A final word on why this series was never about them—it was always about us
There’s a question I haven’t been able to shake.
It started as a whisper, but it’s grown louder with every headline, every tweet-thread takedown, every deconstruction story that ends not in freedom, but in silence.
What if we’re the reason they hid?
What if that worship leader you loved growing up didn’t hide his struggle because he wanted to deceive anyone—but because he was terrified the Church wouldn’t understand?
What if that pastor who crashed and burned didn’t fall because he was proud, but because he was exhausted—and didn’t know where it was safe to fall?
What if the “rebellion” we so quickly condemn in others is actually the end result of years of isolation, shame, and striving for a version of holiness that never left space for healing?
What if it wasn’t their story that broke—
What if it was ours?
This whole series was born out of my own heartbreak. Heartbreak over a Christian artist I grew up admiring—now facing abuse allegations.
Not just because of what he did, but because of what we never let him say.
Because we created a world where leaders had to choose between honesty and acceptance.
And when that’s the choice, hiding feels safer—until it isn’t. Then came another story.
A Jesus Movement preacher from the 70s.
A man whose early ministry helped light a fire in churches across the country—
but who spent his final years alone, dying of AIDS, defined not by grace but by gossip. He didn’t leave the Church because he hated God.
He left because the people of God couldn’t handle the weight of his humanity.
And so he hid—until hiding became death.
And I’ve hidden too. There was a time I was pastoring, preaching, and leading—while privately drinking just to stay afloat.
Not because I didn’t love Jesus.
But because I didn’t believe I was worth enough to receive everything I needed from Him. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that my value was in what I could give.
To my church.
To my family.
To my community.
And if I wasn’t pouring out, if I wasn’t performing, then who was I?
What good was I? So I kept showing up. Kept giving. Kept leading.
While inside, I was empty.
So no, this series was never about throwing stones.
It’s not about tearing down the Church. It’s about looking at what we’ve built—and asking if it really looks like Jesus.
It’s about listening for the silence behind the stage.
It’s about owning our part in creating spaces where people feel like they have to disappear in order to belong. Because What if we’re the reason they hid? isn’t a weapon.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a call to ask ourselves:
Because until we answer those questions, we’ll keep building churches full of hidden lives and hollow leaders.
But here’s the hope: We don’t have to keep hiding.
Not from each other.
Not from ourselves.
Not from God.
We can build something new—something ancient and true.
A Church where people don’t have to earn belonging.
Where confession is a doorway, not a death sentence.
Where leaders bleed gospel—not just preach it.
Where love actually looks like Jesus.Not clean.
Not simple.
Not easy. But real.
If you’ve been hiding—there’s room at the table for you.
If you’ve been wounded—there’s healing that doesn’t require performance.
If you’ve been part of the problem—there’s grace for that too. This isn’t about shame.
This is about seeing clearly.
And choosing love anyway. Because the Church isn’t at her best when she’s big.
She’s at her best when she’s broken—and still kneels.
When she stops pretending and starts repenting.
When she stops policing and starts holding space. That’s the Church I want to be part of.
That’s the table I want to keep setting.
That’s the story I want to keep telling. And maybe—just maybe—that’s how we stop giving people a reason to hide.