Christianity Today

Ted Haggard enjoyed frequent television appearances during his years as the outspoken president of the National Association of Evangelicals. His star rose high enough for Barbara Walters, Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, Brian Williams, and other TV personalities to come calling on a regular basis. In November 2006, Haggard disappeared quickly when he was caught in a sex-and-drugs scandal involving a male prostitute in Denver. But this week, Haggard is gracing television screens once again. Oprah Winfrey and Larry King will host Haggard and his family on their respective shows, and HBO will premiere The Trials of Ted Haggard, a documentary by Alexandra Pelosi that follows the ex-minister through the dreary months following his star's fall.

In his two decades as pastor of New Life Church in Colorado Springs, one of Haggard's most legendary sermons was titled "There's No Such Thing as a Secret." Truth will out, preached Haggard, so you might as well confess your darkest impulses and actions. I was Haggard's writer and editor for eight years, and I don't know anyone who was not shocked that there was such a thing as a secret for him. Haggard's double life was a searing revelation to his family, his church, and his closest friends.

Another legendary Haggard sermon was called "How Much Is Your Sin Going to Cost Me?" It was the pastor's sly, wry way of reminding us that there are social consequences for our actions. When we lie, cheat, and steal, we incur debts of time, emotion, and material treasure that our family and friends have to pay. Have integrity, he said, so that no one has to clean up after your mistakes.

Pelosi's film gives us a glimpse of what Haggard's sin cost him: a career in Christian ministry, the respect of evangelical legions, and the ability to live exactly as he pleased.

He complains the church banned him from talking to the media and banished him from Colorado — "The church has said 'go to hell,' " he tells Pelosi — which is not quite right. Church members mourned the loss of their beloved pastor and forgave him; many sent him personal messages to that end; many hoped for an eventual reconciliation. But the overseers of New Life Church — four pastors from other churches — asked Haggard to sign a contract agreeing to keep quiet and leave Colorado in exchange for a generous parachute: a year's severance for Haggard and his wife, a vehicle, counseling expenses, and moving expenses. Haggard took the deal.

Many at New Life Church grieved over the decision to ask the Haggards to leave the state. But the overseers forced his hand for a very good reason: The church community needed a chance to pay the debts of Haggard's mistakes. We needed to deal with the consequences of his actions. He had been our spiritual authority for years, and his duplicity twisted and tangled the church. We needed a season of strict separation from the man who had been a dominant force in our lives.

The other night, I watched Pelosi's documentary with several friends who had experienced Haggard's downfall together. Afterward, we reflected on one of the benevolent outcomes of the tragedy: It forced us to deal in reality. Haggard had crafted the illusion of a perfect life. He rarely showed personal weakness, and he preached that faith in God and a can-do attitude guaranteed a life of happiness. In an earlier Pelosi documentary, Friends of God, Haggard had bragged to the camera that evangelism was life on steroids — even our sex lives were better because of Jesus. "All the surveys say that evangelicals have the best sex life of any other group," he said, and then had two young men from his church tell Pelosi how often they had sex with their wives ("every day") and how often their wives reached climax ("every time").

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