For the next few months, I checked out their Bible study materials online and they were all reactionary statements to the things I had said in my letter. One of them was even, “How NOT to Talk to Your Leaders.” I wish I could say I brushed this off, but it hurt like fire.
You see: This particular church ministry wasn’t the typical “bad church” or full of “that kind of Christian.” They drove normal cars, didn’t preach anything too wild, were married with kids and wore skinny jeans like every other church staff.
On the surface, they were an amazing church with flashy sermons and great music and lovable people. I still believe they’re doing a wonderful work. But behind closed doors, there was an insidious incipient strain of insider legalism that demanded you fall in line, or else. I was holding my breath half the time around them. At the same time, I became smug over other churches and I criticized other sermons and methods of ministry that weren’t like “ours.”
This church was also huge on “grace” and hardly ever talked about God’s discipline and justice. They trashed any other church who didn’t center on “God’s love.” I understand this, because grace is often the first thing that leaves a church: But by being against churches that didn’t have grace, I wasn’t having grace for churches that lacked grace. I still fell for an “Us Versus Them” mentality, which is exactly what this church said they were against. By being against legalism, they formed their own legalism. This is so much more dangerous than a typical moralistic church.
So often we think of “bad churches” as fire-and-brimstone picketers or the TV preachers with gold-toed diamond shoes, but usually, those who abuse authority are charming personalities that are blind to their own hubris and ego. They don’t always see themselves as the abuser, and they’ll laugh off victims by pointing to more extreme cases or saying it was just a “disgruntled attention-seeker.” And it’s these type of institutions, that are neither extreme nor obvious, that do the most harm, because they will hardly examine their own procedures.
This was all several years ago, and I’m still recovering. A part of me wishes I could expose them all. I still have the screenshot on my phone of the 42 minute phone call. I still have the six-page email that essentially called me worthless. I still have the communication where the staff tried to contact me, and couldn’t.
The sad part is, even if I did all that, they would still find a way to spin the whole thing to their advantage and they would publicly destroy me. Even writing this blog post is risky (I’m expecting at least an angry email, at worst a threatening phone call or press release, but hopefully nothing). From their point of view, I’m the bad guy, I’m the one who “needs prayer.” They’re too powerful. Their ministry could bear the exposure of truth; I would be ruined by the lies they tell about me.
Yet assuming I could safely expose them, I still would not. I don’t want to be one more guy who says “Look out for those Christians.” Because as much as I was hurt, I still have hope for them. I still pray for them. As much as I’m devastated and angry, I still love those guys. At least one or two of them were so much better than the ministry they were a part of; I could see them eventually breaking away to do greater things. And if they’re truly not following Jesus, then my response can’t be to gloat, but to get on my knees in prayer and weep for them.
I don’t say that to look holy or better; I say that because naturally I’m a selfish person and I would love nothing more than to see them shrivel and fail. But it’s Christ in me who wants the best for them, who wants to see them repent and restored and reconciled.
A couple good things did come out of this. One was that I learned not to be too impressed by celebrity pastors. They need grace like we all do, and that’s exactly why we can’t idolize them. While I was saddened by the entire debacle with Mark Driscoll, I wasn’t surprised either; maybe it was the best thing to ever happen to him. And I learned to be as transparent as possible, to keep my hands open. I welcome disagreement whenever I can. I constantly assume I’m not the smartest person in the room. If there’s an opportunity to be vulnerable, I jump in the deep end first, because I don’t ever want to pretend I’m better than I really am. Again, I say that not to look better than anyone else, but exactly because I’m not.
I also tell you this because I want you to be careful. I want you to be in a church where you are safe to disagree, to ask questions, to have dissent and to speak up against the leaders.
I don’t mean to be contrary for the sake of being anti-institutional. I don’t mean to stir discontent where there is none. Anyone can do that, and it’s too easy. There are still many good pastors out there who deserve your trust. But even the good pastors need accountability and hard questions and self-examination.
If your church is full of Yes-Men who “never get it wrong”—then they’re definitely not in the right, either. If your church is strangely in unison with the lead pastor every dang time, I don’t want to say cult, but we’re getting into bizarre mindless idolatry of a seductive personality.
I’ve seen too many churches like this, and it absolutely breaks my heart. Jesus himself was so open to questions and challenges and dialogue. In the early church, Paul and Peter were confronted all the time. It probably became ugly to be so honest and truthful, but that’s why honesty requires grace. Honesty requires the hope that you won’t be ridiculed for being ugly and wrong. If you’re afraid of feeling wrong in church, that church isn’t a church and it’s not for you.
I love you, dear friends. Find a safe place where you can be honest and you’re met with grace. In the meantime, I grieve for those who have been burned by the church and I pray for healing, for us to trust again.