Nothing is bloodier than a religious war.
—Marshall Shelley
Charles Westerman was surprised when Jack Kenton was picked by the nominating committee for the position of board chairman. Only six months earlier, Charles had heard via the grapevine that Jack was thinking of leaving Morningside Chapel. Charles remembered several occasions when Jack had mentioned, “Pastor, the church isn’t as friendly as it used to be; we’re growing too fast to keep up with everyone.”
That wasn’t an unusual observation, and Charles agreed but said he guessed it was a nice problem to have. The church, just outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, had grown in the last two years—lots of people drifting in and staying, others drifting off, blaming the church’s size for an impersonal feel. Charles was doing what he could to foster intimacy through Sunday school classes and small groups, but he also knew larger churches would naturally “feel” different than small ones.
One of Jack Kenton’s closest friends, Clarence Porter, was chairman of the nominating committee, and Judy Kenton, Jack’s wife, was also on the committee. The Porters and Kentons were among the “old guard,” charter members of the church. They’d apparently convinced a majority of the twelve-member committee that Jack would make a good board chairman.
When he first heard about the nomination, Charles spoke with Clarence Porter. “I’ve worked with two board chairmen in the five years I’ve been here,” he said. “And I had a close relationship with both of them. I’ve had lunch once or twice with Jack, and we’re not particularly close. We don’t always see eye to eye. I’d prefer another candidate.”
“Jack’s a good man, Pastor,” Clarence said. “He’s a spiritual leader in his home, a student of Scripture, and he’s memorized more verses than most people have read. He knows our church and its needs. I think he’ll work well with the board. Besides, he’s already accepted the nomination. If we take his name out, he’ll know someone objected, and he’ll probably leave the church.”
Charles suspected Clarence would tell Jack who “someone” was. In fact, he suspected a bit of a power play by the old guard to limit his leadership, to put the brakes on the church’s growth, to move the attention away from new people and back to the core group.
He didn’t want to alienate the charter members of the church. They were an important part of the flock and deserved to be heard. And yet, Charles felt part of the church’s mission was to continually reach out. Jack would undoubtedly resist that.
Nor did Charles want to veto the twelve members of the nominating committee. He honestly didn’t want to stack the board, and he didn’t want to be accused of running a dictatorship. After all, he was pleased with the rest of the slate. Why be picky over one nomination?
So he committed himself to serving with Jack and making him a successful board chairman. From the pulpit, Charles thanked the nominating committee for the “strong choices” and watched as the entire slate was unanimously voted in.
A breakfast meeting with Jack seemed to go well, both men agreeing to work together and Jack quoting his verse of the week, Psalm 26:8 (KJV)—”Lord, I have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honour dwelleth”—but Charles was slightly uncomfortable with Jack’s tone.
“He said he hoped he could help bring more depth to our ministry,” Charles confided to his wife. “He said he’d be praying for revival in my life and the lives of our staff. You can’t argue with that, but he definitely puts you on the defensive. It feels like spiritual one-upmanship.”
Despite their promise to work together, Charles and Jack were butting heads from the first board meeting, the air thick with tension and distrust. Jack had a way of questioning motives and intentions, especially regarding growth.
“Are you sure you’re not just trying to build an empire?” he asked Charles more than once. Charles didn’t know how to respond. “No, I don’t want an empire, Jack,” he said. “Neither do I want to limit what the Spirit can do.”
Jack continued to voice his suspicions. Anything that suggested enlargement—renting space for new Sunday school classes, rearranging the Christian education offices, hiring a part-time secretary—Jack was against.
“Why should we try to attract more people when we’re not doing that great a job with those we’ve already got?” he asked.
He vehemently opposed a plan to relocate so the church could build a larger building, and he persuaded a majority of the board, defeating the plan. He refused to help select an architect to draw up plans for enlarging the existing facility, but this time the board outvoted him 11-1.
That was the first of many 11-1 votes. Even though he was outnumbered, Jack’s Luddite assaults often caused the board to delay votes, hoping to reach consensus. It rarely did. But action was bogged down for weeks.
Charles continued to meet with Jack once a month for breakfast. Jack complained, “I don’t like the way you make unilateral decisions. I hear you’re going to California in July to speak at Mount Hermon for a week. You never cleared that with me.”
“I don’t work for you,” Charles said. “I don’t even work for Morningside Chapel. I work with Morningside Chapel. I’m self-employed—look at my IRS form! I submit myself to the board of elders and the church, but I’m not an employee. I’m an ordained minister, charged with shepherding this flock. Some of these personal ministry decisions are mine.”
Jack wouldn’t buy it. “I think you have a spiritual problem, Charles. I don’t think you’re the man for this church. If you had the gift of discernment, you could see that this church needs more depth, needs revival. Have you been praying for revival in your own life?”
“Yes I have been … daily.” Actually, Charles thought, I should have said nightly. Most nights he had been waking up at two a.m.—tossing and turning till four or five—praying and worrying about the direction of the church, asking God to show him any ways to resolve the tensions, trying to think of any angles he hadn’t seen yet. Was there really a growing dissatisfaction, or was he just more aware of it because of Jack’s constant harping? Was the church growing too fast? If people kept coming, what other alternative was there than trying to minister to them all?
Is Jack right about my motives? Charles asked himself night after night. I don’t think so, but how can anyone know for sure? Of course, my ego feels better when the church is growing, but I can honestly say my greatest desire is that God be honored by what we do here.
Charles continued to lose sleep, but he didn’t know how to work with Jack. The monthly breakfasts were becoming an ordeal. Jack’s persistent charge was that Charles wasn’t spiritual enough to lead a church the size of Morningside. Bickering about spirituality, Charles concluded, is the most perverse kind of bickering.
Eventually, Charles told two of the elders about his deteriorating relationship with Jack. “We’re like a husband and wife who bicker not only over the way the house is kept but whether the other partner is fit company,” he said. “There’s no way a marriage can last if that keeps up. We’ve been stymied as a church, the spirit is gone from our board meetings, and we aren’t acting with one accord. Eleven-to-one votes are becoming a Monday night liturgy. We’re spinning our wheels. Am I the cause? Maybe if I resigned, the church would be more united.”
The two elders said no, they didn’t see the situation as serious. “Eleven to one doesn’t bother us, Pastor. And I’m sure you and Jack will eventually work things out. You just see things differently.” Charles realized none of the board had heard Jack’s private philippics. While he laid into Charles at the breakfasts, Jack’s board meeting criticisms were more general, less pointed, and only Charles felt their full impact, because only he knew what was behind them.
Charles could not tell how many others in the congregation Jack represented. At the breakfasts, Jack kept bringing up names of people he’d been talking to, and to hear him tell it, half the church was disgruntled.
The tensions not only cost Charles sleep, but they also led to some errors of judgment.
“One Sunday I preached from First Corinthians 1:10 about ‘them,’ those people in our lives who cause confusion and discord, especially in the church,” Charles remembers. “I could tell by people’s expressions that I’d completely lost them. Afterward my wife said, ‘I think I know what you were saying, but I’m sure no one else did.’ She was right. It was an oblique sermon, preached out of my own frustration, and the congregation wondered, What in the world is he talking about? They thought everything in the church was going fine.”
In September, just after school started, the sanctuary was packed for both services, and people were sitting in folding chairs in the aisles. Charles asked all the members of Morningside to stand up. “Look around; see how crowded we are,” he instructed. “Now you know why we’re thinking of enlarging our sanctuary.” With nervous laughter, people sat back down.
“It was tasteless,” Charles now admits. “It was not something someone from Princeton would do. It was driving a thumbtack home with a sledgehammer. I did it out of frustration, knowing we had to grow but very aware of the people opposed to growth.”
In November, six months after Jack had taken office, the hostilities escalated. Early one Thursday morning, Charles was sitting in the restaurant, waiting for Jack to arrive. He was sipping coffee over the sports page, when Jack tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I see you outside?” he asked.
Strange request, Charles thought as he followed Jack outside. He’s a busy man, but if he can’t stay for breakfast today, why didn’t he call or just say so at the table?
Once outside, however, Jack angrily turned on the pastor. “I’ve lost all respect for you, Charles. You’re no spiritual leader, and I don’t think I can even talk with you anymore. It’s a waste of time for us to keep meeting for breakfast. We don’t get anything accomplished because you don’t understand what the people need.”
Charles was stunned but managed to say, “Maybe you’re right, Jack. I’ve thought for some time now that we needed to take this matter of my leadership to the board and let them decide.”
“If you do that, I’ll resign, and the whole church will know you forced me out.” Jack turned, got into his car, and drove off. Charles was left standing alone. This is ridiculous, he thought. We’re arguing about who’s more spiritual, and we can’t act like Christians and share a meal together.
Should he take this to the board? If he forced the board to decide between him and Jack, Charles was confident the board would back him, but that could also split the church. Who could tell how many of the old guard would follow Jack out the door? He didn’t want to call Jack’s bluff. Without any better ideas, he finally decided to do nothing and pray for a miracle of reconciliation.
At the next board meeting, in a rare unanimous vote, the board made the difficult but necessary decision of asking for the youth pastor’s resignation. Charles agreed: Milt Runyon simply wasn’t a youth pastor. The high schoolers were not attracted to him—with 150 names on the roll, Sunday school attendance had dwindled from 75 to 40, and Wednesday night youth group attracted 30. Milt’s wife resented his being out evenings or off on weekend retreats, and he was discovering youth ministry can’t be done nine to five. Even Jack said, “We need to confront the young man that he’s really chosen the wrong career.”
As distasteful as any firing is, Charles was relieved that at least he and Jack finally agreed on something. The Christian education board approved the action, Charles received Milt’s resignation, the situation was explained to the staff, and Charles was confident that all the proper procedures had been followed.
But how to announce it to the congregation? The board felt a brief announcement from the pulpit wasn’t adequate. By consensus, the board decided a meeting after the Sunday evening service should be held with those most affected—the high schoolers and their parents—to explain the situation. Charles was designated to make the explanation.
That night two hundred teens and parents packed the chapel. Milt hadn’t been able to attract many high schoolers, but when he was let go, several had been grumbling about the abruptness of it all. Charles hoped to calm the waters.
After explaining that Milt’s gifts were in other areas, that the church wished him well as he sought the Lord’s direction for his life, and that he would be paid for the rest of the school year, Charles asked if there were any questions or comments.
Immediately Jack stood up. “Yes, I’d like to ask a question.”
Charles wondered what he didn’t already know about the situation.
“I think you presented only part of the truth about Milt’s situation,” Jack began. Charles felt anger begin to smolder. Was Jack calling him a liar?
“Isn’t it true that Milt was let go because he wasn’t attracting enough kids? It seems to me he was trying to run a quality program for the few. He was at my house last week and we had a small group over to pray for him, and he told me the goals he’d had for the group. He had a core of thirty on Wednesday nights. You can’t develop a huge following in just a year and a half, nor perhaps should you. Isn’t it better to build solid ministry with thirty kids rather than chase after a hundred on the fringe?”
While Jack was making his speech, Charles was feeling his temperature rise. Why is Jack pretending he wasn’t in on the decision to let Milt go? What’s he trying to do? Embarrass me? Start a mutiny? He’s publicly contradicting me. The hostility that had been building up for six months suddenly exploded.
“All right, Jack, you win. Farewell, friend,” Charles said bitterly and walked from the room, slamming the door and leaving the teens and parents speechless. As far as he was concerned, he had quit Morningside Chapel. He was fed up, tired of the battle. Let someone else knock himself silly against this brick wall.
No sooner had he gotten home than Dan Moran, his associate pastor, and two of the board members knocked on the door wanting to know what was going on. They were confused. They had talked with Jack after the meeting, and he was calling for the pastor’s resignation. “If the pastor doesn’t exercise any more self-control than that, he doesn’t have the spiritual qualifications necessary to lead us,” he had said. The elders said they were having an emergency meeting the next night to discuss the situation, and they wanted to have all the facts.
Charles explained the whole story, beginning with the discomfort at the nomination, the early tensions, the blowup at breakfast, everything.
“I guess we made a mistake agreeing to the meeting with the parents tonight. You don’t explain a firing publicly; you make the decision, take the heat, and let it pass,” he concluded. “But tonight isn’t the real issue. The real issue is the direction of this church—are we going to reach out and continue to grow, or are we going to shut down our growth to concentrate on those we’ve already got?”
The whole board, minus Jack, met with Charles on Tuesday night. On Thursday night, minus Charles, they met with Jack. On Friday night, the board met with both of them. Jack raised the issue of his authority as board chairman: “The pastor isn’t in submission to me.” They discussed what it meant to be in subjection to one another. The authority of the chairman, the board, and the pastor were argued, and delineations were made. After two hours, Charles agreed to submit to the board’s authority, and Jack agreed that the chairman was “first among equals” on the board and that he, too, would submit to the authority of the board as a whole.
But Saturday morning, Jack changed his mind. He called Charles, said the situation was intolerable, and that he was resigning. Charles said, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” but didn’t try to change his mind. A congregational meeting was announced for Sunday night.
“I did not appear in the pulpit on Sunday morning,” Charles says. “I had really blown my cool the previous Sunday night, so I went to the high school class and apologized. I did not use the name of our chairman, but I explained that frustrations in the ministry had been building up and that night they boiled over. I let them know I had acted badly and I was sorry.”
Sunday night, the church was packed for the congregational meeting. Rumors and questions had been circulating: Was the pastor resigning? Had the elders fired him? What was happening?
When the chairman’s resignation was read, the crowd was silent, but the more perceptive ones knew a power play had been attempted and failed. The vote to accept the resignation was overwhelming: 498-12.
The Kentons and the Porters both stopped attending the church, but almost none of the rest of the old guard did. In the months following, congregational votes on expansion issues passed 80-20, but the 20 percent, while complaining, did not leave the church. Today, people continue to debate ways to make such a large church personal, but the ministry continues to grow. The old guard no longer threatens to leave.
“I was fortunate,” Charles concludes. “I made some tactical errors and bad judgments, but I survived because our staff was well-liked and our vision for the church was generally accepted. But if Jack Kenton had been able to gain more of a following, he could have split the church.”
War-room analysis
When two groups differ over the direction of the church, tensions naturally rise as each tries to gain the upper hand. If the issues are significant, both sides know the consequences of losing—the church won’t be the same again. All the ingredients are there for a firefight … with all the resulting casualties.
Even the New Testament church knew the pain of living as a house divided until some key issues were settled.
In Galatians 2, Paul described his power struggle with some “false brothers” over the expectations laid on Gentiles who were converting to Christianity.
It was theological, emotional, and ecclesiastical hardball. When the clash was over, the church was split, the winners—Paul, Peter, Barnabas, and Silas—going on to take the lead, write the New Testament, and turn an empire upside down. The losers faded into history, nameless characters known only as Judaizers.
The power struggle ended, we all agree, with the right side on top. The essence of the gospel was at stake. Wouldn’t it have been different, and tragic, if the wrong group had won? Yes, some wars have to be fought—and won.
Churches today have power struggles just as brutal. Most of them deal with matters of practice, not belief, but the hostilities aroused are as heated as if the essence of the gospel were at stake. One church nearly split over whether to accept a wealthy member’s designated gift of a new organ or to sell it and give the money to the poor.
A significant issue. But worth fighting for? Worth splitting a church for?
How much firepower is appropriate in a church fight? No “Geneva convention” has established any rules.
A healthy congregation doesn’t allow one or two members to set the church’s direction or change its mission. Neither is the solution open warfare.
What can we learn from the power struggle at Morningside Chapel and the multiplied thousands of others that could be told? Pastors who have won, and those who have lost, agree on several key principles.
Face into the wind. Boat captains in a storm know that running before the gale can force them onto the rocks. When faced with political typhoons, the best chance for survival is facing them directly.
Charles Westerman let himself be tossed by the wind, and his frustration built to the point of losing emotional control, almost landing him on the rocks.
“I think it was Napoleon who said, ‘Never let your enemy choose the battlefield,'” he reflects. “I don’t consider Jack Kenton an enemy, but I certainly let him choose the battlefield. I lost control. If necessary, I should have offered my resignation before the board, not before two hundred people already upset over the youth pastor.
“I should have taken our disagreement to the board from the beginning, certainly at the point when he refused to have breakfast with me,” he says. “They could have helped me gauge the strength of the opposition, instead of my losing sleep wondering. If I was out of line, they could have corrected me. If he was wrong, they could have stepped in sooner.”
Prevent church fights from becoming holy wars. Nothing is bloodier than a religious war. Issues aren’t just human squabbles; everything is elevated to eternal importance. How easy to forget that it was the devil whose tactic in Genesis 3 was getting two people to believe, “You will be like God, knowing good and evil.” How tempting even today to mistake our will for God’s; how devilish to believe that disagreeing with me is disagreeing with God.
Despite the pop spirituality that says, “Every problem is a spiritual problem,” not every disagreement is a clash between good and evil, between the divine and the demonic.
“I wish my church members could recognize that they’re just having a barroom scrap,” says a Bible church pastor. “Some people enjoy going out on Friday night and getting in a fight with the good ol’ boys. You mix it up awhile, but nobody holds it against anybody. But in the church, people have to justify their scraps, so they’re determined to cast them as the spiritual versus the unspiritual.”
Not all problems are spiritual problems. Some are just a dogged desire to disagree. If people can be given permission to disagree without having their sanctification called into question, church fights won’t be so bloody.
One Massachusetts pastor had just seen his church break ground for a new sanctuary, but the battle to get the congregation’s approval had been costly, and the funding would be a continuing struggle. The next day he was in the hospital having X-rays for severe stomach pain. His youth pastor came to his bedside.
“I know what’s bothering your stomach,” the associate said, pausing and looking out the window. “You know, Pastor, this building isn’t the greatest thing that’s going to happen for the kingdom of God in Massachusetts this week.”
“I needed that,” the pastor said after his release. “The X-rays didn’t show a thing, but Mike touched the problem directly. I realized our million-dollar building wouldn’t bring God’s kingdom one inch closer. He might choose to honor it, but the fact is he doesn’t need it, nor does he need any of our self-important efforts.”
The pastor’s stomach pain disappeared and has not returned.
Learn what you can from the opposition. Power struggles make you do your homework, forcing you to cover every angle, anticipate every criticism, and go by the book.
During a tussle over remodeling the Sunday school department, one pastor learned more about preschoolers’ developmental characteristics and square-footage requirements than he ever wanted to know because he knew the opposition would bring those things up at the board meeting. Now he is glad he had to learn those things, since his own children are preschoolers.
General Dwight Eisenhower reportedly would not make a tactical decision until he found someone who strongly opposed it. He wanted to see any weaknesses before proceeding. Some pastors have discovered that policy works in the church, too.
“I’m a better administrator because of the difficult people in my church,” says a Congregational pastor. “In one case they prevented me from hiring a staff member I really wanted. I eventually discovered they had been right about his weaknesses. In another case, their criticism of our building plans prepared me for the town council’s questions. They made me do my homework, which kept me from looking like an idiot before the community.
Finally, remember that failure is not fatal. Even if the worst happens—a power play succeeds, and a pastor is compelled to resign, whether out of frustration or the efforts of the opposition—it doesn’t mean the ministry is over. Just as one dissident isn’t the whole church (though at times the angry voice is deafening), so one pastorate is not an entire ministry. Winston Churchill once said, “Success is never final; failure is never fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts.”
Pastors who survive church wars unscathed are a small minority; those who have left a pulpit under less than happy circumstances are legion.
“When I was about to be forced out of my church,” says a Kansas pastor, “I was feeling sorry for myself until I talked with an old veteran missionary who was visiting our church. I told him my troubles and he said, ‘Phil, better men than you have been kicked out of a church. It’s not the end of the world.’ That was just what I needed.”
That pastor, at fifty-eight years old, is now happily ministering in another, though smaller, congregation.
“It’s doubtful that God can use any man greatly until he’s hurt him deeply,” said A. W. Tozer. In weakness, God’s strength can be revealed. Joseph was jailed, David driven into hiding, Paul imprisoned, and Christ crucified, but even in defeat, God’s servants are not destroyed. Part of the miracle of grace is that broken vessels can be made whole, with even more capacity than before.
Copyright © 1997
