The Day I Crashed My Car Into the Church

I own a 15-year-old Toyota that just won’t die, in spite of my neglect. Since I am not in the habit of buying a new car until the old one has broken beyond all repair, the old Toyota sits forlornly in our backyard as our spare vehicle for occasions when our three kids need to go in four different directions at the same time.

However, my wife refuses, point-blank to drive it because down the right-hand side of the vehicle is an enormous great gash that might cause one to assume that the driver of this vehicle is prone to accidents. The bumper hangs a little lower on one side than the other, but the gaff tape is holding firm at this stage. My makeshift repair job does not satisfy my wife’s fear of judgment at the hands of the other school moms.

Therefore, whenever we require two vehicles at once, I am consigned to the old wreck in the backyard while my wife zooms off in the air-conditioned comfort of our more modern SUV.

The car crash

The story of how the old Toyota came to be in such poor condition harkens back to a time when I was employed as a pastor in a local church. It was a Saturday morning when, rather than spending my time enjoying the weekend with my family, I was hard at work preparing another sermon that the congregation would largely forget before most of them arrived at Sunday lunch.

This is what pastors do.

Up to my neck in biblical exegesis and in need of inspiration, I remembered a book on the bookshelf of my office at the church that might provide the tonic I needed for my spiritual writer’s block. “I’m just popping down to the church to grab something,” I said to my wife, who rolled her eyes at the all-too-familiar refrain. “I won’t be too long.”

I threw on my flip-flops, jumped in the Toyota, and drove off.

When I arrived at the church, rather than park in the main carpark, it was my habit to park around the back, near the church offices. Those offices were located at the end of a long and very steep driveway, so I would usually drive fairly quickly to make it up the hill in one go. As I neared the top and approached the church building, I went to press down on the brake pedal.

Let me pause here to give you a free piece of advice: Don’t drive a car while wearing flip-flops. Got that? Good.

When I went to stop the car, I found my feet and my shoes in a tangled mess with the pedals. I am not known for my coordination, but this was something else. Suddenly, instead of braking, the car lurched forwards — accelerating, thundering towards the building.

Before I could stop the car, it smashed headlong through the double glass doors of the church office, showering glass and plasterboard everywhere. The almighty crash drew out the neighbors keen to investigate the lunatic who appeared to be on some kind of ram-raid mission, out to steal some Bibles, no doubt.

Somewhat surprisingly, when I overcame the shock of what had just happened, I was able to reverse the car out of the church building. The inner workings of the vehicle were not damaged by the incident. The only evidence that remains of my car’s chance encounter with the church building is an enormous great gash that might cause one to assume that the driver of the vehicle was prone to accidents, and the bumper hangs a little lower on one side than the other, but the gaff tape is holding firm at this stage.

No regrets

My car, like my life, carries with it the scars of my former life as an evangelical Christian and pastor. When I pulled that car out of the church, it was damaged. When I pulled myself and my family out of the church, we were damaged too.

As I process my wounding at the hands of the Lord’s faithful, I am finding that I am able to articulate the things about the church that I really found hurtful. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of friendly people in the church as well, but the whole darn system left me broken.

So, do I feel bad about crashing my car into the church?

Actually, no.

It sort of feels wrong to say it, but I don’t feel bad about leaving some scars on the building that left its scars on me. Call me bitter and angry if you like, but I’m on a journey, and that journey starts by calling out the things that the church did that really hurt. Here are a few for starters:

The church made me feel that God doesn’t love me

I was told my entire life that I was a depraved and wicked sinner — that even my very best was nothing more than filthy rags to God. God was made to seem like an arm-folding, eye-rolling, head-shaking, fist-waving, disapproving megalomaniac, who is impossible to please and constantly unimpressed with pretty much everything I do. What is more, the church made it seem like God, with a heaving sigh, begrudgingly came and died for my sins and that I ought to feel guilty about making him die in the first place.

The church lied about my victorious life

The church promised that if I followed Christ, I would live a victorious life — free from strife, trouble, disease, and poverty. It taught that success and prosperity were an automatic side-effect of Christian belief — notwithstanding the fact that most of the Christians in the world are poor. The church painted an unrealistically rosy picture of the future and, as such, failed to prepare me for the inevitable challenges of life and failed to equip me with a robust faith that could stand up to the existential questions that have confronted me.

The church gossiped about my family and me

Unfortunately, when you are the leader of a church, you really can’t go to anyone in your church with your problems, doubts, or struggles. It is a sad indictment on the church, but my experience taught me that you did not share anything with another person in the church that you were not happy for everyone to know.

The church fosters a culture of gossip and slander, talking to others about your personal life under the guise of pastoral care. For every Christian who genuinely asks you for your “prayer requests,” there is another who is really after some juicy tidbit about your life that they could spread around to make their own colorless existence slightly more interesting for a few days.

The church used the Bible to oppress people I love

The church used Biblical texts to support its own ideas and prejudices — generally against anything or anyone perceived as a threat to their well-ordered universe. They used the Bible to bash gays, suppress women, silence children, and elevate white, heterosexual men above all others in the church — taking text after biblical text out of context and using them to control, manipulate and exploit.

The church loaded me up with religious obligation

The church loaded up my week with religious activities and made me feel like a bad Christian if I didn’t attend. I once got in trouble for spending Saturday with my family instead of attending the church working bee. My life was hyper-scheduled with prayer meetings, potluck suppers, and Bible studies, while God’s command to observe a Sabbath and have a rest was largely neglected in favor of a flurry of supposedly spiritual activity.

The church had no answers for my pain

The church possesses and maintains a simplistic and damaging theology of suffering. They are no better than the friends of Job, who told him that his time of pain and suffering was ostensibly his own fault. Therefore, the church became a place where I would check my pain out at the door, put on a fake smile, and pretend that I was living a blessed life. I suspect I was not the only one doing this.

The church brushed off my doubts and questions

The church has a way of brushing off very reasonable questions and doubts with glib catchphrases and Christian cliches. I was and am still, made out to be a terrible Christian because had the gall to wonder why a loving God could permit suffering in the world. I was called a hell-bound heretic when I started to wonder if everything in the Bible ought not to be taken literally. I was berated for wanting to engage with the hard questions of life and simply told instead to “have more faith.”

The church played favorites

As someone who has seen behind the pastoral curtain, I know that more time, attention, and care is given to those who put the most money in the offering plate on a Sunday. High-capacity people who could do a lot to benefit the church as also the beneficiaries of the lion’s share of the pastor’s time, while the very people who need the church the most — the broken, the hurting, and the poor — are largely ignored.

The church was after my money

I always felt pressured to give more money. It was strongly implied that my financial gifts would somehow unlock the blessing of God over my life — as if God could somehow be bought off in such a way. I was appalled when I learned that most of the funds given to the church in good faith are used to fund the church machine — bigger buildings and higher salaries.

The church blamed Satan for everything

When it comes to blaming Satan and his evil angels, I have heard it all: Depression is caused by demons; Gender dysphoria is caused by demons; Drinking alcohol, dancing, listening to rock music, and generally enjoying life is “of the devil”; Illness is caused by demons; homosexuality is caused by demons. And I could go on with this nonsense. Has anyone paused to consider that maybe the church’s abuse of power and control is caused by demons?

The church misused power to maintain the status quo

Just about every church I have been part of, including as a pastor, was run by patriarchal families who fought to preserve their power at all costs. It bears more similarity to the Mafia than it does to the Kingdom of God. Dissenting voices were silenced. Legitimate questions were quashed. The church became an essentially political organization where people postured and maneuvered to gain positions and titles.

The church belittled my wife and women in general

My wife was unable to participate fully in the life of the church because she is a woman. She was labeled as a bad mother because she is a free-thinking, independent woman with career aspirations rather than a stay-at-home housemaid. Her gifts were dismissed because she is a woman. The assumption was made that an incompetent man would be better in leadership simply because he is a man.

The church treats its own terribly

The church is a law unto itself — justifying its terrible decisions and behavior by assuming that it has the blessing of God. Many of its archaic policies and procedures would be unacceptable in a secular environment. Volunteers and staff as treated as expendable objects to achieve a particular end. Above all, those who are brave enough to raise a prophetic voice against the church, calling it out for its unjust practices, are treated the same way as the prophets were treated in the Old Testament. They are ignored, dismissed, and labeled as crazy.

The church did not act like a family

The church likes to speak as though it is a spiritual family forged by the unbreakable bond of the Spirit, but when your day of trouble comes, don’t expect them to be there for you. My experience tells me when you stop going to church and paying your tithe, expect the phone to stop ringing. It’s as if you never existed to them.

Time to fix that old car

I know, I know.

I really should forgive the church.

But forgiveness takes time — the same as it took time to fix my old Toyota. In fact, it wasn’t until ten years passed before I finally took my car down to the panel beater to get that old gash fixed.

The scar on my car represented more than just the fracturing and twisting of metal. In a strange way, it became a symbol of how the church broke me.

But, my car is now fixed. So, my soul is next.

Let’s go! It’s time for a drive!

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This post was previously published on Backyard Church.

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