When Reconciliation Hurts

Recently, I tried to reconcile with my pastor. The meeting did not go well.

Without getting into specifics, I shared something with a friend who was not part of our church—a situation that was already public knowledge but that my pastor had asked to be kept within the congregation. I didn’t share it maliciously or because I wanted something to talk about. My social work ethics and instincts around safety told me that keeping certain things solely within a congregation can be problematic.

I’ve talked through the situation with people both inside and outside of the church, and I’ve received very different responses depending on whom I’ve asked. If nothing else, I believe it was an ethical dilemma—one in which two values I held came into conflict.

Truthfully, I didn’t want to have the reconciliation meeting. But a friend told me she would stand by my side, so I went.

The meeting lasted an hour and a half, and I walked away feeling more wounded than reconciled.

At one point, my pastor told me that any other pastor would have “washed his hands of me” a long time ago.

When he said it, I asked, “What do you mean?”

It wasn’t because I didn’t understand the words. I was hoping he would give me specific examples of what I had done that warranted such a statement.

He didn’t.

He simply repeated it.

So I heard it twice.

We also talked about one of my closest friendships. I was asked whether I was speaking “biblical truth” into my friend’s life. I said no. I don’t believe my role in my friendships is to police other people’s lives. I believe my role is to love people where they are. If someone asks for my opinion, guidance, or help, I will give it. But I don’t believe loving someone requires me to appoint myself the moral authority over their life.

I was told that wasn’t love.

I disagree.

My closest friends are wildly different from me—and from one another—and I love that about them. They have different experiences, beliefs, lifestyles, personalities, and perspectives. I don’t need the people I love to look like me, think like me, or make every decision I would make in order to love them.

And if someone chooses to judge me because of another adult’s choices, that’s theirs to carry—not mine.

After hearing that “any other pastor would have washed his hands of me,” I admittedly checked out at different points during the meeting. But I kept trying to listen.

I was told that I value my feelings too much. I was told that the church I had attended was special and long-suffering and that I would never find another church like it. I was told I would simply repeat the same mistakes at another church. I was told my allegiance to my friend had given me blinders. I was reminded that I had been warned that befriending her wasn’t a good idea in the first place.

And somewhere in that hour and a half, I realized that this wasn’t reconciliation.

At least, it wasn’t what reconciliation means to me.

I went there wanting to take responsibility for what was mine. I wanted him to understand why I made the decision I did. I wanted him to know that whether he agreed with me or not, my motivation wasn’t malicious. I wanted some kind of mutual understanding.

Instead, my decision was described as an “act of rebellion.”

That word has stayed with me.

Because I don’t blindly follow anyone. Not a friend. Not a political leader. Not a pastor. Not a church.

My conscience matters.

The reason I ultimately left the church comes down to one statement I heard: “Some things we only deal with within the congregation.”

Every fiber of my body screamed, NO. That is how people get hurt.

Maybe someone else would have heard those words differently. Maybe someone else would have made a different decision. I can accept that.

What I cannot accept is the idea that questioning leadership automatically makes someone rebellious, or that belonging requires surrendering your own conscience.

Perhaps the most painful moment came at the end.

After telling me—twice—that any other pastor would have washed his hands of me long ago, my pastor ended the meeting by telling me that he loved me.

I was angry.

Because saying, “I love you,” doesn’t cancel out what was said before it.

Love doesn’t need to convince someone that they’re fortunate you haven’t abandoned them yet. Love doesn’t require someone to agree with you in order to remain worthy of your patience. And love should leave room for another person’s conscience, questions, and humanity.

Maybe he sincerely believes that what he said to me was love.

I sincerely believe differently.

I tried to make things right. I wanted reconciliation. I wanted understanding. I even wanted absolution.

I didn’t get those things.

But I did leave with clarity.

If belonging to a church requires me to silence my conscience and blindly follow its leadership, then that isn’t a church community I can belong to.

I can admit when I’m wrong. I can apologize. I can listen when someone challenges me. I can wrestle with uncomfortable truths.

But I will not confuse obedience to a human being with obedience to God.

And I will not call that rebellion.