When I got home from a short-term mission trip to Africa, the board members of my church asked me to meet with them. They weren't throwing me a "Welcome Home" party. Instead, they were throwing me out of the church.
They made it clear that there was no moral failure on my part, nor did I lack competency or giftedness. It was an attitude issue. My dislike for the senior pastor's decisions were well known across the staff. My attitude was toxic, and a reason for me to leave. I'll admit that I didn't care very much for the senior pastor's leadership style.
I guess John Maxwell is right. Attitude really is everything.
In the months following my termination, I took my toxicity to the blogs, only worsening the relational oil spill. I see now that in the months following my firing I only proved what the pastor had been saying all along. I did have trouble with authority and an insistence upon doing things my way.
I dug my own grave. I'm reminded of a quote that my mom posted on the wall when I was kid. It read, "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt."
I'll be completely honest. The transition from the pulpit to the pew was rough, rough on my soul, rough on my ego, and rough on our finances. My salary package as a Pastor of Discipleship had been $78,000. At 29, I felt as if I had "made it" in ministry. I was preaching regularly at a church that was larger than average. My wife and I owned two homes in two different states. But all of those material things could never have prepared us for the season that would come to us next. In fact, looking back on my life now I think those things in my life made me just the opposite—comfortable and unprepared for the turmoil that was coming.
There are many things that I learned through walking in this "land between." Some of them were very practical. I learned them quickly. I learned that food stamps will pay for food but not for toiletries. I learned that you usually can't collect unemployment from a church in Pennsylvania. I also learned that you can typically miss three mortgage payments in a row before the bank starts threatening foreclosure. Some of the other lessons were more abstract, and have taken the last couple of years to learn.
For a year or two I didn't really want much to do with the church. I felt hurt and wounded by people that I had trusted and admired. If "they" were the ones representing the church, then I didn't want anything to do with it. Besides, showing up in church—even visiting other churches—was humiliating. It was only so long before the inevitable question would come up: "So what led you to visit us this morning?" The last thing I wanted to do was relive my painful experience over again on Sunday mornings. I felt like someone who is going through a divorce and opts out of going to their friend's wedding because they just can't deal with the pain.
Knowing the wounded
I've met people over the years who once went to church, were wounded by it, and now refuse to go back. I often wondered, "Why can't they just realize the church isn't perfect … why can't they just get over it and move on?" I know why now. I've found that there is no wound quite like being wounded by the church. And, if the church isn't more proactive at draining the wounds of those she's hurt, the infection will spread. Before you know it, you've lost a part of the Body.