A pastor’s only real asset is their integrity.
They may have experience behind the pulpit, educational degrees from the best institutions, even aptitude and deep faith, but character is the only real currency that matters.
I’ve always vehemently fought to protect mine, almost to the point of being neurotic. It only takes one errant accusation to bring down a pastor, and I wasn’t ever going to give anyone any ground to stand on should they lie in an attempt to impugn my character.
But recently, my therapist helped me realize that I have negatively impacted the spiritual journey of others by being dishonest.
Forgive me for being dishonest.
I thought I was doing the right thing.
“Pastor Kevin, should I go back to that church?”
I’ve been asked this question countless times, using various words, and referring to different churches over the years. Without fail, no matter the words, the goal is always the same: The person is hoping to find peace about the spiritual health of the place where they once felt safe… their church. They are wanting to know that I still bless it as a place of health, hope, and godliness. They want to know if the leadership can be trusted. They want to know if there is anything that they don’t know, that I know, that they should know.
I always know when the question is coming, yet I am caught off guard each time… not by the fact they actually asked it, but by the reaction it wells up within my soul.
I’ve answered the question so many times, yet I never know how to answer.
So when the question is posed and I invariably stare off into the distance for an uncomfortably long pause, I am not thinking about the past, I am thinking:
How can I possibly answer that without harm?
I am torn between what I know and what I don’t want them to know, between what I want to say and what I feel I should say, between protecting them and protecting the church.
And it is the last part where my thinking has been wrong. I have imagined that by protecting a local-church in the mind of a congregant that I was actually protecting the greater church, the “Bride of Christ” as the Bible calls it.
And so, when asked, without fail I have given a cautious but always gracious blessing to every person to return…
… to return to a place that I often knew would cause them harm due to its current deep state of unhealth.
Forgive me, for being dishonest.
I thought I was doing the right thing.
I thought I was protecting your faith.
I thought I was honoring Christ.
I thought I was being magnanimous.
I thought I was being a good shepherd.
I was wrong.
Forgive me not telling you what you needed to know to make an informed and wise decision.
You were seeking truth, but instead of giving you the God’s honest truth, I gave you what I so very deeply wanted to be true: a healthy church to return to.
But, it wasn’t healthy.
It wasn’t holy.
And my leaving was, in and of itself, a sign. God’s asking me to step aside was likely an indication of his blessing being removed from the place.
I hope you can understand why that was so hard for me to say.
I desperately wanted to believe that the problem was me, not the place, for your sake… and for Christ’s.
My therapist wrecked me when she re-aligned my thinking in order to help me see that I was suffering from a variation of “Battered Spouse Syndrome”… except here, the spouse was the church.
Clinical experts tell us that battered spouses often:
Hide the abuse from others.
Fear retaliation for speaking the truth.
Experience trauma-bonding.
It is this idea of trauma-bonding that is most applicable here, in that repeated cycles of abuse and retaliation by the abuser leads to:
A fixation on the “good” days, using them as proof that the person/place is not all bad.
A tendency to make excuses and defend the behavior of the abuser when others express concern.
An unfounded hope that the abuser will change.
A desire to protect the abuser by keeping their behavior secret.
So, when I have been asked: “Pastor Kevin, should I go back to that church?” or “Can I trust this pastor/leader?”
I have probably lied.
I didn’t realize it was a lie—I thought that I had your best in mind by offering some version of hope—but it has not been a true answer.
I didn’t realize that I was protecting the abuser and knowingly sending others back into situations where the church and its leadership were not a healthy place to find Christ.
I should have been honest with you.
I should have trusted you.
And you should have been able to trust me.
There are ways to say such things, kindly, but also directly. And if a person of integrity can’t be both honest and direct, then they may not be trustworthy either.
I choose to be trustworthy.
I’m not perfect; I am still learning, too.
I am so, so sorry.
Please, forgive me.