A Tale to Tell: Our Story

Some wanted me dead. Others, buried. But I'm alive, we are well, and God is good.

PREFACE 

I’ll not belabor any points in this synopsis of what has transpired beyond what is necessary to accomplish my goals (more on those goals in a moment). Neither will I make any claim that cannot be substantiated with legally disclosable phone records, texts, or written documentation that has already been sent to Protestia for their full review, in anticipation that they will fully vet every claim prior to publishing anything I might provide them. I’ll remind the reader than in the days following my "disgracing" that Protestia acted publicly, appropriately, and impartially and were commended by all for how they approached the situation that was of my making. I fully trust them to handle this matter as well, impartially, and with respect to facts.  

Every jot and tittle, every document, every page of (my own) legal discovery, every email and record, has been sent to them at my insistence (and theirs) with nothing to hide except redactions required by law. They have been tasked with reviewing those before taking any of these documents or the facts they contain for granted. They’ve also been tasked with reviewing every word I have written to make sure they are a proper representation of those facts. You can rest assured that they have access to everything pertinent to this situation that may legally be given to them. The information they have is not one sided, but two sided, both accusatory and exculpatory. 

The next caveat to this premise is that nothing in this synopsis of events now unfolded is designed to exonerate me in the public eye from the accusation of sin as it pertains to addiction to a prescription drug, the neglect of my family over the years, in dedication to polemics, and the like.  

At this point in my life, as I write this betwixt farm chores as the sun rises, I can say that Christ has put my guilt to death. I can't live my life in constant grief over my prior addiction to a prescription drug and the concentric circles of failures related to it, which God “freed indeed” (John 8:36) almost immediately as the aforementioned events unfolded. For me, the constant thoughts of failure and remorse have been a pervasive, never-ending fixation in quite literally every hour of the day. If I believe what I once preached, that God forgives freely as a condition met at the cross, then living in a purgatory of shame preaches to myself a contradictory message.  

I have sought forgiveness from my wife and children, my former church, my extended family, my friends, and others. Most have forgiven me. Some have not. But whether they forgive, or are convinced of my sincerity, is quite literally none of my business.  

I’m also writing this for two other reasons, neither of which is personal vindictiveness. First, I can help people who have gone through situations similar to mine. Jesus doesn’t leave you. He doesn’t forsake you. You may not feel him, but He’s there. Feelings are inconsequential. God is for you. He is not against you. Chastisement is good. God blesses us through correction.  

And second, I’m writing this to give counsel to those who aspire to do what I once did: make a difference, slay giants, take on the world, and point out error while pointing to Christ. If lessons are lost in my testimony, it would be significantly more tragic than my testimony alone. What I always wanted in my heart-of-hearts was to put in my time as a warrior and move to a small farm to build a self-sufficient and sustainable lifestyle with my wife and kids. Time after time, I asked my elders for the time necessary to focus on those things and to provide the man-power necessary for the work to go forward without me. I did not anticipate that this is how I would realize those goals. 

The journey was awful. The destination is everything I hoped it would be. Finally, I am not writing this to return to ministry in any way. I have been abundantly clear that when a minister is disqualified, he is permanently so. I cannot foresee a time to return to a pulpit, nor the theological argument for it. And neither do I have the desire. I’m not convinced there are too few in ministry, but that there are too many. There are better men than I, more gifted, and more tried, who should have that honor, men that the world is not worthy of (Hebrews 11:38). I'm not one, and that’s okay. I have what God wants me to have. 
 

WHERE I AM NOW, AN ACT OF GRACE UPON GRACE 

Delaying for a moment events back in Montana, I found myself back in the Midwest. With the church situation being what it was, my eldest daughter decided to get married at a beautiful glass cathedral nestled away in the Ozark mountains with intimate guests consisting of the closest friends and family. The deacons in the church cornered her shortly after I left for rehab, while they were still demanding my wife divorce me, and told her that they would be happy to ‘give her away’ at her wedding instead of her father (which, as I understand it, was for her a repulsive notion). Within weeks of settling temporarily in a rental home with us, she and her new husband decided to stay nearby instead of moving away to her husband’s home state. This was a source of incredible joy for me.  

However, fresh out of treatment for an addiction to prescription Xanax, employment could have become a problem. I had success in private business and sales in my earliest days as a pastor, but other than an unused M.A. in History (God only knew where my diploma was), speaking, writing, and activism was my only trade and I wanted nothing to do with polemics or religion or politics so that was not a viable option. So, I applied for many jobs and took the first one that didn’t require work on Sunday and didn’t include preferred pronouns in the HR letters I received asking me to an interview.  

As God would have it, that employer was a devout Christian man. He did not own a Christian business, but a secular one, which happened to be staffed with Christians and played Christian music and gave Bibles as gifts to new clients. Also providentially, I didn’t hear a single Hillsong album on the company Pandora account playing over the office speakers. Surely, this was divine intervention.  

My two years at this business was a time of essential recovery for me as a human being. I focused on doing the best job I could do and – thankfully – being home for dinner. I took the kids to school, did the chores, ate dinner at the table and so-on (you know, like regular dad stuff). My employer and colleagues prioritized family and made clear that family came first. I cannot emphasize enough how much that business was a Godsend for me personally. I was promoted, given great pay raises to compensate my talents, and it has been and continues to be rewarding and fulfilling. I work in finance, and it provided me a nice, quiet office to talk to wonderful clients and go home at the end of day with stories of all the interesting people I get to meet. Often, I pray with them.  

When my colleagues eventually discovered the notoriousness of my past, mostly because I sat in jail for 5 days, and they began to Google, I was amazed that they were taken back but not repulsed.  

They saw the things I stood for, the things I taught, and the positions I took from a conservative Christian worldview, and believed I was doing a good job for them. They gave me space, as a human, for God to do whatever He was doing in my life and were supportive to me both at home and at work. Being occupied, being busy, and working hard was an essential part of my spiritual recovery. Taking thoughts captive is easier when you have a job to do. When accusations of embezzlement came to light, I gave them what I could legally give them to document the false claims, but they were wholly uninterested. My supervisor told me, “Ok, but I don’t need this. I didn’t believe it for a minute. We all know you.” They were, and still are, incredible blessings. 

Meanwhile, we ended up in our current location due to a job offer Mandy received. We were thrown for a loop when the Christian hospital, which paid for our move, rejected her Covid vaccination religious exemption and, on appeal, said that they did not find her religious beliefs to be sincere. She took a different job in a different geographical direction with a secular hospital that accepted her religious exemption, so we again set out to buy a small farm that would be closer to her work than mine. 

We purchased a beautiful property that was built in 1900 and was farmed so long ago the foundation stones were quarried by hand. It lacked the infrastructure of fences and animal housing, and its wells were long abandoned, but those were to make glorious projects to occupy my time and my mind. I’ll explain that neat story for the glory of God.  

When I was suffering from what we now know was withdrawal, I went to the emergency room for uncontrolled seizures, and the doctors prescribed more Xanax because the initial diagnosis was panic attacks. This led to my life-flight to a hospital four hours away and sent me into a terrible spiral over the course of two weeks of on Xanax-off Xanax, not realizing “the cure was worse than the disease.” While I was seizing, my eldest son – then 16 years old and 6-feet-7-inches tall - tried to keep me from falling more times than I like to think about. I would hit the floor with such force that I tore the rotator cuffs in both my shoulders. I was completely unable to lift any object, or even reach around to tuck in my shirt. My parents’ family doctor quickly explained the catastrophic damage to my shoulders by those falls and told me, much to my chagrin, that (for example) I would never be able to pull back a bow again, at least without surgery.  

It turns out that the physical work on the farm, in those early days, was perfect physical rehab. Within months, I had pounded hundreds of fence posts despite the fact that when I began the project, my son had to help lift the driver. By the time my fences were up, my shoulders had been healed by the repetitive motion of lifting a manual post-hole driver over my head and back down upon the post. Also, I’m hitting the bullseyes with the bow at 50 yards. I tell the story to explain God’s working in and through all of this for my good.  

But what about school? We have always homeschooled or Christian schooled, and the prospect of sending our kids to public school would have resulted, in our view, in another failure of mine. As God would have it, there is nearby a small and conservative Bible Church school with the same curriculum that the kids had left behind. Its teachers are dutiful and kind, loving and supportive of my family. And surely, the school with its small enrollment makes little to no money from its modest tuition. But it is ideal for my family and exactly the type of environment my kids needed at the time and from which they continue to benefit. I inquired as to what views they hold, ranging from creation to Communism, and they are solid in doctrine and loving in spirit.         

The first several churches I went to in the area, Reformed Baptist Churches, were uncomfortable. One pastor acknowledged me on the back row and said they were praying for me, but I wanted to crawl under the pew. Another said a line would form to meet me after services, because they were all “fans,” so I left before the service was over to avoid that. Another church, with a fine pastor, was very kind but told us they were Southern Baptists and suggested we might want to attend elsewhere. Our current church is a larger “Bible Church” (think of it as IFB without the label) and it’s wonderful. They’ve been putting Protestia information in their newsletter for longer than I’ve attended, which tickles me pink. They have been kind enough to walk me through all of this, and it was no easy task to convince me (with my wife’s help) I could take Communion again. My position, for nearly two years, was, “I’m under discipline, I should not.” They’ve reminded me of all the facts about forgiveness and repentance I thought I knew, but I still needed it preached to me. And they’ve also helped me come around to the realization that a church is indeed the Body of Christ but doesn’t have sway over the eternal state of your soul.  

BACK TO MONTANA 

After my DUI on prescription Xanax, I submitted my resignation. It was rejected, and more than one person expressed anger that I would ask. You really must understand our ecclesiology to grasp that. The pastor, we believe, serves the church on behalf of God, and the church determines whether to release (or call) that pastor. In other words, in our ecclesiology, the pastor serves at God’s pleasure, which the church has authority to bind or loose, based upon their judgment of the Almighty’s will. I recognize this is hard for some to understand in an environment in which the typical pastor comes and goes within a period of two years. In our theological circles, a pastor’s call is much more permanent. Quibble with the doctrine, but it is what it is, and I generally agree with it.  

I told the church they would come to regret the decision to refuse my resignation, and they should brace themselves for the fallout to follow. It was during this several-week period when I began to experience life-threatening withdrawal symptoms of Xanax. The feeling of withdrawal is the most traumatic situation in which I’ve ever found myself. The best I can describe it is to say there is a sudden onset of the feeling of falling, regardless of whether you are standing, sitting, or lying down. If you’ve ever clapped your hands near newborns, you’ve seen the way they jostle their hands in surprise (awake or not). That’s what it looks and feels like.  

During this time, I was in a legal fight that was taking a toll on me. A lawsuit was filed against me by a transgender activist, for libel, after I printed the details of an event that were told to me by confidential sources. I discovered well after the lawsuit began that the details shared with me were not factual. My confidential sources included shareholders in one of my publications. To put it mildly, I could not hand their information over without involving them in the lawsuit. Additionally, my business partners were prominent politicos, and I simply couldn’t put them in jeopardy. The attorneys working for the transgender activist also worked for Planned Parenthood, and the attorney he (the activist) hired to head things up is now the current candidate for Lt. Governor. Meanwhile, the case was brought before a judge, far out of my district, who was notoriously liberal and went out of her way to label me a homophobe before hearing the case.  

Enter paranoia. During this time, I became aware that there was at least one private detective tasked to follow me, whether from the bottomless pockets of those who funded that lawsuit, I do not know. Also, a public health nurse whom my publication put pressure upon amidst her draconian lockdown policies (she ended up resigning) hired a private investigator to follow me, and that is by her own admission via social media. I put up cameras, I had bug-detecting equipment in my offices, I took different routes home, and so on. None of this was healthy. At the time, we were helping Canadians (legally) immigrate to the United States, and beyond, when their government threatened to confiscate children who were unvaccinated. Because we all feared the consequences of the Canadian government, much operational security was required. My life was already full of paranoia. I received death threats on at least three occasions, most credibly from a cult member belonging to the Twelve Tribes Cult (he was put in jail for driving by the house making gun gestures at my family) and, notably, from Clayton Jennings’ followers. Regarding the latter, the FBI contacted me to say the threats were coming from a nearby motel and were credible, but later determined the phone numbers were being ‘spoofed.’ Nonetheless, paranoia and I became bedfellows. None of this paranoia was healthy, to put it mildly.  

Meanwhile, as I was breaking from the pressure of taking on way too many tasks and getting dopamine overloads from snorting the cocaine of good deeds, the only way out of my legal jeopardy was bankruptcy  to  stop them from unmasking my partners and to give my foes as little as possible, as they would just turn around and then sink that money into whatever gosh-awful cause they chose. The judge was poised to sanction me for speaking about the case and likely, on more than one occasion, calling her a name or two at public rallies. Moving the case out of her court, into a federal bankruptcy court, was the end solution. The mea culpa (Latin for “my bad”) I had to offer was then characterized by the mainstream media as “Pastor Admits to Fabricating Story” which, of course, is not at all what happened.  

This false headline broke the same time as my DUI arrest. I was an absolute mess. Compounded with seizures and withdrawals, when I found an old prescription for Xanax in my luggage, apparently, I didn’t hesitate to down it. I say “apparently,” because the next thing I remember is being in a headlock and dropped off at a hospital without shoes and told never to come back home by two of our deacons. 

My lack of memory has been used multiple times, in my back-and-forth with the church leadership, begging for their forgiveness, as substantiation that I am unrepentant. Surely I remember what transpired, they argue. It saddens me to this day that they have not googled the symptoms of Xanax. It wipes the brain.  

But here’s what happened according to what I have been told. I had gotten into an altercation with my teenage son. My wife could not intervene, because I was lashing about and striking anything or anyone around, and incoherently attacking anything that came near me. I was a risk to everyone’s safety, including my own. My wife called the head of our church security team and asked him to come over to get me help.  

This is the event – the one event (and one too many) - the church, or at least some in it, chose to characterize as a “history of abuse.” This is what the deacons took to the Department of Family Services to claim that my family was in immediate danger, despite me being in rehab 1200 miles away. This incident is what they chose to use to try to take my children, tell my wife to divorce me, and hand me over to Satan. A singular event, which I would take back in a heartbeat and grieves me to this day, was used to put the Department of Family Services into our family affairs and led to my wife being forced to flee their jurisdiction, with the children, long before she was ready to move.  

When she told the church she was not abused, it did not stop them from saying she SAID she was. We live in a time when if a woman says she is abused, you have to believe her because she’s a woman. When a woman says she is not abused, you can’t believe her because that’s what an abused woman would say. All I can tell you is that Mandy has, and can, speak for herself. In fact, the church quickly and publicly shunned her for doing so. When she posted a rebuke to the church on their Facebook page for making up lies and telling them as widely and far as they could, they deleted it and sent a letter to the church denouncing her, in return. She acted appropriately and maturely in all of this, including her insistence that I seek treatment when it became clear that’s what I needed. She is the strong, independent woman people say they want to have in our culture.  

When Mandy first reached out to our security director, she officially asked him to be a part of a Matthew 18 process, which our church had codified into a bylaw, the goal of which was restoration of the sinner. Those from the church claiming that Mandy “informed church leadership of abuse” are lying. She never spoke to anyone besides her Matthew 18 witness who was not a part of church leadership. She wanted me to get help amidst a clear medical emergency and for addiction recovery. She also wanted me out of the home until I got treatment. Mandy is currently vetting attorneys who have agreed to take on the case for breach of contract, which is what a church Covenant is, and has stashed away all of her communications with them to demonstrate their blatant disregard for both church policy and her as a human being, let alone the interests of Mandy and the children.  

When Mandy reached out to tell the elders that no one had contacted her to see how she was doing during this period, she was told via text – and I quote - “you were just an oversight.” They never contacted her again.  

The gossip out of that church was seismic. They denied repeatedly that they had communicated with several prominent and persistent internet critics of mine. When those critics released texts from them, they told me explicitly they would not apologize and I “only wanted to protect my reputation.” In fact, I only wanted to prevent DFS from getting involved, because those critics made allegations which were completely fabricated (for example, saying that I hurt my daughter, who was witness to nothing and nowhere around. 

[Interjection from Mandy] “I want to add this, too. Jordan made an enemy of the local DFS lady when, many years ago, he gave her a warning that a man he ministered to was attracted to kids. DFS didn’t listen to him or do anything about it. When that man was later arrested for molesting a bunch of kids in his apartment complex, Jordan went to police with his information and DFS got a hand slap or something for not doing anything about his warnings, and she would bad mouth him in town every time she got the chance. I told the deacons if they involved DFS that they already had a grudge against him and it would be personal, and what they would say would amount to lies and hearsay. They knew that because I told them that. And that’s exactly what I told that little DFS woman when she wouldn't stop harassing me about getting into my family business.” 

Prior to all of this, I knew that something was very, very wrong with my health. I went to the doctor repeatedly with the symptoms of Xanax addiction. I could not stay awake and was consuming copious amounts of caffein to get through the day. I suffered ‘word displacement,’ the inability to find the right vocabulary when I wanted to find it (as a speaker, this greatly concerned me). I had fogginess of the brain, and so on. My medical records show my repeated honest attempts to get to the bottom of my symptoms. My doctor, the one who prescribed Xanax, did not consider that Xanax could be the issue. He ran blood work and diagnosed me with severe Vitamin D deficiency, which mimics the symptoms of Xanax consumption. It saddens me to have seen comments from my friend, Chris Rosebrough, insisting the Vitamin D deficiency was a rouse. My medical records demonstrate this false diagnosis, which I would be happy to share with anyone (and have).  

Repeatedly, in the last six months or so of sermons (now deleted by the church, but I’ve retained on my hard drives), I relayed in almost every one, “I am exhaused” or “I am worn out” or even “I feel like my body is giving out.” I had forgotten the times I called one of my patrons, Dr. Arvind, with my symptoms seeking the right diagnosis, until he reminded me only recently. Oddly enough, no one at church seemed concerned that I was breaking right in front of them.  

I felt that perhaps Xanax had too strong a hold of me back in 2017 or 2018 and stopped taking it. But after suffering bouts of sleep deprivation for 3-4 days at a time, I started taking it again to sleep. The doctor was happy to suggest it as a cure for insomnia, despite his awareness of why I stopped using it a few years prior. According to him, “addiction to a controlled medication prescribed by your doctor is better than the health consequences of sleep deprivation.” In retrospect, I beg to differ. Sleep deprivation only causes death. Pharmaceutical deprivation causes shame.  

It appeared that Xanax is good to deal with, well, everything. Little did I know that what I began to (according to my new doctor) was first tolerance to the drug, and then, something called “reverse tolerance,” which is when, after taking a medication for an extended period of time, tolerance is reversed and it takes far less to have the same affect. In other words, it didn’t take much to mess me up. I was not taking much less; in fact, I was taking more, trying to cure symptoms the drug itself caused. 

All of this created quite a perfect storm. I’ll reiterate that none of this would have happened if, instead of trusting a medication to make my life easier, I would have trusted more in Jesus and rested more in God’s work rather than my own.  

THINGS GO TO HELL 

It became noticeably clear to Mandy that the deacons’ posture was not at all to help me, so she did not take their advice and, later, rejected their outright and unbiblical demands. She sought the help of a Christian counselor who was set up for us and generously paid for by for Pastor Cary Gordon and took his advice instead. The deacons then rebuked her in an email for “taking advice outside the church, especially someone contradicting [them].” She verbally chastised the deacons when they reported at a church meeting that I was abusive. She told them publicly that not only was that mischaracterized, but that it was hear-say and she had not spoken to them at all. From that point forward, there was no difference between their treatment of Mandy and their treatment of me. She was now, to them, an adversary.  

Some in the church began to accuse her of enabling my addiction, as though she did not have to go through the same revelatory process that I did. The unfairness of that really bothered me. She was there for doctor’s visits while these symptoms were discussed in earnest, without the proper diagnosis. But it did not matter; they went on the attack. From the aforementioned meeting onward, they stopped reaching out to her. That Sunday, one deacon counseling her for divorce approached her and told her she should feel fine going to church without me, because “many men would be lucky to take you to church.” Her hackles were raised instantly. Eventually, she would go on to officially request church disciplinary procedures against the deacons for their ungodly counsel and for violating her privacy (in things like repeating gossip to the press) in accordance wit our bylaws, but they refused her standing to bring Matthew 18 against them. 

Mandy called the elder who was now responsible for preaching and asked him why he would repeat gossip to the media and in addition, lie about her having ever spoken to him or anyone else in leadership. He hung up on her and blocked her number. We did not know until later, the elder apologized to the congregation for this and said he didn’t know he was “on the record,” but they have emphatically denied Mandy an apology. A few days later, her singular phone call to him was categorized as ‘harassment’ and the congregation was told to block her number (this according to a deacon in an email). To this day they repeat online that they tried to reach out to her, but, congregationally, they were explicitly forbidden from doing so. Consider that; they blocked the number and were told not to communicate with a woman at a time when she very much needed her church, a woman who was at no fault, who had done no wrong, and was under no form of formal or informal discipline of any kind. 

Meanwhile, in the two-plus years that have followed, Mandy’s phone records show that after this transpired in June, not a single woman or man from the church has reached out for any reason, except several emails and texts of a stalking or harassing nature, which are in the possession of David Morrill at Protestia. 

One of these examples was when Mandy went back to Montana with our eldest son to get belongings from a mini-storage. While she was in town (in which she made no stops except the mini-storage), she received a message from a deacon, “Not too brite (sic), are you? We see you.” The message went on for a while with various insults and name-calling. While I was deleting their texts because they were hurtful, Mandy began to compile these communications and save them, in the event they might be needed to get a restraining order. 

Around this time, Mandy was forced to go to the police with a long string of unsolicited and unwanted text messages and emails sent from this deacon to both Mandy and our eldest daughter, and they promised to personally visit him and ask that he stop. The contents of these messages were unsettling. He called Mandy, apparently feeling his forward advances rejected, “the most unattractive wench.” He told my oldest daughter that he hopes somebody will accuse me of sexual crimes (which means he hopes there are sexual victims). When we brought these communications to church leadership, he did not apologize to Mandy or our daughter but persisted and continued. His last known correspondence with us was a message to my father, which he wanted to pass along to me, giving his residential address with an invitation to come up and have a shootout. That was in the fall of 2023, more than a year later. While I was in rehab, I received many messages from him telling me I would never be sober, that my wife is going to leave me at his insistence, and “once a drug addict, always a drug addict.” He would then reach out to Mandy and tell her that he spoke to police me and he could tell that I was high, which is a stupid lie for a guy locked in rehab. If it’s any wonder how my restoration went, he was one of three individuals the church put in charge of the process. 

Around this time, Mandy had found out from the press that the church was accusing me of theft. She approached the treasurer and was told it totaled more than 100k. She would not tell Mandy anything else, but that “no one has accused him, we did not know, so we just took it to the police and asked them to look at the books.” Mandy offered to write them a check to cover whatever the claims were, but she was dismissed.  

All of this was hidden from several in church leadership, including the most long-standing deacon in our church’s history, and his wife, who happened to be one of two church secretaries who served during that time period. He began to call and ask what the specific accusations were and, again, they would not tell him. And again, they repeated to him that they did not technically accuse me of anything. Eventually, Seth Dunn, who held membership in the church and has training as a career accountant, offered his services to look at the books, which according to our policies, he was entitled to as a church member. But, that was to no avail.  

It appears to have been important to these four or five witnesses to project to the congregation that they did not accuse me of theft, but merely took bank statements to the police and asked them to figure it out. But in reality, they did directly accuse me of theft, and the police charged me based upon nothing of substance besides their accusations (they didn’t have the discovery documents necessary to make such a determination).  

I surmised pretty quickly that given their accusations, they had to accuse me of stealing literally every dime I ever personally spent over the course of at least 5 years. It turns out, that was exactly the case.  

To pass off these claims as factual, bylaws had to be invented. Policies needed to be applied ex post facto.  

These individuals claimed a bylaw existed that limited me to spending no more than $500 without permission. Never mind that almost every expenditure reported to the detective in charge was less than $500 anyway. Bylaws, which were publicly available on the church website, said no such thing. I also provided a copy of the bylaws, which I had in my possession, with a date-stamp for the last time it was edited in Microsoft Word, many years prior. In short, they charged me over a factual misrepresentation and material untruth.  

The witnesses knew so little about the church’s financial affairs that they claimed to the detective that I make a salary of 52k a year, but that the church owned my house and that I live in my church-owned property “payment-free.” In fact, Mandy and I had a mortgage with the bank, and I paid the bank directly each month all of those years. How were the witnesses, alleging theft, under the belief that the church paid my mortgage? Why did they not tell the detective that in fact, we bought our home from the church years ago? Was that an accident? Why on earth claim that I wasn’t responsible for paying for a home I owned?  

Meanwhile, they did not include the caveat to the detective that use of the church fuel card was explicitly – and in writing - a part of my benefits package approved by the personnel committee, budget committee, church council, and congregation. This one factual omission was largely responsible for charges being brought, as the bulk of alleged “theft” was for fuel usage.  

Others claimed that I had to ask permission of a deacon or secretary to spend anything at all. Anyone who has followed my ministry and teaching on ecclesiology would get a good chuckle over that. Our constitution (which was also available on the church website) says “Deacons are servants and not a part of church governance. They do not set policy or make decisions.” A Church Manual was provided by us for discovery that highlights the roles of pastors, deacons, and secretaries. I happened to have many minutes in my own files, dated and time-stamped in my emails to prove their authenticity. In 15 years of deacons meetings, I never asked permission to spend a dime, unless it was outside the guidelines in the benevolence budget, and only then if it was benevolence. And I would never, under any conditions, ask a secretary for permission to do anything ever.  

Most outrageously, one vocal accuser, Joyce Nesper, claimed that she was unaware of any of these expenditures because I “stopped having business meetings years before.” And yet, we were able to prove in our own discovery that not only did we have those budget meetings according to our constitutional guidelines, we have the minutes of those budget meetings, and she was present at every one of those budget meetings, and often opened them in prayer or made motions or seconded them and frequently engaged in the discussions. She did not miss a single budget meeting during the years in question, not one.  

In the area of the budget and financial matters, I went above and beyond the call of duty to make sure everything was above board. I provided to the prosecutor emails I sent out reminding the four various committees that handled budgets of their upcoming meetings, with dates and times, and quoted to them the applicable constitution and bylaw sections as it pertained to their fiduciary duties (I did this for each year of which I was accused). I provided bulletin copies in which these meetings were announced. And I provided the minutes of those meetings that happened each year for which I was accused. To reiterate, I have reminders I sent to people via email or text, reminding them of our budget meetings in 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022.  It was not my job to look over the books; it was theirs and I reminded them of the duties in that regard each year like clockwork.  

Had the witnesses told the detective, “We had budget meetings and we were present for them and took minutes. We approved these expenditures every year, after they were made. We approved budgets for these expenditures, prior to every budget year, based on the previous years’ spending. We had bylaws authorizing the pastor to spend within the guidelines of the budget set in the Constitution,” I would never have been charged with a crime. They not only concealed those facts, they stated the opposite of the truth.  

Treasurer reports were made for each month or in some cases, quarter, for the years in question, and all of these expenditures were included. Thankfully, in my foresight, I required the treasurer to personally sign every single financial statement she produced to demonstrate that, indeed, it was she who created it (a little tip I got from Bible College to protect the pastor’s butt). Her signatures were on them.  

The witnesses claimed I did not have authority to spend money on fuel. However, the church body approved a fuel budget each year and a bylaw defining budgetary items explicitly says it is for use in the church staff’s personal vehicles. The budget each year was based on the spending the previous year, and all those expenditures were approved in the process by (A) the necessary committees with oversight (B) the church council and (C) the church congregation. We also gave the prosecutor an email between all parties, explicitly listing fuel usage as a taxable benefit in my benefits package (using fuel, therefore, could not be embezzlement).  

The witnesses claimed any travel I did had to be approved. And yet, I never asked permission in 15 years unless it would require me to be gone on Sunday. Neither does any bylaw say that, because I would not have accepted it.  

The witnesses claimed I did not have authorization to pay my cellular phone bill (I did not pay it; they did). Yet, for 15 years the church paid my cellular bill. In addition, I required they pay my wife’s phone bill as a condition of my hire because, as I pointed out 15 years earlier, the pastor’s wife ministers on the phone as much as the pastor. Later, I provided minutes which reflect that we approved an increase in the phone budget to pay for my eldest daughter’s phone because she answered the food pantry hotline 24 hours a day. We were also able to show personal correspondence between my wife and me, in which I asked her to start giving an extra $125 a month to church (of our own free volition) because rates were going up and I didn’t want to exceed the church budget. Keep in mind, each year we approved a communications budget large enough for the phone bill. In addition, a bylaw explicitly states that the communication budget was for the pastor’s phones.  

The witnesses claimed I didn’t have permission to spend fuel money to go on a Texas hunt. The bylaw specifically states that the pastor may take up to two trips a year for anything he finds, at his discretion, to be spiritually or physically refreshing (and I went with a pastor, Chris Cunningham, who arranged it). It’s here things really start to get personal. The aforementioned deacon who seemed to show an unhealthy fixation on Mandy, was one of these witnesses. He told the detective that he didn’t know about this hunt or how it was to be paid for. We demonstrated to the prosecutor that not only did he know about it, he accompanied me on that trip. Furthermore, we showed text messages with two deacons (him included) where I explicitly told them how the trip would be paid for 

Absurdly, the witnesses told the police that they had no idea where I was traveling or why. No one reading this, who is vaguely familiar with my previous ministry, believes that. Why? It’s because almost every trip I made and certainly every speaking engagement I had was published online, in social media, with audio and video of each talk. We provided statements (in writing) to the church in which they were told repeatedly where I was going and why, and if they had any questions whatsoever, to please ask someone in leadership. On the local level, my speaking engagements were in the church bulletin, on the church Facebook page (we provided the screenshots), and were often, if not always, public prayer requests. In fact, it was because everything I did was highly publicized that I was able to go back and provide myself a defense for where I was, when I was, and why I was traveling. Indeed, we had a “food and travel budget,” separate from the fuel budget, that was to be spent at my discretion alone, as laid out in church documents I was able to provide and that everyone else had access to.                  

The witnesses complained about Protestia being supplemented by the church because it was not affiliated with the church. However, Protestia and my podcasts were indeed “ministries of the Fellowship Baptist Church” and stated so on the Protestia website, the church website, and in a hundred other places. Leonardo Blair at the Christian Post accurately reported that after my resignation, Protestia announced it would “no longer be a ministry of the Fellowship Baptist Church.”  
 
Many payments to these ministries or venders were not “people doing work for me” as they suggest, but reimbursements to Libolt Media for running our church Facebook ads on his billings account because anything with my name associated with it (like the church Facebook account) was banned from advertising as a part of their crackdown on “Covid misinformation.” Libolt provided us those receipts, which were receipts the church never asked for before handing me over to the police. Meanwhile, every church expenditure was public record and payments were made by secretaries, which according to them, had to give permission for money to be spent.  

The witnesses told the detective that I was the only one with access to the church credit card. However, we were able to demonstrate through a myriad of ways that when the secretaries spent funds they, more times than not, used my card. This was done by comparing text messages, “Ok pastor, I just booked your flight to Spokane, your reservation number is such-and-such" and the corresponding charge on the bank records showed my credit card was used at that time-stamp to make that reservation. It’s not just some travel arrangements, but most. I provided text messages, for example, from my secretary asking if she could give card info to one of the Canadian Christians we helped come to the states, to assist in his travel which means not only did she have it, he had it. I provided text messages showing our card being given to a church member to re-fill our church pantry at Costco. I provided text messages showing that the card was given to anyone in the church whenever they needed it 

They accused me of buying myself “food.” Of course, we had a budget for that. On one occasion, when called by one of these very witnesses to deal with her son who was experiencing suicidal ideation, I bought him a drink next door at the local Taco Johns as I ministered to him. I guess she felt that I should have bought her suicidal son a drink with my own money. Or, for example, I used the church card to pay for pizza when we taught our New Membership class, or for youth meetings, etc.  

We did have, in our church budget, a hospitality fund. The definition for that fund, in the bylaws, explicitly states that it was for the pastor to take visitors out to eat after church on Sunday. I suppose that would be another time I “bought myself food.” Little do they know, I suppose, that I almost always paid separately and have corresponding personal bank records to demonstrate that. I also have corresponding bank records to demonstrate that, regarding their claim that I “bought snacks at gas stations” that I never did so with church funds, ever. Like most people, I would buy a soft drink or something while purchasing gas, but used my personal account to do so, and those personal bank statements showing the dates and times of charges corresponded with the dates and times I used the church card for fuel.  

The witnesses claimed mysterious ATM withdrawals were made. I made ATM withdraws very, very seldomly for the very reason that they present a difficult money-trail to audit. Each time, I texted someone else to let them know what it was for (not to ask permission). When a church member died of a heart attack, I was summoned to the hospital because his wife was out of town. Not long after, I withdrew money to send via Western Union to his son who had gone to Florida and also needed assistance. I provided text messages showing the secretary was notified of this and that I had “cleared this with the deacons, because it’s benevolence.” There are text messages to substantiate all of this, but that is only one example of many. It was difficult going back into my phone records and emails to substantiate every charge we could, but we were able to find most because I was so diligent to take care for financial affairs and in the end, it would keep me out of prison against blatantly false allegations. 

It’s here I need to make something very clear, and that is what I was not accused of. There have been no accusations, formal or informal, that I (A) deceived anyone or concealed anything or (B) that I personally profited from this supposed theft by giving myself money, writing myself checks, etc.  

Embezzlement is “theft by deception” but curiously, no accusation of deception was made. There were not two sets of books. Nothing was cooked. Everything was out in the open. As my secretary, Tabitha, will confirm, I made sure the office staff and treasurer posted statements on the office wall and displayed bank statements where the bylaw requires them to be placed so that any church member can review them at any time. I insisted the secretaries go over the books and notify the treasurer if there was any funny business at all. I sent emails and texts repeatedly to the treasurer to remind her of her responsibilities, all of which were made available in my defense. 

Furthermore, there is no accusation that money went from the church bank account to my hands. Their accusation was the unauthorized use of funds for things that were in fact authorized in our church and authorized in almost any church.  

Additionally, we were able to demonstrate to prosecution that almost all travel related plans, especially anything requiring a reservation, was not booked by me, but a secretary. The communication we handed over as discovery demonstrates that I was in constant contact with my secretaries to book my flights and make travel arrangements. And yet, these witnesses told the detective that I needed permission from a “deacon or secretary” to spend money, even when there was a budget for travel set by the congregation. That did not prevent them from labeling that which was spent by the secretaries for my travel as theft.  

The detectives then went on to send the bank statements, highlighted by one of the witnesses as theft, to a supposed “forensics accountant” at the state crime lab. After many months, they received a report that did one thing – it just added up the numbers of the items highlighted by the witnesses as “theft.” The investigator did not consider whether or not it was theft. It took for granted that the church knew what was theft and what was not, and some poor soul sat there with a calculator hitting the addition button. 

Some will no doubt wonder, why after such a serious allegation, I was ‘let off’ with little more than a slap on the wrist. The answer is simple; after seeing the evidence, not even the prosecutor seemed like she wanted a conviction.  

MY ARREST 

I went to the sheriff's department per their request, and they honored the warrant. I then spent five nights in jail, as the justice system moves very slowly. I provided 10k for a cash bond. I then spent a small fortune for a superb attorney, paying up front. God provided those resources.  

Jail wasn’t bad. I’ve spent a lot of time in them, leading a Bible study every week. Everyone was nice. Other than not having a pillow or my Bible, it could have been worse.  

While there, I made a friend. His name is Seth. I watched the Spirt lead him to Christ, and shortly after he was baptized, while in jail. Mandy and I have befriended his girlfriend, who we text now and then to make sure she’s okay, sometimes to help out with expenses. He’s getting out soon, and I look forward to that. I also made some other friends I stay in touch with and try to bless. 

I told my kids to look at this as just one more place dad has been, because dad has been to a lot of places. Dad went to Iraq during the war to share Jesus with the Kurds in the mountains. Dad went to the Amazon to share Jesus with people who have bones in their nose. Dad stood at Mt. Nebo where Moses looked into the Promised Land. Dad has been to Time Square and Mt. Rushmore and the Hoover Dam and the White House. Dad has been to gay pride parades. Dad has been to abortion clinics. Dad has testified at the capitol. Dad’s been to jail. It’s just another place I’ve been. I don’t want them to feel shame over that. 

After my daughter picked me up, I squared away things with my job (again, they were incredible). We had a talk with the kids. I had a talk with the neighbors, because I really like my neighbors, and I don’t want to hide anything from them. They were supportive. 

Meanwhile, shortly after I got out, those deacons were throwing my mug shot up on Facebook as a celebration (I kid you not). I told David Morrill then, and I’ll say it now. Me going to jail for a couple days is not to my shame. It is to theirs.  

THE DEFENSE 

Thankfully, I was able to provide many documents myself, thanks to my own email records and files. My mom spent countless hours scouring social media for old posts declaring publicly where I was and what we were doing, and we put together a timeline of every speech, trip, talk, lecture, and Bible study I engaged in.  

Because they claimed many of my events were political, we saved to the cloud all the so-called “political” talks I gave, all of which (every single one) had the premise explicitly stated, “The problem is always sin, and the answer is always Jesus.” Friends of mine downloaded podcast episodes with timestamps in which I explained in these talks, “the goal is not to invade religion with politics, but to invade politics with religion.” We clipped newspaper rantings from my critics complaining “he makes everything in politics about Jesus.” We provided statements from the church supportive of my speaking, video of them laying hands on me prior to events, and so forth. However, the church bylaws list “representing the church in civic matters” a part of the pastor’s explicit job description.  

We offered testimony from church members and a deacon and secretary disputing the fallacious claims of their witnesses, pledging to testify on my behalf at a trial if necessary.  

At the end of the day, these witnesses handed me over without so much as talking to me about it, or my wife, or all the deacons, or a church secretary that knows more about the matter than anyone. But most importantly, we hired a real forensics investigator, a former law enforcement officer and detective with the state police. We initially paid for just a hot-take on the evidence. He regularly testifies for the prosecution, but we wanted him to look over discovery and tell us his thoughts.  

It pleased us that upon reviewing the evidence thoroughly, he would testify for the defense. Given that his credentials are unparalleled, we praised God that for the first time, a real forensics accounting would be done and by someone who mostly works for the other side.  

In the end, of the million or so dollars spent by the church over five years (roughly 130k spent by me), about 6k over those five years was “reimbursable.” Of this amount, most prominently, was a safe I purchased on a consumer loan. This was an auto-fill error I did not discover until after their accusations. I assumed it was coming out of my personal account, and Mandy assumed I paid it from a personal business account. I have emails with the secretaries, warning them to be watching auto-fill on their browser, and make sure it’s the right card when making purchases for the church because that mistake sometimes happens and, if it happens, please let the treasurer know. 

Each year, I gave between 12k (on a low year) and 17k (on a high year) in tithes and offerings to the church and was among the top financial givers to the church each year for 14 years. Ordinarily I would not discuss our giving (and have never done so previously), but it’s pertinent if being accused of not caring for the church’s financial well-being. No one who accused me of theft out-gave me to the church (in sheer dollar amounts or in proportion to income), and I think that’s relevant.  

None of this, of course, mattered in the end. The safe was more than 2k, billed in small increments over a period of time, which was enough to nail me to the wall with a felony charge. We would have argued, had we needed to, that a mistake is not theft, there was no deceit whatsoever (not that they alleged any), and I always instructed the correct people with the proper authority to go over the books with a fine-toothed comb.  

To eventually dismiss the charges, I had to pay the 6k dollars of minor reimbursable expenses found by the forensic accountant that were mistakes made by either myself or my secretary who handled my accounts, and another 10k as negotiation grease. 

Simply put, that was the figure we came up with that would be less than the additional money a trial would cost me, so it made financial sense. I was very clear that I would not plead guilty, and that we could proceed to trial if they insisted. They accepted the agreement in exchange for no conviction on my record, at which point after 18 months the charges will be dismissed.  

A DIVORCE IN MY MIND 

I loved them. I really did. Profoundly. Even after the charges dropped, I spent five nights in jail praying that God would give me spirit of repentance for all the ways I failed them. I prayed that God would give me compassion for them.  

This attitude, to some extent, annoyed Mandy (I asked her to confirm this, and she confirms it). Once they took rumor and speculation to the Department of Family Services, the separation was complete in her mind. Homeschool families, and every single family in that church, had a healthy and understandable fear of DFS’s power. Their actions, for her, was just a bridge too far. The creepiness of the deacon’s communication with her, the not-so-subtle undertones of lascivious obsession, their refusal to subject themselves to Matthew 18 or issue apologies, their repeated lies that they were not the ones to go to DFS (until they reluctantly admitted it) and their leaking the complaint to my internet critics, their speaking to the press things that were none of their business and factually wrong, all cemented in her mind that “it was over.”  

The last communication Mandy had with the church was asking, through a mediator, for them to give back our kids’ AWANA material, badges, and shirts so they could attend AWANA at our new church. They refused, saying that she could have the kids’ AWANA material when they could judge my repentance as sincere.  

The last communications I had with them were texts to several men, asking them to please send an encouraging word to my son who was graduating high school, because he grew up with them and admired them. I never got a response and neither did he.  

Mandy moved our substantial belongings alone, save for the help of a few friends who had left the church but still loved us, and a few other friends from the community. She benefited from the friendship and assistance of secular-oriented friends from outside the congregation, who were a blessing to her. But the church cast her away and told the world their actions were for her benefit, while she protested them at every step.  

Prior to my DUI and rehab, I had many high-ranking politicos and civic leaders reach out to say compassionate things. These include the local prosecutor, who had to recuse herself because of our friendship but wanted to tell me things would be okay and to hang in there. They include the president of a state political party, a member of the LDS, who just wanted to show some Christlike compassion that my Baptist brothers would not. These include multiple legislators from a nearby district (my own representative was a church member whose speeches I used to write, but who threw me under the bus when the press came asking questions). 

These include various GOP and pachyderm committees around the state, to say they were praying for me. These include JD Greear, who sent a gift card to the home and Beth Moore, who called to say, “Life gets complicated sometimes.” I thought at the time that the latter two were rubbing it in, but now I don’t think so. I think they were being decent humans. 

And here’s the thing. I didn’t care about any of their shows of compassion at the time. I would have cared greatly to have received that from the church, the only group of people on the planet I wanted to minister to me. 

My pastor told me it was time to let them go, to move forward. I sent a a half-dozen communications to the church, apologizing, repenting, and asking forgiveness, all of which were rejected for being “insincere.” My family, my counsel, my Christian therapist, all told me to move on. But, I couldn’t. I loved them, and I knew I hurt them, and I couldn’t get over that.  

My last letter to them was written carefully, whittled down to only the most essential components (confession of sin, acknowledgment of how they were hurt, asking to be forgiven, and all without casting any blame upon them or anyone but myself). It was reviewed by my loved ones, my elder, and by David Morrill. It was rejected upon grounds of needing to see more sincerity. When asked by David for them to specify what repentance would look like, their response was lacking. It had become clear that reconciliation was not humanly possible.  

But then, I became aware of the content of a meeting they had while I was at the treatment center when the deacons went over my situation with the congregation (ascertained by witnesses who spoke to David Morrill). 

One complaint that I ran across forever changed me, and whether for better or worse I do not know. They complained, as they explained to the congregation why requests for forgiveness were denied, that I had “not called once to check on the church and see how they were doing.”  

That was too much.  

There I was, in rehab. I was separated from my family (by distance). I was a very long way from home. I was humiliated. My legal future was uncertain. I was broke because I left everything I could for the family. My dad carried my bags into the treatment center, because I couldn’t lift them. My roommate had a swastika on his chest like American History X (awesome guy, by the way). I was surrounded by people with problems far more profound than my own. My deacons were sending me messages telling me I’d always be an addict. And frankly, I could still not think clearly under the fog of Xanax while suffering withdrawal. I left everything, a hundred different projects, in the lurch. I failed and abandoned all my friends and responsibilities. I got rid of the Internet from my phone, so I couldn’t see the things written about me.  

It was the lowest place I’ve ever been (far worse than jail, which I knew at the time would work out). When I sat in jail, I knew I was innocent of theft. But when I was in rehab, I knew I was guilty of addiction. That’s a whole different level of despair.  

And these people, these people were upset – in fact, livid – that I had not reached out to see how they were doing? It just shocked me to the core. How absolutely out-of-touch with me as a human being did they have to be to be upset that I had not reached out to them. I was no longer their pastor. I was their congregant. I did not need to minister. I needed to be ministered to. Even in rehab, they wanted me to keep working. 

I did not give up on restoration when they put me in jail by bearing false witness. I gave up on restoration when I saw that even in the pit of despair, I was supposed to somehow summon the strength to do their job.  

To think I was even capable of ministering to them during this time was just beyond the pale. I had ministered to them for 15 years. I taught them well. I drilled depravity and its implications for sin into them. And they thought I should be reaching out to see how they are doing, while they first ignored my wife and then harassed her, offered to walk my daughter down the aisle, and drop me off four hours from home without shoes? And they were mad I did not reach out to them? 

What I have since found out about that meeting, both from my wife and others present, is that one deacon suggested that they rotate themselves with me in rehab, to send one down for a week at a time to minister to me and walk me through the darkness. It was met with silence. Another woman, a new believer, but who had seen addiction first-hand, pled with them to give me time to come to my senses, to act slowly and cautiously because I likely wasn’t thinking straight (which was accurate). She was promptly told that her opinion did not matter, because she was "not in church leadership.” I have never, in all my years as a pastor, dared to tell another soul their opinion did not matter because they were "not in church leadership.” It just made me sick to my stomach.  

The church chose, at first, not to send a “victim impact statement” after they learned of our plea agreement that would eventually dismiss the charges. But, at the last minute, they sent one. The letter said, among other things, “We may not be able to prove this in a court of law” (a dumb admission to write when you want the judge to turn down a plea deal) but “...you are anathema.”  

I’m unaware of the Baptist tradition of pronouncing anathema. The letter, of course, was done under the auspices that they have determined my apologies to be lacking . The letter was penned by the witness who claimed that we stopped having budget meetings, despite the evidence I produced showing her being present at all of them and beginning them with prayer.  

I’ve never been anathematized by literal, actual false witnesses before. But, Jesus died for my sins and rose from the dead, so I find confidence in that, which supersedes any such ecclesiastical pronouncements by ecclesiastical bodies that don’t have a doctrine endorsing anathemas.  

I NEED A BREAK 

I had forgotten, until I went through my own records, that on at least three occasions over the years I asked the elders for sabbatical rest in writing because I was “emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted” and that “It is not good for my health or the health of my family.” For each and every request, they told me no. The church needed me too much for me to take a break. I had forgotten how officially I requested rest, and how emphatic they were that it was not possible.  

When things were hard as a church, I could not take a break because I had to get us all through it. When things were good as a church, the wind was at our back, and I needed to see the growth spurt through. There are seldom times in church that it is not one or the other. 

Admittedly, their insistence that they needed me too much to rest fed my pride. It’s good to be needed. But it’s not good to get home after sermon-writing at 2AM. It’s not good to be teaching 5 nights out of 7. It’s not good to travel 300 days a year for different events, studies, or meetings of various kinds. It’s not good to do the job deacons are supposed to do and personally be there for every person’s surgery, for every person’s dying relative, and for every single crisis that is better cared for by the diaconate. It’s not good to talk to your secretaries more than your wife. It’s not good to surround yourself with elders who are technically apt to teach, but nobody wants to hear them because they’re inarticulate. It’s not good to see your kids only at church.  

And if  you are a pastor reading this, keep in mind that it’s not only possible the church would let you travel for ministry 5 or 6 days a week (and applaud you for it right up until they attack you for it), in the end, they might also want you to pay for your own gas, while tithing more than every last one of them on your meager salary. And if you don’t cover your butt, as thankfully I did most of the time, they might try to put you in prison when they get mad at you. In fact, they might even do so if you do cover your butt, as my story demonstrates. 

I would also caution you. A church that refuses you sabbatical rest may be using you, but they are not loving you. A church that does not ask you how your family is doing, as you are ministering 5 or 6 nights a week in official functionality, may be using you, but they are not loving you. A church not willing to lovingly admonish you for neglecting your family cares nothing about you or your family. Be on guard to protect your own time, your own family, and your own health. Seldom will other people care for it.  

When a deacon called to tell me his wife had miscarried at a very early stage of pregnancy, I was the type of pastor who drove an hour to the home, dug the child’s grave with my own shovel, and ripped 1 Corinthians 15 out of my bible to wrap the baby in. That’s still the Bible I carry, and every time I see that missing page I remember that he tried to put me in prison because I used the church fuel card to get there. 

There are ditches on both sides of this road. Some churches treat pastors as employees who can be easily dismissed and replaced. Others treat pastors as slaves with a bond for perpetual service appointed by God (and so, working conditions don’t really matter because it’s understood he isn’t going anywhere). Both have their own theological reasons, but neither is healthy for employee nor slave. In both cases, the humanity of the individual is forgotten or disregarded.  

Now, I have a lifetime break from ministry. It’s not so bad. I do write detailed sermons in my sleep sometimes, and often I dream of stepping back in that church, seeing it in disrepair, feeling incredible sorrow, and trying to help them. I don’t like those dreams.  

ON POLEMICS 

Do I regret polemics, considering it largely drove my weariness and loss of focus? Or do I regret politics for the same reason?  
 
I do not. What I regret is my sins of weariness and loss of focus (and Xanax and what surrounded it). The bad guys are still bad. The good guys are still mostly all deceased. But yes, there are certain things I regret about how I engaged in polemics.  

I carried the water for a lot of men. I was asked by Phil Johnson to “go after Leighton Flowers” (a professor of something-or-other and an outspoken critic of Calvinism) and “take him down a peg or two.” I obliged, but what resulted was an endless volley of time-wasting, mind-numbing back-and-forth that went on for months (like a dumber, whiter, polemical version of rap battles and discernment dis-tracks). I look back and wonder why I was so easily provoked into a lifelong grudge with a guy who I had no beef with, and who I don’t even personally dislike, in order receive an attaboy from a man with a large platform who didn’t want to get his hands dirty.  

Our brand of polemics, the type I invented, served as the goon-squad for too many respectable theologians who – at the sending of a text or email – could get us to take the flak for them, reroute their opponents, and say things they were unwilling to say. Those guys, more than any other, are the type to drop-kick you when you’re down. You were a tool, their tool, and you don’t value tools; you use them.  

The first time I went after Servetus Diablos was at the insistence of Justin Peters, who after being pummeled in video after video after video, asked me to “take the pressure off him,” which amounted to doing a podcast and distracting the critic from his current warpath. We actually discussed that explicitly; I was to be the rodeo clown, to send out a video about Joshua Chavez, which would distract him from attacking the more prominent minister, likely for months (it worked like a charm). At first, you’re happy to be in the army. And then, you realize you’re a pawn.  

And then, there were all the cases of collateral damage. When someone is accustomed to using you as an instrument of their own theological warfare, they take great umbrage that you would criticize anything they do. I don’t regret criticizing MacArthur for closing his church during COVID or for praising him when he changed his theology on Romans 13, but I regret losing friends over it. Ditto for my criticism for him inviting the Social Justice leaders to ShepCon on one hand while signing the Dallas Statement on the other. But I do wish it could have been less personal. I regret almost any criticism of James White, and not because he wasn’t wrong on some things, but because I know the man and he can’t take criticism. I should have just avoided it had I valued his friendship. And, the whole “Booze and Tattoos” affair should have been backed off of the moment his family got personally involved.  

I set my relationship with Brannon Howse on fire on behalf of Phil Johnson, which stupidly enough, began with criticism over an argument over how many people died in the Spanish Inquisition. Later, I torched it again over Howse’s attacks on Justin Peters. Then I had to suffer the consequences of Howse’s tirades. It was all unnecessary.  

When MacArthur held Strange Fire, we were told that being charismatic was the single greatest existential threat to the church today. We believed him, and I led armies of young Christians on the warpath against the excesses of the charismatic movement highlighted in those sermons and lectures. One figure, John Piper, was repeatedly lifted up as an example of the infiltration of charismaticism into mainstream reformed thought. But then, last year, MacArthur invited Piper to ShepCon where Piper predictably said some pretty crazy things. But, I thought charismaticism was the single greatest existential threat, and he was a leading practitioner, right? But now, MacArthur says Social Justice is the single greatest existential threat to the church, so I guess the threat of charismaticism is lifted. Prior to all of this, Arminianism was a pretty serious threat to the church according to MacArthur, raising up no shortage of young ministers (myself included) who viewed them as adversaries, up until the anniversary of the Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy, at which point prominent Arminians were invited by MacArthur to speak to his audience.  

I’m not arguing that these issues are not issues, or even serious ones. But I am noticing that the men atop our corner of evangelicalism decree something as an existential threat and go so far as naming names of those we are to oppose. And then, we go after them at great personal cost to our local congregations, personal reputations, future employability, and relationships. But when the dust settles, new books are to be written, new conferences are held to publicize those books, and there they stand with the same people on stage they convinced us to hate only a few years before. I regret taking part in that aspect of reactionary controversialism instead of focusing more on catechesis, which is the ultimate bulwark against false teaching. 

Johnson, Peters, and Rosebrough did indeed warn me to tone it down a notch. That is, when they weren’t benefiting from the services I provided them. 

There is a reason I felt so strongly about charismaticism. I got hauled out of events by Rodney Howard Browne and Jim Bakker. But during Covid, when Rodney Howard Browne was being arrested for keeping his church open, while MacArthur’s church was closed, it suddenly became clear to me that foxhole companions are not always who you think they’ll be. MacArthur eventually changed his theology and came around, and Browne is still a hyper-charistmatic, but it really makes a guy think about things in perspective. When it goes down, when it hits the fan, who is going to be kneeling and who is going to be standing? At the least, it gave me pause.  

There is a degree of Kabuki theater in Christian polemics. Directors of the audience, with virtual ‘applause’ and ‘boo’ signs lit behind them, direct us like an orchestra as to who we are to dislike this year and who we are to like. When I reached out to the Grace to You camp to complain about Carl Trueman lecturing at Master’s Seminary (he was clearly going left, and was the first to defend Keller against my claims of Marxism), I was told “It isn’t time yet.” You see, that would not be until the third act, and I was ahead of the play’s schedule.  

When I first criticized Russell Moore, I was told by a Pyromaniacs blogger I should not do so, because he was a Calvinist and I would “ruin myself.” The conductor of the symphony had not yet waved his wand. We must all sit around and wait for our cue. But then, like WWE fans who think it’s unscripted, we get upset when we find our favorite hero and most-hated heel on the golf course together the next day off camera.  

I genuinely believe most evangelicals in our circle get up in the morning and check X to see who we are supposed to be mad at today and who we are supposed to applaud. As I’ve said many times, “Polemics is not a team sport.” I wish I would have taken my own advice.  

All of that may seem like retrospective cowardice, but I really should have valued friendships over being right. I’m not advocating that you defend a man when you think he’s wrong, but bringing out a sledgehammer may not be the best response, either.  

Other times, I was too harsh on people who were “late to the party.” Man, did I hate that. But when you do polemics, you’re usually a good 18 months ahead of the curve. We’re sitting here telling you that liberals are invading the church through Social Justice theology and they’re inviting them to G3, right before they decide it’s suddenly an issue. I held grudges against Josh Buice for liking tweets back in 2019 making fun of us for calling Social Justice a big deal, before he figured out that, indeed, it was a big deal. No mature Christian man walking in the Spirit should make enemies over tweet-likes. We should be pleased when people finally come around, and not become bitter or envious when they sound an alarm bell bigger than yours about two years too late.  

None of this is a regret for tone, for which I have none. It’s time for a harsh tone, but it should be applied to better targets. What’s absolutely crazy is looking at X now, compared to a few years ago, and seeing that virtually everyone is using the same tone that we were once castigated for. The evangelical’s social taboo on tone must be broken so that an honest discourse on important topics can genuinely be had. 

I’m pretty pleased at what I’m looking out and seeing right now. None of the current discussions – necessary ones – could be had if we had not handcuffed the tone police.  

However, the personal cost of engaging in polemics to any extended degree is unbearable. Seth Dunn likened it years ago to a Special Victims Unit, in which detectives are assigned to investigate the most atrocious sexual crimes and murders. In many departments, those assignments are only for a set number of years because they’ve determined that the human costs of continued involvement in those investigations are too hard on the human psyche and the detectives go to very dark places and their personal lives unravel and, in the end, the department loses a good detective. Seth and I both presumed we were both exceptions to this rule. That guy is autistic enough he probably is, but it turns out I'm not high enough on the spectrum to be immune to the lasting effects of investigating and chronicling the ugly side of American evangelicalism.  

The only thing more salacious than what we printed all those years are the things we couldn’t. Meanwhile, the constant warfare and fighting takes a toll on the soul. Christianity is a war with crusades, but even the crusaders – the ones who lived – got to go home. War is meant for a season, a ‘tour’ we call it, but it is not meant to be perpetual.  

Being gone for more than two years, and then peeking back into the evangelical world showed me a few things. First, it showed me that God does not, in fact, need me. Myriads, countless thousands, of young men I’ve never heard of have stepped up to the plate to continue the fight that we started. We were alone, except for very few others, back when we began. And now, the fire is kindled and gives great light and warmth. That’s pretty cool. Second is that the battle lines have not budged an inch in my absence. There are no amount of logic, facts, or good arguments that can convince some to see dangers that the Holy Spirit has not revealed to them. The bad guys are still bad, the good guys are still good, and most fit into neither of those binary categories.  

To my polemicist friends and former followers, I beg you to understand that being reactionary to every momentary controversy is too draining for you to do without catastrophic danger to yourself. Consider the fights only in the last few weeks (1) Does reeaxamining Churchill make you pro-Hitler?  (2) Were the crusades acceptable or not? (3) Is Megan Basham a Russian disinformation plant? (4) Can you be both anti-Lincoln and anti-slavery? How many enemies were created in all of that? How many hours spent, tweets tweeted, rocks lobbed? 

What are we doing? Are we really going to spend monumental amounts of energy and time and tweets on every issue as though the world hangs in the balance? I recently re-read The Screwtape Letters, and let me tell you, all I can think of is advice from Uncle Screwtape for 2024, “Dear Wormwood, when all else fails, distract them with endless and pointless controversies. Wear them out. Make them develop unnecessary grudges. Have them make enemies over the most trivial affairs. When there is no controversy of the day to accomplish this, have them create controversies from days gone by.”  

Over time, bodies wear out, minds fade, attentions lose focus, and people break. My friends, you are a person. We can all break; I broke and you can break. We are not intended for constant fighting. The devil does not take a Sabbath, and if you intend to stalk Beelzebub, you’ll not either.  

If I were to direct a new generation of polemecists, I would encourage you to fly far above the fray. Look at the battlefield from 30 thousand feet. See beyond the trench. Find the most important actors, the devil’s largest troop movements, the encroaching ideologies consuming Western Culture like the Great Nothing, the big picture. There are too many dang bayonets and smoke grenades in our face to understand that Satan marches well beyond the nearest river or closest vale. Focus intently on these things, not absent of all personalities, but absent of the unimportant ones. Focus on the powers and principalities in high places behind the guy who’s tweeting nonsense. Focus on the institutions funding them, the universities and seminaries indoctrinating them, the globalists and power-hungry fascists injecting our churches with the poison of half-biblical propaganda. If you do that, you will avoid the politics of personal destruction waged against the simple-minded people who are just saying it on Twitter for a like. They deserve pity, not antipathy.  

Commit yourself to doing polemics on a timer. Set an amount of time each day or week you feel is appropriate to working for the Cause, and then stop when you reach that threshold. Make yourself a list of 20 of the most prominent and therefore, dangerous, actors in subversive evangelicalism you can find and cut it down to five. Then, before you speak a word about those five people, research with great pains where they came from, who is paying them or promoting them, and you might just discover that they, too, are patsies. The rabbit hole goes deeper than you think, I assure you. Being “wise as serpents” requires this approach, which I did not take seriously enough. Being “innocent as a dove” requires limiting your fire to causalities whose demise can legitimately turn the tide of war.  

Anything less is going to be as hard on you as it is on them. Trust me on that one. The devil does not think twice about using his troops as fodder, and he has millions of them. Be smarter than that, and if nothing else, consider my tale as an exhibit of evidence.  

Meanwhile, polemics has become too factious, and I take blame in helping to make it that way. Conservative evangelicalism is small, and those who care about polemics, even smaller. The various groups, influencers, pastors, theologians, broadcasters and podcasters are well aware they share the same tiny audience. This breeds contention and competition for influence, donors, and speaking gigs. Meanwhile, the fields really are white unto harvest. Millions of Americans – and many more in Europe – are turning from secular conservatism to the roots of conservativism found in the Holy Bible. They need to be guided to true religion, that they might not stop along the way to sniff the flowers of Romanism or the incense of Eastern Orthodoxy. Some are turning to Mormonism or hyper-charismaticism or, equally as concerning, a Christless Christianity that is little more than ethnic or cultural identification. But to reach them, you have to step out of your bubble, your twittersphere, your audience, and call out to a world that either hates you or is skeptical of you. I suspect you will find the effort worthwhile. Explain to them that their intuition to wander toward Christ is good, but He is defined by the Scriptures and not mere tradition, political affiliation, or memes.  

PEACE TO ALL 

Finally, to anyone who I’ve unnecessarily hurt, regarding anything at all, I do want to sincerely seek your forgiveness. Please feel free to reach out to me through Protestia or my Insight to Incite substack, and I’ll be happy to offer an apology in person. I’ll do so without casting any blame or shifting any burden.  

And to those who love me, thank you so very much. So many people have tried to reach out to say they were praying for me and love me and I am forever grateful to you. And to those who hate me, please understand, I really couldn’t care less and it doesn’t stop me from loving you anyway.  

I’m at rest, and my heart is at peace. It truly is well with my family, well with my life, well with my health, and well with my soul. I do not at all feel disgraced. I feel completely graced, and evidence of that grace in my life is overwhelming.  

There was a time, at the darkest of it in rehab, that I could not feel the presence of God. But I could feel the presence of the devil, and it was palpable. And for that reason, I did not lose faith. It’s impossible to disbelieve in the existence of God when you are certain the devil abides. He is, after all, God’s devil and his rejoicing in my sin was the evidence I needed that Jesus died for that sin. Indeed, as James White says, “God uses sin in a sinless way to accomplish his sinless will.”                 

I have everything, at this moment, that I ever wanted. And for the first time in a long time, that includes contentment in God’s plans.             

Onward.  

EPILOGUE

Protestia issued me a public apology, after their investigations into the church’s accusations were complete, for siding with the church before knowing necessary facts. For the record, I do not fault them in the slightest and they acted honorably at every step along the way. They also invited me back to write for their publication.

Seth Dunn, who took ownership of another of my publications, Pulpit & Pen, has also asked me to return to provide more theologically serious articles there. Others, like my former communications manager, Cody Libolt, has asked me to partner with him on several training projects for aspiring writers and activists. Various other offers have come in, as facts have gradually been made known.

Although I am honored and humbled by their willingness to embrace me after having seen the evidence, I’m quite content living a quiet and peaceable life. Whatever contributions I choose to make in the future to any publication, will be offerings to assist those still in the trenches to understand the day’s controversies in light of Biblical perspective, but without engaging in needless controversies that could undo the peace that I now enjoy.

For additional information, please consult the two video interviews below.

So far as the pastorate or vocational ministry is concerned, I am quite content to leave it to better men and those unsullied by sins of public reproach. And frankly, horses couldn’t drag me back to that.

In the meantime, Insight to Incite is my new Substack, in which I’ll provide daily insights into the day’s news, with a particular focus on the intersection of evangelicalism and geo-politics, intra-national social movements, and a Christian’s role in the culture wars. In particular, this Substack is designed to fill in the gaps with insights I believe others on “our side” are missing, omitting, or not yet fully understanding.