When I was young I went to this really fun, alive church led by one of the kindest pastors I’ve ever known. It was a healthy church in a small town; maybe 400ish people considered it their home (I was young so give or take a bit on that number). Even though we had very little connection at this season of my life, my pastor was and will always be a hero of mine.
Around the time I turned 12, I watched the slow, painful, evil demise of this beautiful community. I watched people become unable to love their neighbors as themselves. I watched people prioritize elements of non-essential doctrine over relationships. I watched people gossip, backtalk, slander and look more like the Father of this World than the Father of Lights. I watched hyper-spiritual hopes create a new world caste system of the “ins” and the “outs.”
I watched this beautiful church crash. As a young boy I watched the worst of the church put on a song and dance in front of me. Sometimes I still see it like a slow-motion pantomime where I recount the faces of these people who once considered each other family. I remember the day my mom sat in the van and cried all the way home from church because she couldn’t stop what was happening. I remember the Sunday my pastor sat on the steps of the altar unable to speak when it was time for the sermon, and after several minutes of haunting silence, an elder coming up and simply ending the service. I remember the last Sunday I was there. There were maybe 30 of us. My parents, imperfect but faithful, faithful people, did what they had promised they would never do…leave. I know it was the right choice for our family, but I still think it’s a decision that grieves my parents in secret places.