laundry that shouldn’t be aired in public. Too often people watch as others are hurt, not wanting to interfere in something they don’t think is their business. And theology that places women as subordinates justifies this line of reasoning. Women asking for help are sent home to abusive husbands, told to submit more, to trust God more.
In the end, these women must find ways to save themselves because the leaders they once trusted would rather watch the victims suffer than break their own rules.
This scene was so very meaningful to me because it visually portrays both the struggle of women in abusive situations to find safety, and the heartbreak of betrayal you feel when the people you once trusted—those you were building an eternity with—turn their backs on you when you step out of bounds, even if you’re doing so to escape harm.
I think many would find my assessment of religious communities shocking or even disrespectful. And I’m sure all of us think we would step in if we saw violence. But what about emotional abuse? Psychological abuse? Spiritual abuse? Would we speak up then?
Just because there are no visible bruises, doesn’t mean there aren’t deep wounds. I don’t believe most people want others to suffer, but I do think many of us were raised to believe non-physical abuse doesn’t even exist. So when we see it happen, we are not even sure how to deal with it.
No matter the kind of abuse, no matter our community, we should be prepared to speak up and step in when others are being hurt. It’s an education I wish we didn’t need to have, but this is the reality for many vulnerable people—yes, even in faith communities. Stories such as Under the Banner of Heaven can help us all understand how abuse can occur within religious spaces as we look for ways to prevent it and deal with it appropriately.