Confronting the Church Bully

It appeared I had jumped in over my head at my first senior pastorate. The church was bitter and broken from a soured relationship with its former pastor. He abruptly left one day, and I was hastily shuttled in. I intended to usher in healing and hope, but I underestimated the depth of congregational pain. The church was swollen, and it throbbed. Infighting was basic operating procedure. Quickly the enormous negativity engulfed me. Their pain became my pain.

I soon discovered the church had a bully—a petite, articulate, well-dressed woman bent on controlling the church like she had her household. Carrie ruled the congregation with a caustic tongue. She’d burst into a meeting, lob a few strategically placed insults and cusses, and the room belonged to her.

I became Carrie’s main target. She’d tear down any idea I put forth in a meeting, talk loudly to herself during my sermons, and regularly put her car in my designated parking spot.

I kept waiting for someone to rescue me, but the members’ silence encouraged her and intensified the pressure on me to do something, anything. I attempted to mask my distress, but inside, I was withering under her assaults. Fear can strip the soul to shreds.

Eventually Carrie began to phone me daily, just to start an argument, always at 10:45 a.m. One day, I realized this could not go on.

“Sister Brown was admitted to the hospital this morning. Why aren’t you there with her?” Carrie demanded.

“Oh, I did not know that she had been admitted. I will go check on her today,” I responded as calmly as possible.

“If you were any kind of a pastor, you would have already been there. You’re just lazy and stupid. Who in the world told you that you were qualified to serve as pastor of this church?” she bellowed.

“Carrie, calm down. There is no need to … ”

“You’re not qualified to walk a dog across the street,” she interrupted.

“I am tired of your insults … “

“You cannot silence me. I will be heard, you *#@%$!”

Click. I hung up the phone.

Carrie called back instantly and yelled, “I am driving to the church right now to kill you with my pistol!”

Quickly, news of the threat on my life spread. Well-meaning members phoned and recalled pastors they knew who were gunned down by crazed members. Most begged me to go into hiding, and a few offered to serve as bodyguards if I insisted on meeting Carrie at the church.

Not only was I ready to quit the ministry, I wanted to leave the state and change my last name! I tried to keep my frenzied fear beneath the surface. I and several members waited at the church in fear; Carrie never showed up.

Shaken, I went with my friend Allison for a pre-planned trip to the mall. Every pastor needs a friend like Allison—non-clergy, not involved in the life of your church. She likes me for me. We shop together. We take our sons to Chuck E. Cheese together. She took one look at the raw terror and anguish on my face and began to administer care.

As we rifled through a heap of scarves piled on a Reduced For Quick Sale aisle, Allison gave me a heaping platter of bluntness, just the way I needed it: “You are a pastor who will not tolerate abuse against your flock. And you are a human being who must not tolerate abuse against yourself,” she said. “This woman is wrong. You must stand up to her and handle the situation. Only you in your position as pastor can do this.” Allison’s words clarified a frightening situation. She helped me see that vicious members are not a reflection of poor leadership. Failing to do something about such persons is.

The next day, I reflected on her words, took a deep breath, and prepared to lead an attempt to remove this woman from the congregation. I anticipated a long, bitter fight.

After securing the support of our administrative board, we confronted Carrie. “You have dominated this church for too long,” I said. “Either you cease from this destructive behavior, or you must leave this congregation.” Many in that meeting had also been bullied by her, and with both words and body language, they stepped alongside me and said, “That’s right. You can’t treat us this way any longer.”

Carrie seemed to shrink in front of our eyes. She made no attempt to fight back, though she rebuffed our attempts at reconciliation. We followed up that meeting with a letter removing her membership. Her reign of terror had been broken.

It was an amazing discovery. But I would never have found the courage to stand firm had there not been one who cared enough to let me confide and dared enough to confront.

Sheron Patterson is presently pastor of St. Paul United Methodist Church in Dallas, Texas.

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