Intro Blog: The Ache that Started it All
I didn’t expect to cry that morning. was just scrolling—half-distracted, half-avoiding the things I didn’t want to feel. But then I saw it: an article about a Christian music artist I adored as a kid. One of the voices that shaped the soundtrack of my early faith. His songs played in my first car, echoed in youth group retreats, and gave language to my teenage hunger for God.And now, there he was—facing abuse allegations.
I read the article three times, each line heavier than the last. Not because I wanted to deny the damage. But because I couldn’t stop wondering what might have been different if he hadn’t felt like he had to hide.What if honesty hadn’t felt like professional suicide?
What if there had been space for complexity—in his heart, in his story, in our faith?
What if the Church had been the place he could be fully human, rather than the stage where he had to perform godliness?
Because hiding doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
And sometimes, what we think is accountability is actually just the fear of being abandoned if we're fully known.
On that very same website another story found me.
This one was about a preacher from the 1970s Jesus Movement—a man who had helped ignite revival. A man whose words stirred thousands. But now, decades later, his name shows up mostly in debates. Not about his sermons or his passion for Christ—but about how he died.
He was a man who wrestled with his identity. With belonging. With a longing to be known and loved that didn’t fit the binary boxes the Church offered him. He lived with shame. He died with AIDS. Alone.
And all I could think was:
He didn’t die because of who he was. He died because of what we told him he wasn’t allowed to be.
Because the Church has often demanded clarity where life gives complexity.
We’ve preached clean lines when most people are tangled knots.
We’ve told people they had to choose between being honest and being accepted—and when that’s the choice, too many choose silence.
And maybe they never should have had to.
I know that feeling too.
There were seasons I preached sermons about grace and ordered drinks in dark bars—not because I didn’t believe the words I was saying, but because I didn’t know how to handle the weight of all I was carrying. I thought if people saw the struggle, they’d question the calling. So I kept performing in church, in family, in everything.
Smiling.
Pretending.
Because I learned—like so many of us do—that being "above reproach" meant being above humanity. That struggle made you suspect. That leaders had to be everything for everyone... and nothing too real for anyone.
But that’s not how healing happens.
That’s not how Jesus lived.
And it’s certainly not the Church He came to build.
This series is my way of wrestling out loud. Not to tear the Church down—I still believe in her. I still love her.
But I also believe we’ve gotten some things painfully wrong.
So over the next five blogs, we’ll explore what it might look like to do different:
To rethink how we hold each other accountable.
To redefine what it means to be “above reproach.”
To remember that the call to follow Jesus has never been about image—it’s always been about grace.
Because maybe people aren’t hiding sin.
Maybe they’re hiding themselves.
And maybe it’s not because they’re afraid of God—but because they’re afraid of us.
If you’ve ever felt like you had to earn your belonging—this is for you.
If you’ve ever wondered whether the Church could handle the truth of your story—this is for you.
And if you’re willing to reimagine a Church that feels less like a stage and more like a family—this is for you, too.
Let’s stop demanding simplicity from people God made complex.
Let’s stop offering grace with conditions.
Let’s build something better—together.
Because Jesus still meets people on roads of shame.
Still breaks bread with the doubters.
Still reaches for the ones who think they have to stay hidden.
And if He’s not afraid of our full stories—maybe we shouldn’t be either.