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Abducted by Aliens

And the remnant took his servants, and entreated them spitefully, and slew them.

But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth: and he sent forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their city.” – Matthew 22:6-7

Every year, hundreds of pastors with their families suddenly go missing. It’s never reported, and strangely enough no one in their congregations seem to know what happened to them.

No one, that is, except for those who sent them packing.

No, they weren’t abducted by aliens. Instead, some church power-brokers decided they were no longer wanted. The conversation went something like this:

“Last Sunday was your last day in your position. You can resign or be fired. If you choose to resign, a severance will be provided for you over the next several months. If you keep your mouth shut, the money will keep coming and you can feed your family. But if you breathe a word of what we did, we’ll cut you off without a cent.”

The power-brokers know a few strategic things about pastors. They know they are considered self-employed and NOT eligible for unemployment benefits. You read that right – zero. So instead of fighting for himself and his calling, the pastor moves along and tries to support his family any way he can.

I’ll never forget when this was done to us. It was many years ago, but the memories still sting…

I was a worship leader brought in to a church that had been in decline for over 12 years. I was told up front I was the pastor’s last hope of reviving the church, that what they needed was more contemporary worship. I should have seen the folly in that premise, but I was young. Flash forward two years later, and no surprise: my new style of worship had not stopped the church’s hemorrhaging numbers.

One Tuesday I was called into the church board room, and told I could resign with severance or be fired on the spot. I had done nothing wrong, had no moral failing. I was merely inconvenient. I sat there holding my wife’s hand, staring into space, wondering why God had abandoned me.

What I didn’t yet realize is that I had not just lost a job…

Immediately our family had lost our entire local support system at the church. My kids lost their playmates and my wife lost most all her friends. Our friends thought we’d just walked away and thoughtlessly abandoned them. What they didn’t know was that we’d been threatened to lose our severance pay if continued our relationships with them or breathed a word of what had happened.

That’s called a “non-disclosure agreement”. If you speak to any friends in the company that fired you, you make it tough for your kids to eat. At least they help by making the choice so simple.

So just like that, every relationship in our lives, except for relatives, was gone. It was like a distorted mirror image of death: instead of you dying, everyone you know dies. Or at least that’s how it feels.

Just a few weeks later, we’re living in a small apartment over my in-laws’ garage. We’d lost everything except each other. In fact, I almost lost my faith in God as well, and at times even wanted to lose my own life. I functioned for weeks as either a non-responsive zombie or an angry, wounded victim.  

I still don’t know how my wife survived during that bleak season. I was utterly lost: defeated and feeling like a criminal, though I’d done nothing wrong. And I feared I would never function again in the ministry God had called me.

You see, once a pastor is without a church, it’s terribly hard for him to find a new one. Prospective churches assume he must have done something wrong to be so bluntly dismissed. So he usually ends up in some secular employment making much less than he did before, and now unable to follow his calling.

The executive pastor at that church had come straight from the corporate world, and he knew how to minimize any “blow back”. His goal was to cut off all communication from the former “employee” so the only story going out to the congregation was the “company line”. And with the pastor and his wife quietly limping away, it will appear to everyone they must have done something wrong. So all their friends feel betrayed when their calls go unanswered.

They finally stop calling and move on with their lives. Meanwhile, the pastor and his family try to pick up the pieces of their lives, alone.

Now, of course the church leaders will never say he did anything wrong. But they won’t have to. People will assume from the quick exit and lack of communication there was an indiscretion of some kind. No one is talking about it because they don’t want to embarrass the pastor…at least that’s the impression they’ll leave. And that impression is intentional.

Meanwhile, the pastor and his family struggle with feelings of betrayal, loneliness, and being forsaken by God. Is it any wonder so many pastors’ deal with depression and suicidal thoughts, and their children leave the church when they come of age, never to return?

In my bitterness over being terminated, I remember writing a little limerick about my experience:

If your pastor disappears, don’t you worry for the parson. There’s a strategy behind his sudden loss.

If your pastor disappears, don’t investigate for martians. It’s clear they don’t abduct men of the cloth.

What you probably didn’t know is that some bullies got together, deciding it was time for him to go.

So they wrote up an agreement, threatening shoes they made with cement they’d attach to him unless he signs below

If your pastor disappears, never fear he’s been abducted. It’s probably just the deacons at his throat.

Some bullies get together and decide to change the weather. And the pastor merely serves as their scape goat.

Friends, we have to stop this. We must stop doing church like the world. We must stop treating spiritual leaders like nothing more than employees. I know the logical question to ask here is, “Then how do you terminate a pastor?” I don’t know that there’s one easy answer for the “right way”. But I do know this is definitely the wrong way.

As a pastor, I’ve only fired anyone this way once, when there was sexual abuse of a minor involved. We had to get the guy out of the position to protect children. But even then, we payed for him to enter a counseling program and get help. If he’d had a family, we would have gotten them help as well. 

But the ruthless way many churches terminate pastoral staff is a tactic of a ruthless world and shows zero compassion for them as brothers and sisters in Christ. And it presumes there is no spiritual component at work in their positions, no holy bond between the shepherd and the sheep.

We say we are Christians, but in the church we often do business like atheists.

Do we seriously think this is the way the Apostle Paul would have done it? Paul reserved this treatment for the man living in sin with his father’s wife (1 Cor 5), not for a pastor who is simply deemed past his expiration date. Where is there a single Biblical exhortation to do anything like this, except when there is blatant sin present.

What that executive didn’t realize was he’d cursed his church for several years to come, not just because of me but also the carnage left from similar treatment of other staff members. It took almost 10 years before any growth finally came to that church, despite vast amounts of money and resources. I remember him saying once in a staff meeting “you don’t spiritualize a management problem, and don’t try to manage a spiritual problem”. In other words, “business is business”.

Well, this is a spiritual problem. We are regularly wounding staff, misrepresenting it to our congregations, and expecting the judgment of God to move past us. 

But if “judgment begins at the house of God”, how severely will God judge the devastation left by these practices? Do we really expect God to bless a church lead in such a hateful manner? How many of our dying churches are actually being judged by God for how they treated His shepherds?

I look back now and can see the hand of God working, in spite of how we were treated. Just like Joseph, every attempt to destroy us only served to put us in position for God to bless us. But that does not absolve the perpetrators of ruthlessness for the destruction they’ve caused. I still look forward to the day all my grown children feel comfortable again in a church, and don’t see it as a machine that chewed them up. I grieve for those now experiencing the power plays of ambitious men who want their way, no matter the carnage it leaves. 

Remember, the Church is supposed to be the Bride of Christ. May we never allow ambitious men to remake her into the Bride of Frankenstein.


If you have experienced the trauma of forced termination from a church, there are some wonderful people with resources to help. The PASTORS’ HOPE NETWORK is ready to come along you and your family members with advice, HR resources, and a listening ear, among many other things.

Don’t go through this alone. Please reach out to my friends there today!

PASTORS’ HOPE NETWORK WEBSITE

1 Comment

  • Barbara Milburn
    Posted February 10, 2022 at 8:47 pm

    The line “business is business” smacked me up the side of my head. Those words precisely describe what I’ve seen in many churches and church leaders. I’ve followed your posts for some time Pastor Dave, and appreciate your words. I don’t know you or your family personally, but I want you to know I’ve prayed for all of you over these past several years. God be with you and may He continue to use you to reach those such as me.

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Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.

Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.