Shattered by the Church

I still remember the day that the ministry broke us.

My husband and I sat huddled together on our living room couch. Two elders from our church sat across from us, their faces tight and serious. I greeted them with my usual warmth—but I could feel the heaviness pressing in. After an awkward silence and tension mounting, one of them swallowed hard. I finally said, half-joking, “You’re scaring me.” The other elder didn’t hesitate. “We’ve decided to remove Steve as the lead pastor.”

My ears rang. My vision blurred. I tried to hold it together, but the sobs came before I could stop them. Steve just sat in silence, stunned. They stood, offered a few awkward words, and left us there—alone, hollow, and shattered.

My husband Steve and I were in vocational ministry for seven years. We stepped into it with hearts on fire—terrified but convinced that God had called us to love people and serve His Church.

When our sending church approached Steve about planting a new church, it felt like an answered prayer. A small core group—five couples who’d been driving 45 minutes every Sunday—wanted to start something local. They were kind, sincere, and full of vision. They didn’t just want a church for themselves; they wanted one for their city.

We bonded quickly with that core group. They became family. We shared meals, childcare, laughter, and life. When our basement flooded, they showed up with shop vacs. During the pandemic, they joined us in livestreaming services from our living room. Our kids made coffee, rocked babies, and served on the “security team.” It wasn’t just our job—it was our life.

About three years into the church plant, the workload became unsustainable. Steve was preaching, helping our team set up and tear down equipment, editing sermons, counseling families, and managing just about every detail on his own. We were desperate for help. That’s when we hired another pastor.

At first, he and his wife seemed like an answer to prayer—friendly, charming, local. But little by little, cracks began to show. They spoke of every previous church they had worked at as toxic, every former pastor as abusive. Somehow, they were always the victim. They moved fast in friendship—too fast. Looking back, there were red flags everywhere, but we were too trusting, too hopeful, too tired to see the truth. The leak had already begun.

Slowly, the narrative shifted. Subtly. Quietly. The new pastor began meeting privately with elders, confiding his “concerns” about Steve—Steve’s supposed "abuse", his “blind spots,” his “narcissism.”

We didn’t know that trust was eroding behind closed doors until the day the whole thing capsized. When the elders sat in our living room and told us Steve was being removed, there was no moral failing, no scandal, no disqualifying sin. They even offered to write him a letter of recommendation. Just… not there.

Eighteen months later, the reasoning still doesn’t make sense. Looking back, there were so many red flags—so many subtle signs that something wasn’t right.

While many of these symptoms fall under what could be classified as narcissism, I hesitate to use that word as it has become overused. What matters more than a label is discernment—recognizing when a person’s pattern of behavior consistently harms others and disrupts unity in the body of Christ.

Unsafe Christians are surprisingly hard to spot at first. They cloak their dysfunction in spiritual language and are typically very charming, which can make their behavior confusing at first. Healthy leadership is marked by humility, accountability, and a willingness to apologize. When something feels off, it probably is. Wisdom asks us to press pause, seek multiple sources of wise counsel, and pray. 

I’ll share how this experience reshaped my understanding of ministry, what we learned through the loss, and why the Church desperately needs to relearn grace for its leaders.