Two Sides of an Unbearable Burden

Random Thoughts on What We Carry and the Hope We Choose

I don’t know about you, but I can still hear the blood crying out from the ground. Does it ever stop? Would any investigation, any report, ever be enough to silence those cries?

As I sifted through the latest revelations about the abuse at the International House of Prayer in Kansas City(IHOPKC), I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had spent more time analyzing the report than the people involved spent writing it. And don’t even get me started on what I can only call a piece of lawfare—dropped on Friday.

Right now, I need help wrestling with a few questions. I’m searching for the right language, which often means meandering—sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling flat.

I guess we’re all going to find out together.

Anyway, I like having my Sundays free. But occasionally, my wife feels guilty about not belonging to a local church.

As luck would have it, my research into church abuse turned up an unexpected benefit: a strategy to keep me on the sofa and out of the sanctuary.

I stumbled across it with just two Google searches.

The first: “pastor restoration policy.”

The second: “clergy abuse victim restitution policy.”

I found plenty of the former—maybe one of the latter. And I don’t think it came from an evangelical church.

So now, when my wife starts feeling guilty and asks to go back to church, I just say:

“Fine. Pick one. And before we start attending, tithing, and coming under their pastoral covering, I need to walk into their office unannounced on a Wednesday morning and ask to see their pastoral restoration policy—because, you know, as a pastor’s son, that’s important to me.

“Then I’ll follow up with: ‘Hey, I also have two daughters, so I need to see your clergy abuse victim restitution policy, too. Along with the abuse reporting policy.’”

My wife knows I would sit in that awkward moment for as long as possible—maybe even find ways to stretch it out. She doesn’t share my affinity for conflict, and the thought of me actually doing this usually keeps church attendance off the table for a while.

But if I ever have to visit a church on a Wednesday, I have a feeling their idea of restoration will be all about the pastor—not the victim.

And rather than humiliating some church administrator, it might be better to present them with an opportunity—an actual policy—severe enough to serve as a deterrent should anyone look at my daughters the wrong way.

So, I started crafting my own victim restitution policies. That went sideways real fast.

Sure, they were draconian and all, but the numbers were just overwhelming.

Because how do you put a price on a wound so deep it becomes a part of you?

I wanted nothing to do with that.

Then I started thinking about the difference between restoration and restitution.

Restoration is about making something whole again—healing or reinstating what was lost.

Restitution is about repayment—compensating for the harm done.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized: They’re bound together—two sides of the same burden. And no matter how I turned it over in my hands, it was too heavy to carry.

Because in most—if not all—cases of abuse, true restoration isn’t possible.

At best, there’s only some distant approximation.

I’ve endured some abuse. And for a long time, I thought toughing it out was the same thing as suffering well.

It’s not.

Conflating the two has consequences—not just for me, but for the people I love.

My abuse, however, happened outside the church.

Which brings me to the first thing I need help with:

I could use some ideas for a restitution policy from people who understand a particular kind of abuse—the kind that desecrates the sacred.

Seems like a lot of assumptions are being made on your behalf. But I don’t see many people asking you what you need.

I’m not asking for disclosures about what happened.

I want to know how you should have been treated by the church—in the best of all worlds.

Because these eruptions that are blowing the tops off steeples? They show no signs of slowing down.

Apparently, another scandal just popped up—involving a Christian TV station and some Lambs who, for once, might actually need a nudge into the lions’ den.

The more I ponder this, the heavier the questions get.

Several months ago, I was discussing all these scandals with a friend. As far as I know, she didn’t grow up in church, but she learned way too early how to navigate extremely abusive landscapes.

Something I said must have set her off because suddenly, she was yelling at me—out of love, or whatever:

“You have trauma!”

“You have complex PTSD!”

“What are you thinking?!”

At the time, it felt judgmental. But…

There was that thing.

Then that other thing.

And something else that lasted way too long.

Funny—I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. And it’s been a long time since we last talked.

But I still need to figure out what the highest version of myself looks like—wounds and all.

That’s where I need the most help.

Because if I’ve learned anything from this process, it’s that my focus has to stay on that struggle.

And in my case, that means making sure it isn’t tied to what may or may not happen to someone else.

I can’t control that.

I won’t hand over more power to that person.

I can fight for justice.

I can find meaning and clarity in the struggle.

But if I place my hope in a specific outcome, I always end up closing myself off to the possibility of something better.

It’s not easy. But I think many of you have already found healthy ways forward.

And I could use some wisdom …

How did you begin to heal?

How did you create a vision of yourself—wounds and all—that was worthy of who you really are?

How were you able to focus on that, instead of the person who damaged you?

What helped, even a little?

Again, no need for disclosures—just small insights, moments, anything.

Drop them in the comments.