It has been two months since the Christmas dinner in which Pastor Jock told me I have done everything he has asked.

It won’t be enough.

We struggle on, a crippled version of our former worship team and other ministries we lead, moving forward but now creeping along, an extra in a zombie flick, limbs hanging on by a string, eyes having lost their light. The worship team has been very strangely and unnaturally rearranged by Pastor Jock who has no clue about music, and it’s tragic for us. I’m learning the New Normal for me, and have resigned my fate to obedience. I am still allowed to sing, but am restricted from teaching on the platform, and my leadership role has been effectively gutted. We hold Christmas service, and my brother visits, commenting that it wasn’t the quality it used to be. No shit, Sherlock, that’s what happens when you micromanage, especially with musicians. Great music is honest, and we honestly weren’t feeling all that great.

I have been working on a CD of original Christian music while all of this is going on, but as I compose, my writing is getting darker, ink-black cumulonimbus clouds moving in announcing one helluva a storm is on its way. You can listen to it on Spotify if you like, Broken Pieces by Monica Be. (If you look it up, Alien Race is my favorite. Most of the songs are pretty religious to my ears today. If I knew how the hell to insert a link here, I would. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Oh my God I think I did it. Ha.) The title track was written during this time, the lyrics of Broken Pieces parsing out how my life felt shattered… how I’m trying to get the pieces to fit, but with smashed splinters and slivers, it’s a lost cause. It’s a desperate plea for God to take the shards and rebuild something meaningful, create maybe a mosaic, or something, anything out of my broken life to somehow still be useful. Oh, my dear God you can hear the desperation and darkness in my voice in this album. My voice has an undertone please God just help me I have no idea what to do anymore just pleasepleaseplease help me

We continue meeting with Pastor Jock, a Hail Mary attempt to see eye to eye. I’m just trying to stay out of trouble at this point, a challenge I turn out to be spectacularly bad at, the last kid chosen at kickball once again, the punk breaking the rules. The sideways glances and odd behavior in our presence at church is telling the story of a building momentum against us amongst the Churchies, a handful of people in the church who, despite their small number, still somehow have managed to seize the reins.

But we should be okay, right?? We do a phenomenal job, the congregation in general loves us and is extremely supportive of our leadership, we love the people here for the most part, and they love us. There are some great people here, and they are our brothers and sisters. The majority of this congregation has been our family for ten years, we have no relatives in Tiny Town, and they have been there for us, and us for them through the births of my two children, through food drives and fundraisers, when my brother suddenly passed away at 42, the teens through youth ministry, the homeschool group, having run their drama team, teen choir and small groups and leadership groups and entertaining and running events, I could go on… and on… and on. These people were our support system, and we were happy to be theirs. We were very close to a lot of the congregation, relationships have always been paramount to me, and I truly loved these people.

On a sunny, crisp February morning as we are leading the very last worship song that closes out the service, a fantastic way to do the benediction, by the way… I’m noticing that Pastor Jock has his head down, buried in his hands while we sing, what’s up with that? I am up front singing with a close friend, let’s call him Singer Sam. I have been working with Singer Sam for years and we cast each other a familiar friendly glance. We are working together, I’m playing my guitar and singing and it is all about us coming together to lift up the Creator of the Universe, and we are leading worship together, and it is awesome, and uplifting, and as I lead I feel, yes, it’s all going to be okay. This is where I belong, this is what I do. So what if it’s not a perfect situation? The congregation is with us, all together in exultation. It’s beautiful. Love, unity, worship.

We are singing a Lincoln Brewster song:

“You are the everlasting God, the everlasting God,
You do not faint, you won’t grow weary
You’re the defender of the weak,
You comfort those in need
You lift us up on wings
Like eagles…”

I will never, ever forget this moment.

We have been serving God at this Tiny Town church for ten years now. The entire church, heck the entire community knows us as DH and Monica, the Pastor of Worship and his wife.

At the end of the song, I look again at Pastor Jock, who still has his head down. I wonder what he is going through, I hope he’s okay. DH is leaving for a pastor’s conference with him in the morning, maybe he will be able to help him out, it’s obvious something is not right. We conclude, and all head out to lunch somewhere, I don’t remember where.

I absolutely remember what happened the next morning. We’re talking the grassy knoll kind of remember.

The postcard-perfect snow falls silently on a February morning, a lovely Norman Rockwell painting we are treated to all too often in Wisconsin. By the time February rolls around in these parts we are ready to pitch the canvas on a bonfire, classic painting be damned, get rid of this snow already. DH leaves for his pastor’s conference, and I get started working with my kids, now 8 and 11. I have been homeschooling them since kindergarten, a difficult task but one I absolutely loved. I will never regret the time spent building personally into their little lives, every minute was totally worth it. I’m hauling out workbooks and projects, my usual cup of coffee with more creamer than I should be drinking perpetually stuck in my hand, practically an appendage by now.

I hear a stomping on the front deck of the house, who the hell is here on a Monday morning, unannounced?

DH opens the door, and instantly my stomach leaps up to my throat. Something is very wrong. He is back barely after he left for the pastor’s conference he was attending with Pastor Jock, was it canceled? Is someone sick?

He has a weak, unconvincing smile…

“They fired me.”

I obey.

I have no choice.

The next several months sees me toeing the line to make sure Pastor Jock is pleased with me, and that I’m being a Good Woman, subservient to the Male role in the Church. It’s kind of like a little survival game, this is not my belief system but Pastor Jock’s, and since DH is still a pastor here, I have to do whatever I can to stay alive for Season 2. In prison you observe the house rules and obey the pecking order, or there will be hell to pay. I am still allowed on the creative team, and can do worship-related things as long as there is a male leader present, and I’m still allowed to lead worship for the teens, because by golly you can lead boys, but not men. Apparently when your male pupil turns 18, whatever wisdom you had as a woman somehow spiritually expires. POOF it vanishes like virginity at a frat party. Retirement savings at a casino. Brain cells at a coke bender and now not only do you magically have nothing to teach him, but he also has authority over you, because he has the proper bits.

Patriarchal authority is sooo weird.

And I can’t even really be mad at him. Pastor Jock is adhering to his belief system and doing what he believes is the Right Thing, just as I did in the stricter churches, he is living out what he believes, and I have learned throughout this ordeal that you will never win against a belief system. Just ask the Middle East.

Beat down, taught what I’ve been taught, and gaslighted by the new regime because I’m the batshit crazy one for having believed women can lead, I buckle down and do as I’m told. Mentally, I return to where I was under Pastor Strict.

I do what I can, and decide to make the best of things, though every now and then I make the mistake of saying how I really feel about this new direction. DH is also feeling like he wants to adjust his role, and he requests an alteration in his position, problem being he wishes for me to take over some responsibility. As you might expect, Pastor Jock is not fond of this idea.

The services are no longer fun, I spend my prayer time begging for God to help me with this clusterfuck.

A high point for me during this disaster was a Christmas staff dinner in which Pastor Jock thanked each one of us for what we had done this year.

When he got to me he simply said, “Monica, you have done everything I’ve asked of you.” It was true, the cringeworthy bit being the utter joy I had in my acquiescence, in my obedience, in my setting aside who I am, living my life to please this man. He was happy with me! Oh Boy! I hoarded these pitiful crumbs he tossed my way and resolved to continue doing the best I could to obey him, it was the Right Thing To Do. By now I was barely myself, that Monica is one shell of a woman, let me tell you! Not much of Monica left any longer, though, just a machine set up to perform duties requested. What would you like? Okay, that’s what I’ll do. My self esteem was shot, my boundaries trampled, my carefully tended roses uprooted and crushed by the bloated rambling tank of the rockstar prophet. The Churchies won, they have their yes man.

Speaking of Churchies, they have been hosting a continual parade through Pastor Jock’s office, and DH and I know… allllll of those complaints about the music, anger from those who didn’t get what they wanted on the worship team, and anyone else who is upset with us about anything, is now getting their chance on the soapbox, Pastor Real’s protection now a puff of smoke in the wind. This is Pastor Jock’s first run as lead pastor, and he has zero experience in any sort of musical or arts leadership, and would have no way of knowing that no matter what music you put up front at a church, some will complain bitterly about it. All musicians know this, where there is music, there is an opinon. Pastor Jock listens, and listens, and listens to any and all complaints. A case against us is being constructed, and we have no idea except we are starting to get the weird side-glances and conversations abruptly ending as we approach, unnnerving signs the tide has turned against us.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, one of the main complainers is, of course, good old Mother Superior. In Chapter 23, I introduced a friend whom I had chosen not to spend time with any longer because I had finally established boundaries with this control nut. Another is a man, let’s call him Joe Sham, who has been telling me for years how meaningful my worship leading is to him, how moving, how Spirit filled, my goodness sistah Monica, you did usha me into the presence of the Lawd. Yeah, he was a bit much, but at least he was appreciative, and supported us.

Until I am talking with a close friend on the worship team, a comrade who is similarly less than thrilled with all of the new changes. I am venting about how our ministry is getting thrown under the bus, and in conversation, I comment how supportive Joe Sham has been, and how he has always been a great help in the choir, in the community, just an all around great…Waaaiiit a minute.

VWOOOOOOOP the needle skids across the record.

The more I extol the virtues of Joe Sham, the more uncomfortable my friend looks.

He is turning gray.

WHAT?? I ask him.

“Monica… he is no friend.”

First swearing me to secrecy, (which hopefully didn’t include the presence of this story in a book 14 years later) he confides in me that Joe Sham has been talking shit about us to Pastor Jock for months. Sham is the one who made the accusation that I was dancing lasciviously, Sham thinks I need to be gone. DH had confided things to Sham in a men’s group promoted as totally confidential, Sham went and ratted out DH’s private and very personal struggles to Pastor Jock. This asshat has been criticizing us both far and wide, all while bringing me a mask of lies, a deception, a complete fraud that he’s our greatest supporter. Yes, this is 100% the same guy who comes up to me almost every week extolling my virtues, almost uncomfortable conversations with over the top gushing and now I know why it always seemed so damn weird.

Who is this guy? Why would he do this, why the sour grapes? Once the deception was revealed, I wondered if it was because Sham had lost his own ministry license years ago when he had an affair. I also found out years later when talking to a friend outside of church who lived in the community and worked in a local business in which Sham was also hired, is that Sham was known to the girls as a total creeper, a man that would hang around giving unwanted attention to my friend, awkward lengths of time while she was stuck behind her desk having to field the violation of personal space. Meanwhile, in the church, he was held up as a virtuous stalwart, a person to look up to, a mentor. I’m really getting sick of these bullshit people.

But his opinions, and others like him, instead of being deflected by Pastor Real, is now lavishly dished out and swallowed up by Pastor Jock. Our reputation with him is being brought down by this clan of Churchie naysayers.

One meeting I remember, I don’t remember what it was about, but I do know that the old Monica and her boundaries made a surprise appearance, and I actually stood up for something, I don’t remember what, but I do recall this being an extremely unpopular idea with Pastor Jock. We argued, and I gave up and sat down, in tears once again, knowing in Pastor Jock’s eyes, I had made the unforgivable sin of questioning him in a meeting.

I failed the obedience test.

And there would be hell to pay.

What’s in a sentence?

Combinations of 26 letters, peppered with symbols, spaced apart in clusters. Averaging about 15-20 of these clusters, separated by periods, commas, and the more exciting exclamation point or sexy curved question mark that seems to ask, whaddaya think big guy? Wanna give it a go? I suspect with my writing habits, you are looking at more like 40 of these little clusters before you hit the little dot that tells you to stop. And as innocent as the little curves and lines and circles and dots seem, they can carry enormous weight. They can turn the tide of a country. They are able to start wars, or create peace. They can passionately begin, or devastatingly end a relationship. And, oddly enough, sometimes a sentence… is literally a sentence. A death sentence. And I finally used the word literally correctly. Yay me.

It all started with the moon landing.

We are in California, Pastor Jock having had the actually pretty great idea to fly the core ministry leadership to visit the church we were loosely patterned after. We arrive, pick up our rental cars, and head for the ocean to blow off a little steam, stopping in little boutiques along the shoreline.

Our troupe descends upon a little shop packed with souvenirs and trinkets, wandering vagabonds perusing California shotglasses, pothead wallhangings and shirts proclaiming My Mom Went to Los Angeles and All I Got Was This Crummy T-shirt. In the center of the store there is a rack of large prints, and I am leafing through the collection of pop bands I don’t know, beach scenery shot by a mysterious someone, and those renderings of illogical stairways by that artist whose name I can never recall. I stop at an image of the Earth from the moon, a picture I’ve always adored, the sense of awe and wonder at the serenity and size of our planet, the beautiful blue-green marble. I really should have bought it. I gaze at the classic print and remark how much I love this photo. Pastor Jock leans over to look, and states blandly “too bad it didn’t happen”

Wait, what?

I have heard of people not believing in the moon landing, I had never actually met one in real life. Not only do they actually exist, but I am now working for one. I’m a huuuuge fan of the sciences, and my head slowly turns to gape at him, struck mute, while he launches into a ten-minute oratory on shadows, footprints, a flag moving incorrectly, a government cover-up. Is this guy for real?

He is, he’s dead serious and it’s another sign that shit’s gonna get weird.

We continue our week in SoCal, going to Joe’s Crab Shack, checking out Saddleback Church’s expansive multi-venue campus, then visiting a VERY cool church called Mosaic. This place was my favorite church I ever visited, earthy, artsy, progressive and authentic. Oh, man! If we can build something like this, I am wayyyy on board. I become very inspired about the future, and am taking expansive notes on how this could be done in a smaller venue, and what kinds of creative groups could be started when we return to Tiny Town. I have new ideas bursting forth for all of the areas I lead and can’t wait to get back and pass on the torch. Pastor Jock is continually holding court regarding his vision for the future of the church, and we are all excited to get on board and see this thing fly.

But something is sickly dawning on me.

I’m hearing him say repeatedly, he wants men to run this, men to run that. If men are in leadership, everything falls into place. If we invest in reaching men, the women will follow.

Men, men, men.

I know from years of working with Pastor Jock in youth ministry that he just looooves this book called Wild at Heart. It’s a book that swept through Evangelical churches in the 90’s that… wow, how do I put it? It’s one of those books insisting that the problems of the world will be solved if we would just revert back to a patriarchal model, men running the show while women obey and live quietly. The way it was taught to my daughter in Sunday school while I thought she was learning to be kind to others, was the man is the head, the woman is the neck. But I was not born quiet, and I have this propensity to wind up in leadership no matter where I go, so what are you supposed to do when you simply don’t fit this mold?

Author John Eldredge has this idea that problems in this world are caused by men not being manly enough. He sets out to prove his manliness by climbing mountains, tracking wild animals, doing things that are considered “macho”… the one-dimensional idea being God wants men to be Bear Grylls kinda guys who protect the weaker sex and want to go spear someone in the heart at Medieval Times, winning the fair maiden who sits quietly at home breeding his offspring, ironing the wrinkles out of his armor and dutifully crocheting him a coozy for his man-sized beer stein while he’s out slaying dragons. I always thought the term for guys like this was Asshole, but I guess I could be wrong.

He is also a huge fan of John Piper, author of books such as Recovering Biblical Manhood and Womanhood, I think you can figure out from the title where that’s headed.

The pieces of the picture I am looking at are beginning to fall into place, and as the week unfolds, a grain of sand in my stomach becomes a pebble, then expands to a stone, then a rock, finally a sickening boulder rising up in my throat. And I ask a simple question as we are driving, and I can see him to this day, he is driving and I’m in the back seat, which is in itself a good image for how much control I have in this situation.

“So…Pastor Jock, ummm… what exactly IS your view on women in leadership?”

And this Manly Man Jock states fourteen words, and I can hear it plain as day in my head, the strung-together career-ending line of words that is the iceberg scraping against the hull of my painstakingly built ministry.

“I believe that a woman should not teach or have authority over a man.”

And I know it’s over.

I have spent eighteen years studying church leadership, having forsaken my original plan to go to college and get first a vocal jazz degree, then continue into the sciences going after forensic chemistry or pathology. At the encouragement of various pastors along the way, I have given up those precious years to pursue being a worship and programming director, and spent my time learning to lead groups of people, and raise up leaders, male and female. I teach, I lead, I’m a public speaker, I have always held an up-front role, it’s what I do best.

Only what I do best is no longer allowed.

I ask him what will happen to my position, especially since I was supposed to have been the next hire, and he says he would defer to the elders. Well, maybe I’ll be okay, I have known all of them for years, and they have always been supportive of me.

But this isn’t what happens. Not at all. Six weeks later, DH receives an email, and my position is taken from me and given to…can you guess? A man. Pastor Jock throws me the bone of being called on often to sing solos. Gee whiz, that’s fantastic.

All that I built for eighteen years is effectively over. I am now trapped in this church doing nothing because I’m married to DH, who is still Pastor of Worship. Since he is in possession of that ever elusive penis, Pastor Jock has no problem with him leading.

I have the wrong bits for this job.

Ahhhh, shit.

“I am submitting my resignation…”

I feel numb.

It is the annual church meeting, a stodgy yet necessary evil we universally hate. We have been working with Pastor Real for eight years. Laughter, tears, countless parties at his house laden with sublime food and red wine, brainstorms, award-winning floats, all the blood, sweat and tears pouring into producing events late at night and early in the morning, building an incredible new auditorium which thanks to the 24/7 oversight of both DH and Pastor Real, is still one of the best acoustic spaces in Tiny Town. We have poured out those irretrievable glory years between 30 and 40 on this mission, having forsaken other careers, financial stability and my desire to be in a bigger city, and now the pastor we connected with so well is leaving. He reaches the last sentence: “Signed, Pastor Real. April 1, 2006″ Or whatever year it was, I’m not exactly sure.

Hysterical.

There is a pregnant pause while the penny drops, and we explode in the kind of convulsive laughter that can only be the result of masterful comic timing, a buildup of tension followed by the vaguest of clues that yes, this is indeed a joke. I can’t believe he did this. Complete deadpan face reading a page-long explanation how he loved all of us and treasured his years of ministry here, but it’s time to move on, he’s ready for God’s next chapter, he will miss us all, and we all fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Suckers, one and all.

A couple years later, this happens again, only this time, it really happens.

Pastor Real… is leaving.

I will never know exactly what came into play, secrets whispered behind closed doors, a scheme, a Churchie strategy to restore this wayward mission to its conservative Bible-thumper roots. I do know that it was some kind of forced resignation, and I’m not sure he actually wanted this, the coercion involved making the situation rather murky. The whole affair stunk, a rotten limburger of clandestine activity. I could go into detail, but I’m here to entertain you, not present a case.

One thing I do know is that Pastor Jock has been talking shit about Pastor Real for quite some time, and Pastor Real has gone through some things with his family that aren’t exactly popular with the church gossip chain. What I know now is if you really want to get rid of someone, you can dig up enough dirt on any human being to make them look like they are the problem, the one that’s ruining everything, the bad apple, and they need to go. Not a single one of us has a complete absence of skeletal remains hiding away behind some long forgotten closet door that can’t be hunted down and dragged out, rattling the bones in your face “SEE?? LOOK WHAT THEY DID!!

Pastor Real isn’t Pastor Perfect, and it seems as if the volume on the the usual whispers is now a buzzing, a chatter, a demand among the Churchies that Pastor Real has gone too far in any number of ways. Scandalous! I had always wondered how he handled the overly conservative segment of the church in the first place, those who wouldn’t even make it through reading this book for the random cuss word involved. How ironic he was hired because these people wanted to reach out, to modernize and make things relevant, to grow the church, and Pastor Real delivered, and they hated everything that came in the sidecar of the vehicle called church growth. His success was his undoing.

This also effectively removed a vital buffer we had. Pastor Real had a constant stream of Churchies at his door raising complaints about the latest whatever to pick us and our ministry apart. He was very protective of us, and defended our ministry, trusting as professional musicians with 18 years of experience in multiple churches, we probably had a fairly good idea of how to do this. We appreciated this layer of insulation, probably not as much as we should have. You see, in a church, no matter what you do, you will have haters, cold concrete statues weighing down the pews, arms crossed and brows furrowed because THAT is NOT how it’s supposed to be done.

Pastor Real has been deflecting this for us the entire we’ve been there, having been in full support of our constant pushing of the musical envelope, bringing in a stream of different music, creative visual arts, concerts, personal development courses, leadership training, field trips and whatever else we could come up with. Inventing, creating, leading, experimenting.

And now he’s gone.

We are without a senior pastor for a year, the hunt is on to find someone to pastor this congregation. His departure leaves us with four pastors, one of whom is my husband, and they take turns preaching the Sunday message, and share the Senior Pastor responsibilities. We carry on like this for a year, and it isn’t too bad. Pastor Real built this solid, a well-oiled machine even without him at the helm, his spirit keeping the plates spinning though he is no longer the one holding the poles.

Commencing is a countrywide search to replace a pastor who isn’t very replaceable, but the committee also starts looking under the church hood at who right here may be qualified. They ask my husband DH if he is interested in being the Senior Pastor. He says no freaking way, after all of the shit he has seen in the church, he’s understandably not too interested in being in the position Pastor Real had been in. I am relieved, until…

They start discussing Pastor Jock.

Uh oh.

DH and I both think this is not the best idea since sliced bread. He has only been in ministry a relatively short period of time. He’s a great youth pastor, and is very charismatic and popular, as is his wife, but there is something unsettling to me about the way they talk about others. And going from youth ministry to pastoring a congregation of 500 seems a bit like jumping from doctor to surgeon without all of those pesky years in between practicing and learning how to cut apart and sew a body back together without killing the patient or creating a Frankenstein monster on the operating table, OR nurses looking on in wide-eyed horror. But the thing turning my stomach sour, having worked closely with him in youth ministry and listened to many of his messages, I observe an undertone of overly strict doctrine behind his slick stylish wardrobe, tattoos and cool haircut, and when he preaches certain topics, I get an uneasy feeling in my throat that I haven’t had since I was in Pastor Strict’s church.

It’s that same feeling I had in the first sentence of this book, a lump in my throat that makes me want to cry, that is telling me you are not in control of what happens to you. you don’t get to decide for yourself. this man gets to decide for you. he knows best. trust the man of god to instruct your destiny.

Around this time, I am also working on a CD of original Christian music. The first song I pen for the album is called Joy, a fun, jazzy tune that a friend of mine dubbed A Great Song For Driving.

But the music flowing from me is changing and evolving as this situation unfolds, and it is becoming increasingly dark, a dusk journey that started well enough on a sunny day in the park and journeyed to a pitch-black graveyard heavy with the stench of death.

By the time I finish the album, my life will be unrecognizable.

We have a new Senior Pastor.

It is Pastor Jock, and his lovely wife, Sporty Spice.

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!”

I am bewildered.

Let’s back up. Beep, beep, beep. Remember Pastor Jock, the good-looking and very charismatic youth pastor hired by Pastor Real?

Everyone loves the tall, muscled out dude, complete with a spectacular pedigree, a T-shirt announcing “This Is What Cool Looks Like” and a wife who evaporated out of a swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. They are both all-Americans, I’m enough of a nerd to still not know what the hell that means, but it sure was a big deal to everyone. He really is a great youth leader, though, getting wholeheartedly involved with the tumultuous lives of the teens. We are quick friends, me having been a youth leader as well. Pastor Jock is great at motivating others and galvanizing a team, and the youth group explodes into a movement, making inroads to at-risk kids in the community. We get along fabulously, he is quick-witted, creative, and compassionate, and I also have him join the creative team, an ever expanding think tank of leaders and laypeople tasked with finding new, unusual, even wacky methods to reach the community.

He is a firm believer, having had a difficult upbringing in the rural mountains of the western US. He had a checkered past before becoming a Christian, and has pretty strict convictions. Uh-oh. This was a bit red-flaggy to me, but the hiring team didn’t identify this as an issue, in fact, I’m sure the more conservative ones loved it. His wife takes over leading the younger kids, and constructs a formidable children’s program. These two are an amazing hire, Pastor Real has completed his team of five pastors and a pile of lay leaders, patterned loosely after a California megachurch. We all actually work pretty well together, the place is growing like crazy.

At this point, I am slated to be the next person on staff. I am the main worship leader, the programming director and creative director. I am constantly there, building sets, scheduling, planning, leading teams, building floats, decorating the massive auditorium, teaching Bible studies and devotionals. Right now, DH is the full-time Pastor of Worship, and I’m there almost as much as he is, sometimes more. I love what I do, but both of us working there full time for one salary with two children is a bit of a stretch, and I am looking forward to a bit of financial relief.

All of us in leadership become pretty close, and the wives all start spending time together. Pastor Jock’s wife invites me to join her weekly coffee with the girls, a group wich includes several women but kind of dwindles down to her, her best friend, and me. Let’s call her Sporty Spice and her best friend Sidekick Spice. Sporty Spice and Sidekick Spice are the kind of close that you can’t slide a sheet of paper between, and some start feeling like outsiders, unable to penetrate their two-person clique.

One cold December morning, I fight the elements and trudge through knee-deep snow at the curb, stomping my boots as I enter a coffee shop. I can already see her at the table, emphatically gesturing about something, and as I approach, she is yelling to her one-woman fan club while she motions at the kitchen in the back “WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!”

I sit down wondering what the heck is this all about? I look where she is gesturing. One of the kitchen workers has a string tank and shorts on. Oh, nowww I get it. Sporty Spice is picking on the fact that this woman is too scantily clad for her tastes. Whore in the kitchen! I have a sour feeling in my stomach, she’s acting like the mean girls who used to bully me in high school, constantly picking me apart for anything they could find that didn’t fit their cookie-cutter idea of what people should be like.

She carries on about the unaware kitchen worker, and after months of sitting at this table I finally get it. Sporty Spice and Sidekick Spice are mean girls, and this little coffee-klatsch is where they go to gossip. Sometimes they allow another person or two in their velvet-roped area, and it uneasily dawns on me that my time in their little club is not going to last long, it never does. It’s likely the only reason I got invited in the first place is because I’m a pastor’s wife.

They talk, and laugh, and laugh, and talk, and tear down this poor girl to shreds. I say it’s probably hot in the kitchen, but my words go ignored. I will never fit into this girl gang.

I also know if people will gossip to you, they will gossip about you.

This is going to be a problem.

But it’s just the youth pastor’s wife, what difference could this make?

I am looking at a sprouting seed, the birth of a monster Venus flytrap that is going to devour my entire family.

Because something is about to happen that is going to throw a Molotov cocktail on this party.

I’m helplessly staring out the window of a church lady’s car, tears streaming down my face.

Again.

I can’t keep doing this.

She is driving me back from a worship seminar, preaching at me all of the things I am doing wrong when I lead, a firehose of unwanted demands. I feel like I’m three. My voice, my approach, my everything. She is running down a list of what I need to do to fix this, and fix that, and I am ready to open the car door, tuck and roll and take my chances of injury rather than this berating. And after years of yes sir, no sir, what would you like, sir, how can I change to better accomodate how you think I should be, sir,

I finally crack.

I know something is desperately wrong. I have that sense of critical mass. I’m glass breaking, a cliff giving way at last after years of erosion. But my life is just this way, and will always be this way, suck it up and do your best. Toe the line.

And then, I read one simple story.

The first pulled thread to unravel the years of indoctrination, and the first inkling of the person buried underneath, is a simple book.

I counsel with one of the pastors because all of this shit is getting to me. I share too much, problem being instead of counseling with a licensed therapist, who will lose their license if they tell your secrets, I am confiding in a pastor, who has no such requirement and legally could sell your story to People if they felt like it. Things you should know about church #542. Some of what I shared in private is eventually used against me, of course not by Pastor Real, who is Italian, and would view broken confidence as betrayal worthy of a decapitated horse.

He hashes over my years of upbringing as the youngest of 8, being perpetually at the bottom of the pecking order and feeling as if I have no choice in my life. I am here to make others happy, and my happiness doesn’t matter. I was raised Catholic, and suffering for the sake of others is the best way to live… right???

So, believing this is what’cher supposed to do, I am totally living for others. Somewhere around this time, in my thirties, it begins to dawn on me that living my life to please others isn’t working. The problem I am running into is, not only am I pulled in a thousand different directions with everyone’s expectations, but I can also do everything for someone else and they STILL. AREN’T. HAPPY!

Although I am a bit frustrated with this pastor’s loose lips later on, he does recommend Boundaries*.

I start reading the opening story, about a guy who has a problem. Every time he turns on his sprinkler, it waters not his lawn, but the guy’s next door. His lawn looks terrible, no matter how much he waters. He is exhausted from all of this lawn care, yet it is still dead, all brown and crusty from years of neglect. Meanwhile, the next door neighbor is passed out in his hammock, but damn, his lawn looks great! A lush, green carpet he has done nothing to deserve.

And I am stunned.

It’s a perfect picture of how I have been living, make sure everyone else’s problems are solved. You want me to marry you? Okay, I’ll marry you. You want me to give up my career to work for the church? Okay, you must be right. You want me to be your friend and treat me like crap? Okay, I’m here to listen. You want someone to start a new ministry for young adult female redheads with bipolar disorder? I can do that!

I had always viewed myself as the person who could just take it, being strong for others around me, putting in the extra time, because I can handle it. I was a voluntary doormat for so long, this was the first time I realized not only did I not want to keep playing the role of Doormat, but that it was okay for me to roll it up and get it the hell off the porch.

The moral of the story with the guy watering his neighbor’s lawn is to move his sprinkler to his own lawn and put up a goddam fence. And, of course, you have to be prepared for your neighbor, glass of lemonade empty and lawn suddenly brown, to be pissed. This was possibly the hardest part for me, and part of what made getting my life back so difficult. I realized that I was going to have to be okay with people being mad at me. What the hell, enough church folks were mad at me anyway.

This book asks an important question that has stuck with me, a question most people never ask themselves. It’s simply… what do you want?

Most live in obligation, routine, or acquiescence, doing what is expected, or what is easy, not what they really want. I have discovered this is painfully common, inside and out of the church.

This is the first time I have understood that my life belongs to me… is it really possible for me to say no? Is it okay for me to turn down someone when they can’t make it and want me to take over leading something? Is it really okay for me not to put together a new committee? Okay for me to not go to someone’s house if I don’t feel like it? Okay not to have someone touch me if I don’t like it?

And at effing last I wake up to the idea that if I feel like shit after spending time with someone, it’s okay for me to go ahead and say no, not answer the phone, not go to lunch with someone who is going to tear me down.

I stop spending time with the church lady who started this chapter. She is not happy. She is still mad at me to this day. I hold my ground, I know now there will be others in your life who will be mad at you no matter what you do. I can’t care anymore if I want to unearth this Monica who once existed.

It will take years for me to get my life back. but I can’t unsee this, and a door I hadn’t known existed is suddenly available.

I commit a cardinal sin.

After 16 years in ministry, for the first time, I say no.

I have turned the knob.

*This fabulous book is Boundaries by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend. You’re welcome!

I am going to introduce you to a new villian in this saga.

And the villian is me.

Yes, I could diligently scrub the entire area with Clorox, the blood would still remain on my hands. I could pin this crime on someone else, and boy isn’t the church awful and look at me the poor victim, but honesty is required for this tale. We all struggle with some darkness, and the only way I eventually overcome all of this (and some of the best – and toughest – advice I’ve ever been given) is to take 100% responsibility for the role I played in everything. It’s like you own a house with a hidden door. The door hangs on an old hinge rusted from years of disuse. In the room behind are your secrets…the room is crammed with old debris, things that should have been gone through, skeletons which need to be addressed and discarded. No matter others can’t see it, YOU know when real estate is being taken up in your head. And you can’t clean up the mess if you refuse it exists. Trust me, I’ve been the bad girl enough to know.

I am working at church behind the information desk when an intense looking woman approaches and requests the doctrinal statement. Well, hallelujah, someone finally knows to check this church out under the hood before jumping in the pool. I wish I had done so. She is a first time visitor, there with her husband. She has a soft Southern accent and has relocated from Texas (warm, balmy, beautiful) to here, Wisconsin (so damn cold in the winter we blow bubbles outside to watch them crash). She is quick witted (yes!) shrewd and intellectual (yes!) and just as hyper as I am (yes, yes, YES!) We hit it off immediately.

She has big, brown doe’s eyes and a beautiful huge whiter-than-mine smile (We joke about this. She burnt her mouth once using too much whitener. Overachiever.) Her brown hair waves to her shoulders when it’s not in a ponytail where it usually is because she’s always busy tearing down a wall, building a set, leading crazy drama games. She is taller than me, as is almost everyone, and has a regal height, like another bestie you will meet after my greatest sin. What really gets me though, is her laugh. I LOVE people who don’t take life too seriously and laugh at everything, the good, the bad, and the dirty. She has a big, boisterous musical laugh and it overtakes her whole body. I instantly fall in love with this Southern belle, and she becomes one of a handful of best friends I have in this world.

To top it off, she is an excellent drama director. She almost immediately spearheads a new drama group, and for a few years, she brings these great, often hysterically funny scripts to the stage, waking the Sunday morning zombie-brained crowd to get them thinking about life. We go to a women’s empowerment conference and talk each other’s ears off till 3 am. We spend endless hours in creative planning. On Easter, we go to her house, and she has made baskets and set up a little party room for my active small children, they love her, too. We spend truckloads of delightful time together, laughing, crying, discussing possibilities.

We become very close, yet there is a darkness smoldering beneath this perfect picture of which I am unaware. She has a marriage that is failing, and underneath all of the good times veneer, she is suffering, but can tell no one. It’s church, and you are only allowed to fix your marriage, not end it. You absolutely cannot leave, even if it’s a heap of hopeless Swiss-cheese rust, up on blocks with no engine and no parts available, dammit you absolutely have to keep pretending that skeleton of a thing is gonna get you somewhere, everything is just fine, thank you very much. I’ll just be over here pretending this thing works.

My friend is doing the one thing in a church you cannot do, especially if you are in leadership.

My best friend… is getting divorced.

I could blame everyone who drilled it into my head that divorce is not an option, what God has put together, let no man put asunder, you need to try harder, pray harder, fast, have more date nights, spend more quality time together, learn their love-language (seriously, some guy came up with this bullshit and it is held up as Gospel. Folks, it’s just a top five list expanded long enough to sell a book.) and buy flowers and candy and all of the happy horseshit that doesn’t work if the core is broken in the first place.

It is the one area in which you are not allowed to fix a mistake.

I am tasked with trying to talk her out of this, the great irony being, as you may recall, I am masquerading my own broken marriage. I’m making it as good as possible, because that’s the Right Thing To Do, and God hates divorce. Hey, if I have to do this, so does she. It’s the rules.

I can remember my jeans and sweater. There is a chill in the air as I drive the ten miles, suddenly wishing it were a thousand, to her house. I am meeting with both her and her husband. I reluctantly pull in, shift into park, and sit. The white railings of her house glare at me, long glowing teeth in the moonlight. I really don’t want to do this. My brain says come on, she just has to stay with her husband, that’s what’s right, but my soul is crying out, come on, Monica, get real. If you had the guts to be honest with yourself, you would do this, too. But I can’t, so neither can she.

The door swings open. Her eyes are red and swollen, she looks exhausted. Her husband looks about the same. I sit with them both in a side room of their beautiful house, now a mausoleum for the corpse of a relationship I’m going to attempt convincing them to Frankenstein back to life. I talk, and plead, and preach. They are both my friends, why can’t they just get along?

I find out years later there are dark things going with her husband on that she has discovered, things she is too embarrassed to tell me, because I am the Perfect Pastor’s Wife and would be appalled. The really sad part is, she’s not wrong. I don’t feel this way inside, but this is how I am coming off, because I’ve been hiding my own shitshow so long.

The solution in church, no matter the offense, no matter what’s wrong, is always counseling and therapy and read the right books and go to a Laugh Your Way To A Better Marriage conference, dammit if your marriage is not working, you’re just not doing the right things to fix it!

She turns me down, she is still getting divorced.

In my best friend’s darkest hour, I am not there for her. She is decidedly NOT following God, so I can’t support her in this decision. Per the Bible, I have to turn her over to Satan.

I leave, we are both in tears.

I don’t see her again for 15 years.

I feel sick.

There is a coleader who has been on the worship team for a few years, let’s call him Perfect Christian. PC came into the church with his wife and much of his family, with a solid music and ministry background, already having been in leadership at other churches, the exemplary person who makes you wonder how they got so much of this right. His mother comes in tow, and she is a strict pain in the ass, the proverbial Church Lady who complains about damn near flipping everything. Why do people who hate it so much still go? A puzzle for the history of mankind. We work with PC for several years, and he is very nice and kind and volunteers and helps all the time…he’s poster child for the clean cut Christian. So, Mr. Ducks In A Row quickly rises on the worship team to be part of the core, working with us closely. He is always appropriate, spectacularly mild mannered, and the worst jokes he ever tells are bad puns. Maybe the bad puns should have been the first clue…

He travels with the leadership team to various events, politely offering to drive or pick up the check. He is an exemplary person, certainly much more put together than I ever was, heck my laundry has been sitting on a chair for days now, staring at me, waiting for the Folding Fairy. Where is that bitch anyway? God I hate laundry. PC’s clothing is always neatly pressed and perfectly modest. His life checks off all of the tidy little Christian boxes, the poster child of good, clean living. After years of faithful service, he is going to become an Elder, the high position just under the Pastor, that is only open to men in the EV-Free church. We are all in full support of this.

Pastor Real hires a young adult pastor, let’s call him Pastor Jock, having been a serious sporthead in college. I immediately like his high energy, he’s a very fun person and connects well with the teens and young adults. He looks hip and trendy, and his blonde, beautiful wife was an All-American ( I know nothing about sports and have no idea what All-American means, but it must be a big deal, it was reiterated constantly.) He’s a go-getter, and joins the melee, all of us brainstorming up new ways to help the community and make the services more relevant. He spearheads some truly innovative things for young adults, and again we are off and running, spreading through the community like a positive wildfire.

Back to PC.

Neighbors of PC’s family who grew up in his neighborhood enter Pastor Jock’s office with a story… and it’s not The Legend of How Awesome PC Is.

This man, whom I have known for years, who has been leading worship, who has been teaching our studies, who is friends of our family…

…molested young girls for years.

A couple finally come forward when they learn he is becoming an elder.

Not exactly a chapter of shits and giggles, but it is what happened. Things like this tend to be swept under the carpet, as was my own experience with this, a neighborhood 17 year old ruining my innocence when I was 10, pillow over my face ensuring I would be forever afraid of the dark.

When a person is accused of predatory behavior, some say they must be lying…why wouldn’t she have said something right away? Unless it happens to you, I don’t know that you can understand the humiliation, the disbelief of others who know the perpetrator as a good person, or a leader, or a pillar of the community, or in my case the son of a neighbor who was close to my parents… will they believe you? Are you brave enough when it’s your word against the friends and family of the perpetrator, who invariably think he’s a great guy and are likely convinced they would never do something like this? Probably not, so of course there was no consequence to my neighborhood pervert, as was there no consequence to PC for years. I know from my own experience that most of us never tell, as those who came forward in this case kept the dark secret until he was up for a position of spiritual leadership second only to the Pastor.

There is a trial, a conviction, and Pastor Jock, to his credit takes this to the authorities, and Mr. PC is hauled off to prison.

We are stunned.

We sit back to examine, and reexamine…were there clues? Could we have figured this out? What did we miss? Is there any way we could have known?? The bizarre part is the only clue I would have had that there was anything strange about Mr. PC was how perfect, how squeaky -clean, how pristine his life appeared.

If the girls hadn’t come forward, he would likely still be an elder there to this day.

Predators just looove to go to church. A perfect place for them to portray a good front, instant friendship with members who will assume the best, and is there any place more powerful for the deviant than to become the voice of the very Lord of the Universe himself? This is why spiritual leaders aren’t questioned. Are you going to argue with the person ordained to represent God?? You heathen. How dare you question the Man of God.

I remember a book about sociopaths*. it is generally estimated that about 4% of the population is sociopathic to varying degrees. I did more research, and the number in spiritual leadership is supposed to be more like 20%. This doesn’t surprise me, and matches my personal observation….crazy people just looove church, just ask our pals Jim Jones, David Koresh, Charles Manson, or a million other sociopathic spiritual leaders. It gives you authority nothing else will. One thing I’m really grateful for outside the church today is… I am no longer under anyone’s authority, I run my own life, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Today, I am no longer required to be friends with everyone, which is a great relief. Not everyone is worthy of your friendship, and not everyone who wants to be your friend is doing so because they are looking out for your best interests. Some of them want your world to burn. Good friends should have your back, not the knife in your back.

See, this is how sociopath spiritual leaders get you, though. They look perfectly innocent. They don’t appear evil until after the evil is revealed, if their true intent is ever uncovered, it often is not. If you are a Jim Jones, you know how to do incredible good deeds to compensate for the dark rot lying underneath the surface. At Jim Jones’ command, near a thousand men, women, and children drank the cyanide-laced Kool-Aid, a terrifying picture in serene repose, arm in arm believers lying themselves to rest in a field, his sinister vision achieved. (it was actually Flavor-Aid, a detail lost in a flurry of brand name recognition.) This was a staggering number of believers to have that kind of dedication, but not the first time a large number reach their demise because of strict adherence to a belief system. What people don’t realize is there was a reason all of these folks were so devoted. He bought their food, paid their mortgages, kept their hot water and gas running, gave them clothing and jobs. His California ministry was well-respected in the community, he did a lot of good, especially for the downtrodden and homeless. He poured on the charity, and they were his. He had taken care of them and paid their bills, it’s the least they could do in return. There is great psychological power in making someone beholden to you. And they had become accustomed to following the rules, doing what they were told, trusting the leader who had taken such good care of them, of course he knew what was best for them. Consequently, when he declared a group of people were coming to threaten their society, time to move on to the next world, the group followed the rules, and gulped down the end of all their dreams.

Speaking of the end of dreams, my very best, beloved friend at this church has a problem.

And I am tasked with addressing it.

I have to hurt my best friend.

*Footnote: From The Sociopath Next Door. I highly recommend this book, it gave me tools to identify sociopaths BEFORE they fuck up your life. I wish I had read it before dating and getting involved with ministry. Hell, I wish I had this information before I left the house for the first time.

I am pulling into this cul-de-sac for a break in the middle of this book because we fielded an endless barrage of complaints on the worship team, and in a larger church leading a team of over 40, whelp. You know your brat relative who complains about everything? She goes to church, a place she can find good Christians who have to listen. So, let me take you on a little trip:

Top Ten Ridiculous Complaints We Fielded While Attempting To Produce Great Worship:

10: Third Party Complaints, or My Brother’s Wife’s Best Friend’s Cousin Told Me So:

People have a natural fear of confrontation. It’s plain human to fear telling people things directly. It is also, however, extremely important to do so. It is beyond me how people think talking to anyone other than the person who can actually do something about a problem can fix anything. This happens in the church constantly (prayer chain, anyone?) and makes small problems explode into much larger ones, the offended party spewing negativity everywhere, a wayward sprinkler of vitriol. When anyone had a complaint about the worship team, they would almost never bring it to us, they’d skip right past DH’s office and waltz off their complaints to the Senior Pastor instead. Thankfully, Pastor Real pastored long enough that he understood people will complain about music no matter what you do, and he had our backs. We were safe, for now.

#9- Auditions, or God Told Me I Can Sing Even Though I Sound Like Dying Cattle:

Boy, if you really wanna piss people off in church, audition. Which, of course, if you don’t want the music to suck, is absolutely necessary. I discovered how to create the angriest of all enemies-and how to gain a stalker-by wanting to maintain amazing worship music. I had one woman who claimed she sounded just like Whitney Houston. She didn’t. And that’s just one of a thousand singers who…just weren’t. If you have ever watched an early season episode of American Idol, you have seen how vocal auditions typically play out. Some people who can’t sing know it, but many have no idea. And they are furious when they are turned down. Problem is, just one well-placed clam can ruin a choir, as can a single poorly played tambourine. I wound up with the strategy of always having at least three people run auditions, so that no one could have a majority of the blame for someone not making the cut. And you HAVE TO DO THIS, or your music is gonna stink. Hey, guess what? It’s also biblical. Keneniah chose choir singers and instrumentalists for King David’s legendary worship team of thousands ACCORDING. TO. THEIR. SKILL.

But, yeah, when someone doesn’t make the cut, they typically don’t handle it well. One woman stalked me for over ten years, more about her later… but guaranteed my face is still on some dartboards out there.

#8: Clothing, or Why It Takes Me Three Hours To Get Dressed:

I was up front each week, atop a three-foot tall platform. Everything about my appearance was evaluated and sternly judged. I had a sweater that had zipped pockets with a ring pull on them. I guess from a distance it looked like nipple rings. I had a shirt with a butterfly on the front. The wings emphasized my boobs. I had a dark suit I liked. I wore it too much. I wore black too often. I had a white shirt on and was nursing at the time and leaked. I have two wet circles on my shirt and I’m singing in three minutes. I turned my shirt backwards so the stains were on my back, seconds before walking onstage. I fielded constant critique over what I was wearing. I have clothing PTSD.

#7: Babysitting Unmarried Couples, or If I’m Not Getting Any, then Neither Can They.

Sometimes, there would be an unmarried couple on one of the teams, or someone who was single and dating, and we would get complaints that people suspected someone who was unmarried might be having sex, and mayyyyybe shouldn’t be up front. Now, personally, I feel that anyone complaining that someone else is having sex probably isn’t getting any, something confirmed by the many miserable marriages I saw. I will be elaborating on this a lot at some point. When you’re miserable in your own relationship, you definitely don’t want someone else’s success story dangled in front of your face, the carrot you’ll never reach. People hate when they are following strict rules and see someone else gleefully breaking them. So, yeah, I was required to pull them aside and ask about their sex life. This was incredibly awkward, as you might imagine. “John, I know you’ve been dating Jane, have you been… well, you know,… have you popped her… umm… what base… uhh…is there… copul…nahhh…ARE YOU FORNICATING???”

This effectively rewarded anyone willing to lie about it, and punished those honest enough to tell the truth.

#6: Opposite Sex Friends Rules, or Oops, My Pants Fell Off:

Always the rules in the church about opposite sex friends. These rules invariably made things weird. If someone saw two cars in the parking lot, something illicit had to be going on. I recall once when everyone else had left and I was chatting with a male friend of mine and he said, well, we’d better go before something happens. I had to bite my tongue hard to not bust out laughing. Yeah, buddy, we kind of have control over that, your pants don’t just fall off. Not to mention, in your dreams. There were always rules about not being close friends with the opposite sex, hoping to prevent impropriety, but I can tell you this. Even in the strictest churches who didn’t allow the men and women to fellowship together and we were all dressed like Little House on the Prairie extras, people STILL managed to have affairs. It’s what’s in your heart that matters, and a cheating person will find a way around the rules, while a person of integrity could have Channing Tatum himself naked before them and turn it down (Pamela Anderson at her peak, if you’re a guy. Or gay. You get my point.) You can’t legislate faithfulness, but boy do people try. It’s either in your heart, or it’s not.

#5 Acknowledging Excellence, or Why Does She Get A Trophy??

One of our most complained-about events was also one of my favorites. We brainstormed how to show appreciation to tho top-notch hardest working volunteers, of which there were a great many. There were a lot of ministries, from a food pantry to helping ministries, from small groups to young adults groups, from decorating committees to float-building teams, we just had a ton of great volunteers, and we wanted to make it cool and fun instead of just having the typical luncheon that half the people wouldn’t show up to anyway. I should have know better than to attempt fun in the church. We brainstormed an Oscar’s style format. We built a massive city skyline backdrop that created a backstage you could walk behind. We had a gold podium and the five pastors all wore tuxedos. A nice dinner was served to the 100 or so volunteers, and we had the band and choir singing “We Are Family”. The pastors would enter stage center from a cloud of fog, with lights flashing. Then, they would give a speech showing appreciation and acknowledging all of the volunteers by name, then gave a trophy with the person’s name on it to those who had really gone the extra mile. It was a blast.

The Churchies HATED IT.

Ironically, we had more blowback from attempting to show appreciation than any other event we ever put on. They didn’t like the showy music, not the first time excellent music in the church would be punished. They hated the fancy dinner, shouldn’t we be feeding the poor? They despised the tuxedos and gowns, shouldn’t we be more modest?(read frumpy). Being from a small town, the city skyline I had a team work on for days didn’t go over well, either. Maybe I should’ve done it in camo. And dear God, you never, EVER acknowledge someone’s accomplishments with a TROPHY!! From their perspective, we might as well have built the proverbial Golden Calf and danced around it naked. Probably would have been more fun.

#4: Dance in the Church, or Why Can’t They Just Hold Still?:

Our team had great passion and energy, we are worshipping the Creator of the Universe, why wouldn’t we give it everything we have? Many liked the high energy and moving to the music, but again, of course some thought that the demonstrative worship was too worldly, too lascivious. What never made sense to me is that these were the very same people who would absolutely lose their shit at a football game or concert. Doesn’t God deserve some enthusiasm, too? King David, addressed in the Bible as the apple of God’s eye, danced with all of his might, loincloth aside and balls-out. The woman who complained about it was struck with leprosy. Curious how much leprosy would be around if God still dealt with complaints in this manner…

#3: Volume, or God Doesn’t Show Up If It’s Louder than 94 Decibels:

Oh my God was this annoying. How does someone go see a band play at around 110 dB and then complain it’s too loud at church when it’s significantly quieter? I recall a lady who was in the front row and then stood during worship, elbows out, hands slammed against her ears, a visual complaint for all to see. Not sure why she didn’t simply move farther back. We fielded more complaints about volume than possibly anything, the irony being that half of those complaining wore hearing aids, and that we had a section off to the side that was significantly quieter. I remain convinced when churchgoers see an electric guitar, it’s suddenly too loud. We occasionally had a horn section, can you turn down the trumpets?? No, no sir, I haven’t found the volume knob on the horns. Someone eventually had the bright idea to bring in a Db meter, and we had a sound tech running around trying to make sure it was under 94. I think we eventually “lost” the dB meter. Or maybe that’s just a fantasy I had. It’s the one bit of electronics I would have loved to burn in effigy.

#2: Music Style, or The Older the Music, the Closer to God:

DH had a saying, where there is music there is an opinion. He was right, the problem with church music opinion is that whatever style someone prefers would be what they assumed God liked, too, and was what He was listening to on His Holy Chariot Radio, KHEV, This Side of the Pearly Gates. They call it “Spirit filled”, or anointed, or holy… the problem being, if a certain style has the stamp of God’s approval, and we aren’t doing that style this Sunday, well, our worship just isn’t Godly anymore, and the Elder board had better well do something to fix the music. It was common for Churchies to think that hymns were somehow more spiritual, but sometimes they would feel that country style, or folk style, or acoustic style, or ANY style, was somehow more spiritual. It’s not. It’s just a style. King David used every damn instrument he could get his hands on, which of course brings us to:

#1: DRUMS, or Pharoah, Pharoah, Let My People Go!

If you have gone to church anywhere in the last 20 years, you have probably seen the abomination known as the Drumaquarium. Here’s how it goes: Church realizes it’s pathetically behind the times musically, church gets drums, church people who were raised on the Beatles and Rolling Stones or even Buddy Rich banging the shit out of these things inexplicably cannot handle this sound as soon as it’s in a church building. I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND THIS. These folks will be just fine on Saturday night at a wedding with a full blown band, get up eight hours later and complain about the literal same set up… just because it’s in church. So then churches try to acquiesce by either

1-getting electronic drums or

2-putting up a drum shield

either of which effectively gut the sound of the music. Anytime you see one of these in a church it means the complainers won against the musicians. Have you ever seen one in a live performance anywhere other than the church? There’s a reason no professional uses them. But, yes, once you bring in the drums the complaints begin, and then you find yourself looking through Plexiglass at the drummer, trapped in his tiny plastic prison. It’s just silly. I’ve been playing in regular bands for 30 years, I have yet to see a plastic box drummer anywhere other than the church. The funniest one I saw was electric drums behind a shield. You know there was a ridiculous meeting behind THAT bonehead decision. If you want every professional drummer who darkens the door of your church to flee, just keep putting these things up. it’s working.

SO congratulations, Biggest Whiners.

Back to my story, I have some news…