A Hope That Hurts

Fifteen years after leaving the International House of Prayer In Kansas City (IHOPKC), I still find myself hoping for an apocalypse—not the fantasy used to control us.

That was always a lie.

Deep down, I still want to believe that something’s coming that will finally end the world I’m so tired living in— a world where men like Mike Bickle stand on platforms built on the backs of the vulnerable, worshipped as charismatic gods. I’m tired of the cycle: the exposures, the sabbaticals, the unconditional absolution always dripping from the mouths of all these false prophets who are trotted out to restore, rebrand, and re-crown predators, always granting them more power to inflict more torment on earnest people. I’m so exhausted by it. I want it to end.

I’m tired of prophecies. I’m tired of stadiums. I’m so, so tired of millions taking the cup these men offer and drinking from it, til they’re so drunk on the promise of power, revival, and glory that they can’t see the devastation of victims. And you know what else? I’m tired of leaders who are more marked by their silence than their advocacy, because that’s the price of doing business. It hurts. Victims know what silence from those leaders really is. It’s allegiance.

It’s funny, because I never bought into Revelation. At least, I didn’t think I did. But with every new story, new announcement I can’t help thinking, “will this be the thing that finally ends it?” I feel like I'm waiting for Apocalypse — and I'm realizing, little by little, that the hardest part of it all isn’t the letdown when the world keeps spinning. It’s realizing that somewhere deep down, I’ve started to hope again. It’s terrifying. Where did it come from? Can I trust it? Is it real?

I don’t know.

It's not a new feeling. It's one that’s been building. I think I’ve had this expectation, with every step forward, that the next might be what finally brings relief. On Wednesday, there was another step: the Advocate Group, the former IHOPKC leaders who exposed Bickle’s clergy sexual abuse, announced an investigation in coordination with Tikkun Global, a Messianic Jewish organization that’s highly respected by many in Charismatic circles.

We've all been waiting nearly a year for this. Why do I still feel like I can’t breathe? I know exactly why. It's because nothing ever turns out quite as well as we hope it might. There’s always a letdown to let go of. And it’s hard, because I know what each step forward has cost.

I think of the brave victims coming forward:

One story.
Two stories.
Five.
Ten.

Every story feels so drenched in the precious pain of a survivor, in the weight of unimaginable cost. It feels so very, very wrong that the ones who should have been protected are the ones choosing to bear it. I’ve watched dear friends nearly break under the weight of it. I've stayed up late into the night, worrying, listening—kept them on the phone until I heard their breathing even out, trying to find some kind of steadiness in me to offer, even if it's just my voice. There's no forgetting a weight like that, and I don't want to. I’ve tried to carry remembrance of it with me ever since. It feels so heavy. But it also feels sacred.

Everything feels so familiar, like some weird twist of fate has put me right back where I started. After all, I’m shoulder to shoulder next to the very same people I stood next to before, and we’re practically interceding. That’s what advocacy is, isn’t it? A kind of intercession? I mean, look at us. We’ve been crying out day and night for justice. Maybe it’s because it was so drilled into me — I read it, said it, sung it, prayed it— but I think I really have this hope that somewhere, somehow, some kind of bowl is filling up with all these stories, all this pain right up to the point where it tips right onto Mike’s head and pours out some kind of righteous judgement that will end this.

One story.
Two stories.
Fifteen.
Fifty.

Fallen, fallen, is Babylon the great.
She who has made all the nations drink of the wine of
the passion of her immorality….

How many stories will it take til I hear those words?

I think about Mike, and IHOP, and every leader and movement like it out there, inflicting wounds that cause all these precious ones to falter. I think about “the blood of the prophets” — of Ernie Gruen, of the Fearless Five, or any of the others who spoke truth to power and were cast out. I think about millstones the size of boulders, and wish I believed in angels, because I know it takes miraculous strength to lift one high enough to cast into the sea. I know all about the strength it takes to carry out apocalypse—I’ve read it.

A mighty angel picked up a boulder the size of a large millstone and threw it into the sea, and said:

“With such violence
    the great city of Babylon will be thrown down,
    never to be found again.

The music of harpists and musicians, pipers and trumpeters,
    will never be heard in you again.
No worker of any trade
    will ever be found in you again….

….the light of a lamp
will never shine in you again.
The voice of bridegroom and bride
will never be heard in you again.”

I thought I left that kind of belief behind when I walked out of IHOP, but now I’m not sure that I did—as unprepared as I was for that realization, I was even more unprepared for the kind of hope that came with it.  I don’t know about you, but I want so badly for those words to come true. Not because I want wrath, or destruction, or death. I don’t. I want what comes after. I want back all the things I lost when I was cast out. I want a city I can breathe in; a spiritual family. A home. I want it so much that it scares me.

I remember crying once to a friend who knows the cost wrapped up in my own story; how it broke my family, my community, my sense of self.  I told her how much it hurt to believe that maybe there could be some kind of resolution—how it feels like hoping for something good might cost me even more than what it cost to pour out my pain and face the desolation. I think I’ve always assumed that hope would feel like reassurance, but it doesn’t—at least, not always. Hope, it turns out, can also really, really terrifying, I think. There’s so much tied up in it, so much vulnerability, that it almost feels like pain. I think that’s what makes it cost so much to carry. It’s as beautiful as it hurts.

I don’t think I’m alone in that.

I don’t pretend to know what will happen next. I don’t know when or if the bowls will tip; how this story will end. But I think, in this moment, I want to honor that which feels sacred:

The cost of every story poured out.
The weight of all that hope.
Pain that takes our breath away.
Beauty that leaves us breathless too.

For additional information regarding the Advocate Group and Tikkun Global, visit here:

www.tikkunglobal.org
www.theadvocategroup.org