33 VOLUME 10 |ISSUE 1 |2019
and giving our time exclusively to the programs, classes, and
schedule of our little church, dropping the kids off with a
babysitter and spending an 8-hour day answering phones or
assembling mailers was a piece of cake.
But then, just a few months before the crusade, trouble came
knocking.
The father of a former member of the church reported to
the Pastor’s Committee that our pastor had attempted to
seduce the former member’s daughter, a single woman in her
twenties. His daughter also told him of other young women in
the church whom the pastor also had approached. Phone calls
were made, letters were exchanged, accusations were denied
(vehemently), victims were hated (by us), and our volunteers
began to note a distinct chill in the air at the crusade office.
I don’t recall if we requested a meeting with
the committee, or the committee requested
a meeting with us but a meeting was
scheduled. I didn’t think it strange at the
time that our pastor demanded that he, his
associate pastor, his brother, and his deacons
(of which I was one) all be included in the
meeting but that was his demand, despite
the committee’s desire that he meet alone
with them to address the allegations. So there
we were, the leadership team of our little church—striding
into the crusade office to meet with the committee. The dark
suits we all wore that warm June day were very uncomfortable
and, given the jeans and business-casual nature of the Pastor’s
Committee, were out of place. I suppose our pastor thought
such a presentation was a show of force.
The meeting was awkward, forced, and very uncomfortable.
It seemed clear to me that the committee members did not
want to discuss specific allegations about our pastor in front
of those of us he’d brought to the meeting. Our point was that
the Pastor’s Committee had not followed the biblical direction
for confronting a fellow believer whom one suspected of sin.
They should have privately contacted the pastor, we argued.
They should have ensured that not a whisper of scandal was
allowed in the office. Our pastor had been wronged, and so
we were wronged. His reputation and good standing in the
community was under attack by religious professionals and
worst of all, the committee refused to divulge just who had
lodged the complaint. We felt it was a matter of fairness that
the identity of our pastor’s accuser be made known—and
that the committee confront our pastor openly, along with
his accuser. (Note to self: When the pastor of a church of 40
people says he can’t figure out which former member has
lodged a complaint of sexual harassment or assault against
him, he’s lying.) So we sat through the meeting, which lasted
all of a half hour or so. There was no conclusion, no decision,
no next step—just a “Goodbye thanks for coming in we’ll be
in touch.”
A strange thing happened to me in the moments after the
meeting. As we were leaving the meeting room, one of the
committee members, the pastor of a large church in Portland,
pulled me aside. He was a soft-spoken man, and very kind. No
one noticed that he’d singled me out, and the office around us
appeared to me to become suddenly still and quiet. He shook
my hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, “Ken, I really
like your spirit. I appreciate your heart. Thank you for coming
in.” He paused. “You’re a good guy, Ken.”
Then, the room became animated again—we were walking out
of the meeting, typists were typing (it was 1992), papers were
being shuffled, and phones were ringing. We walked out of the
building into the summer heat and drove home, to the large
house where several of us lived communally with the pastor.
Most of the church members were waiting for us there—they
had gathered for prayer during the time of the meeting
and were eager to hear of how the meeting went: what the
committee said and what we said, and what
the conclusion of the whole affair might
be. Would our pastor be vindicated? Would
the committee see that he’d been set up,
that the devil was doubtlessly attacking our
little, faithful church, to thwart the goals and
hard work that had gone into making the
crusade a success? Would these pastors and
seminary professors see the obvious attack
on our pastor by a disgruntled ex-member!? We immediately
returned home to report to a group that had gathered to
pray for us. We gave a blow-by-blow account of the meeting,
presenting the committee as less than knowledgeable, and
even a bit intimidated by our bearing, our comments, and our
dark suits.
Within days our pastor crafted a tome that rivaled any of the
epistles of the New Testament and mailed it to the committee.
In the letter he chided the committee members for their
unbiblical approach to the issue and their slander against our
pastor and he reminded them of the great sacrifices of service
being made by our volunteers in their office. It was quite a
document—just biblical enough to dodge overt criticism, and
angry and defensive enough to rebuke the committee. We all
praised the pastor for the letter he’d written. I certainly joined
in the applause. But deep down, I was a bit embarrassed of it.
All in all, it was quite defensive and seemed certain to further
alienate our church from the crusade.
Within a week all of our members who had volunteered for
the coming crusade, each and every one, received a letter
from the Pastor’s Committee, notifying us that we had been
identified as belonging to a group of which grave allegations
had been made, and that, while our support thus far was
much appreciated, we were no longer welcome to volunteer
for the crusade. We were fired from the most welcoming,
ecumenical, big-tent ministry on the planet. All kinds of
Christians were welcomed by the Billy Graham team, for
goodness sakes...! Not us, however.
The expulsion of our church had a very profound effect on the
church generally, and on me. As a church community, the pink
Who gets
kicked out of
a Billy Graham
crusade?!
and giving our time exclusively to the programs, classes, and
schedule of our little church, dropping the kids off with a
babysitter and spending an 8-hour day answering phones or
assembling mailers was a piece of cake.
But then, just a few months before the crusade, trouble came
knocking.
The father of a former member of the church reported to
the Pastor’s Committee that our pastor had attempted to
seduce the former member’s daughter, a single woman in her
twenties. His daughter also told him of other young women in
the church whom the pastor also had approached. Phone calls
were made, letters were exchanged, accusations were denied
(vehemently), victims were hated (by us), and our volunteers
began to note a distinct chill in the air at the crusade office.
I don’t recall if we requested a meeting with
the committee, or the committee requested
a meeting with us but a meeting was
scheduled. I didn’t think it strange at the
time that our pastor demanded that he, his
associate pastor, his brother, and his deacons
(of which I was one) all be included in the
meeting but that was his demand, despite
the committee’s desire that he meet alone
with them to address the allegations. So there
we were, the leadership team of our little church—striding
into the crusade office to meet with the committee. The dark
suits we all wore that warm June day were very uncomfortable
and, given the jeans and business-casual nature of the Pastor’s
Committee, were out of place. I suppose our pastor thought
such a presentation was a show of force.
The meeting was awkward, forced, and very uncomfortable.
It seemed clear to me that the committee members did not
want to discuss specific allegations about our pastor in front
of those of us he’d brought to the meeting. Our point was that
the Pastor’s Committee had not followed the biblical direction
for confronting a fellow believer whom one suspected of sin.
They should have privately contacted the pastor, we argued.
They should have ensured that not a whisper of scandal was
allowed in the office. Our pastor had been wronged, and so
we were wronged. His reputation and good standing in the
community was under attack by religious professionals and
worst of all, the committee refused to divulge just who had
lodged the complaint. We felt it was a matter of fairness that
the identity of our pastor’s accuser be made known—and
that the committee confront our pastor openly, along with
his accuser. (Note to self: When the pastor of a church of 40
people says he can’t figure out which former member has
lodged a complaint of sexual harassment or assault against
him, he’s lying.) So we sat through the meeting, which lasted
all of a half hour or so. There was no conclusion, no decision,
no next step—just a “Goodbye thanks for coming in we’ll be
in touch.”
A strange thing happened to me in the moments after the
meeting. As we were leaving the meeting room, one of the
committee members, the pastor of a large church in Portland,
pulled me aside. He was a soft-spoken man, and very kind. No
one noticed that he’d singled me out, and the office around us
appeared to me to become suddenly still and quiet. He shook
my hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, “Ken, I really
like your spirit. I appreciate your heart. Thank you for coming
in.” He paused. “You’re a good guy, Ken.”
Then, the room became animated again—we were walking out
of the meeting, typists were typing (it was 1992), papers were
being shuffled, and phones were ringing. We walked out of the
building into the summer heat and drove home, to the large
house where several of us lived communally with the pastor.
Most of the church members were waiting for us there—they
had gathered for prayer during the time of the meeting
and were eager to hear of how the meeting went: what the
committee said and what we said, and what
the conclusion of the whole affair might
be. Would our pastor be vindicated? Would
the committee see that he’d been set up,
that the devil was doubtlessly attacking our
little, faithful church, to thwart the goals and
hard work that had gone into making the
crusade a success? Would these pastors and
seminary professors see the obvious attack
on our pastor by a disgruntled ex-member!? We immediately
returned home to report to a group that had gathered to
pray for us. We gave a blow-by-blow account of the meeting,
presenting the committee as less than knowledgeable, and
even a bit intimidated by our bearing, our comments, and our
dark suits.
Within days our pastor crafted a tome that rivaled any of the
epistles of the New Testament and mailed it to the committee.
In the letter he chided the committee members for their
unbiblical approach to the issue and their slander against our
pastor and he reminded them of the great sacrifices of service
being made by our volunteers in their office. It was quite a
document—just biblical enough to dodge overt criticism, and
angry and defensive enough to rebuke the committee. We all
praised the pastor for the letter he’d written. I certainly joined
in the applause. But deep down, I was a bit embarrassed of it.
All in all, it was quite defensive and seemed certain to further
alienate our church from the crusade.
Within a week all of our members who had volunteered for
the coming crusade, each and every one, received a letter
from the Pastor’s Committee, notifying us that we had been
identified as belonging to a group of which grave allegations
had been made, and that, while our support thus far was
much appreciated, we were no longer welcome to volunteer
for the crusade. We were fired from the most welcoming,
ecumenical, big-tent ministry on the planet. All kinds of
Christians were welcomed by the Billy Graham team, for
goodness sakes...! Not us, however.
The expulsion of our church had a very profound effect on the
church generally, and on me. As a church community, the pink
Who gets
kicked out of
a Billy Graham
crusade?!
