By C. L.
I walk with a limp, and consequently, the pastor fired me.
I gained this limp on the first of July, exactly one year from the day I had joined the staff of Berean Baptist Church. That first year had been a great start to my short career as a music minister. Fresh out of school, I was a good match for Berean Baptist. The congregation welcomed me warmly, the choir grew quickly, and the pastor considered me the finest music minister he’d ever worked with in his thirty-plus years of ministry.
But then came the limp. On Friday night, July 1, 1994 I broke my spine. The details involve a family reunion, an old trampoline, and the sound of shattering vertebrae in my ears that faded quickly, replaced by my own voice, mid-scream. No feeling from the waist down, but an inferno of pain engulfing all the nerves that remained online. After the spinal swelling subsided, the surgeons installed two nine-inch steel rods and fused the ruined bones together. They put me in a wheelchair and shuttled me off to rehab. The people of my church prayed and prayed. In a true season of miracle, God moved and I walked home one month after the accident. Neurological injuries can’t be overcome by hard work or willpower, and there is no medical repair for broken nerve tissue. I walk today because God’s good hand was on me.
He did leave me with a limp.
I started back to work the first Sunday in September, only two months after the accident. The church applauded my rapid return, and my suit hid the shape of the bulky brace strapped around my torso. Outpatient therapy continued for several months. The music program didn’t miss a beat. That year’s Christmas program was one of the best the church had ever enjoyed.
The remnants of my injury are most noticeable in my right foot. I never regained dorsiflexion, the ability to pull that foot up or “let off the gas.” The deficiency is most evident when I play the piano. To use the sustain pedal, I clomp my whole leg up and down like a horse keeping time to the tune. Otherwise, it’s not a big hindrance to me. I don’t think about it often. It’s other people that notice your limp.
While filling up at a truck stop service station off the interstate, a member of my church watched a man enter an adult bookstore across the street. A man with a limp. It was too far away to recognize the face, but the limp was unmistakable. He’d seen it on the platform the previous Sunday. The concerned member phoned his pastor, who called secret deacon meetings. Within a month, a course of action was plotted. The pastor casually asked me to attend a Thursday night deacon’s meeting. “Just routine business. No biggie.”
I limped into the room to find a chair had been positioned for me, turned to face the group. The chair already looked accused. I took a deep breath and sat down. The pastor read a prepared statement that began, “It has come to our attention that you visited such-and-such establishment located at such-and-such address.” It ended with “you will resign during the Sunday night service this weekend.”
I didn’t try to lie. I told them about previous visits to adult bookstores to view pornography. I told them I was sorry, that I didn’t know what was wrong with me, that I was willing to find help. I asked if could take a leave of absence to sort things out. They refused. I resigned that Sunday night in February of 1995.
Thoughts on Church Discipline
Much is written for the pastor to guide him in proper handling of these situations. But I would like to offer the more rarely heard perspective of the offender. My pastor’s choices had enormous impact on me then, and they continue to mark me today.
Matthew 18:15-17 is often the scriptural blueprint for such interactions, and I’ll use it here as well.
Moreover if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother (Matt. 18:15).
My pastor should have confronted me one on one. Inviting me to a deacons’ meeting under false pretenses only established an atmosphere of distrust. It sent the message that this meeting was about controlling me, not confronting me. The outcome of the situation was preplanned and extra hands were there to ensure it. But to discuss the matter “between thee and him alone” leaves room for denial and misunderstanding and accusation. I believe that’s why Christ urged individual confrontation as a first step. It should be scary and unpredictable, so that we confront prayerfully and humbly. This model of one-on-one confrontation makes us vulnerable. Paul describes it as meekness in Galatians 6:1 when he says, “if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness.”
Notice the end of Matthew 18:15. The hope of one-on-one confrontation is “to gain a brother.” When my pastor bypassed this step, he closed the door on a chance for the intimacy confession always brings. Even if he still required that I resign, he could have shepherded me through a difficult journey. Instead, he chose control over vulnerability, leverage over love. He didn’t confront me—he contained me.
But if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established (Matt. 18:16).
I appreciate how Jesus carefully expands the sphere of people involved. If individual confrontation is met with denial, include just one or two more when you return. God is aware of a difficult dynamic at play in the heart of the offending brother. Coming to terms with secret sin is usually a process, not a one-time event. That first confrontation may be too scary to admit much of anything. The offender may minimize his sin or deflect blame. He may have lived years in denial within his own heart. So if the initial response to the individual confrontation isn’t mature or complete, don’t assume this is a flat refusal to hear. If you’ve confronted with vulnerability the first time, returning with a compassionate partner or two will bring strength to the confrontation. In an environment of compassion (we care) accompanied by strength (we care enough pursue the truth with you), the offending brother may be willing to come out of hiding.
Have faith that the Spirit of God has worked since your first conversation. Christ ends his thought on this process in Matthew 18:20. “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” This often misquoted promise was made in the context of confronting your brother’s sin. Expect Christ to be present in the process.
And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican (Matt. 18:17).
Never is the goal to force confession and remorse. If it were all aimed toward a guilty verdict, the process would move into evidence and eyewitness testimony. The goal is that the church live in truth. If the offender is unable to join them in the truth, he must leave.
After I resigned, I attended Berean Baptist for more than a year. I found other work in the area, sought some professional Christian counseling and quietly became part of the congregation. When a new music minister was hired, I joined the choir. And although the pastor had expressed his commitment to “walk with me through my restoration,” he never asked me how I was doing. Not once. I think he was waiting for me to follow standard church procedure and leave town in shame. He seemed unsure and awkward around me.
But I was finding healing in living in the light, in the place where people knew the worst of me and still shook my hand. My relationships became deep, and those I’d hurt found healing too. I learned what it is to be forgiven. It’s like stepping out of the shadows to let the sun warm your face.
The pastor attempted to control, which is always an illusion at best. Though I had a long way to go, I decided to walk toward truth. In that surrender, I began to experience healing and freedom. In choosing control over surrender, the pastor was left on the outside looking in. Sadly, he was unable to join in the redemption.
Father, thank you for the limp.
