Moral Failures

When I err, everyone can see it, but not when I lie.
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Man-like it is to fall into sin,
Fiend-like it is to dwell therein;
Christ-like it is for sin to grieve,
God-like it is all sin to leave.
Friedrich Von Logau

While some mistakes have foolish or unfortunate stamped across them, others have forbidden. Showing up Thursday for Wednesday’s appointment is not too swift; showing up in Switzerland with the church treasury is sin. Both are mistakes, but the difference is qualitative as well as quantitative. The added moral dimension puts sin in a completely different category from blunders.

Generally, church leaders are held in high esteem as persons who believe in something — something measured by canons of right and wrong. The general public, church members, and, for that matter, the leaders themselves, expect not only intellectual assent but behavioral adherence to the belief system. So for an acknowledged leader to make a moral error is to live a lie. When a pastor or other prominent Christian falls, the shock waves fan out in all directions, weakening the foundations of churches everywhere. Amazement and shock over sinful conduct disrupt a church far more than incredulity over a poor decision.

Moreover, to opt for the wrong is more than an unfortunate choice, a stupid venture, a silly slip; it’s an offense against the glory of God. More than pragmatic considerations come into play. When our Sovereign is offended, the first question needs to be “What must I do to be saved?” rather than “How can I prevent this from dashing my plans?”

Of all the mistakes, living a lie carries the greatest consequences, for the ripples extend beyond This Age to the Age to Come.

Moses transported from Mount Sinai a list of ten such mistakes, and many more arise from the pages of Scripture. The territory is marked off limits on the map, but some pastors find their way into this forbidden country.

A Costly Charade

The pulpit of Christ Church in picturesque Carmel is one of those ecclesiastical plums; it rates among the top five in California.

Carmel-by-the-Sea speaks of tasteful aristocracy. Apart from claiming a movie star as mayor, the city fills its expensive hostelries in a decent, quiet manner befitting the old wealth that inhabits the town. It’s on the beach, but a proper beach more accustomed to sweaters than string bikinis. Carmel is a sheltered haven of respectability, and Christ Church is one of its most prominent and respected institutions.

Only one church in Carmel predates Christ Church. The Carmel Mission was founded in 1771 by Father Junipero Serra, that tenacious church planter who sewed together California with a string of missions. But Christ Church came on its heels to gather the Protestant faithful of this historic community, and a string of the brightest and sharpest pastors in the region led Christ Church to prominence among churches.

To this church in 1965 came Robert Millen. He was thirty-eight, younger than most of his predecessors, but his credentials fit the position. In thirteen years as a pastor (plus a few odd years as a student pastor), Robert had taken four struggling churches and left them robust powerhouses a few years later. Every one of them remained strong and effective after he left, a testimony to skill that matched his outstanding personality. The marriage of Robert Millen and Christ Church appeared made in heaven.

Robert’s situation was enviable. The manse, a red-tiled hacienda, overlooks the Pacific Ocean through twisted cypress trees. Membership in a Carmel Valley country club fattened his ample salary package. Robert especially enjoyed lunching there among the movers and shakers of Carmel society, and the church expected it. In fact, the congregation graciously shared him outside the church, allowing him great freedom to speak at ministers’ conferences and denominational activities. None of this Robert took for granted. He worked hard to pastor his generous congregation.

For nearly ten years, Robert led Christ Church with all the expertise and dedication anyone could ask. Always a strong, biblically sound preacher, he pleasantly surprised the board with his administrative skills, the congregation with his pastoral concern, and the denomination with his willing leadership. If you lived on the West Coast, you probably knew of Robert; and if you knew him, you spoke highly of him. Robert was that kind of guy.

Robert was also bisexual. He’d known it, struggled with it, and ached over his capitulation to it for two decades.

Being bright and resourceful, Robert had managed masterfully to hide his festering sin. No one knew — not his church, not his denominational superiors, not his friends in the community, and certainly not his wife. Robert pursued his life with such characteristic skill, they probably never would have known had not the inner burden become unbearable.

“I played everything else in life completely above board,” Robert explains. “I was Mr. Straight Arrow — except for this. I’m not a hiding kind of person, so it killed me bit by bit to live a lie.

“I knew homosexual practice was sinful. Try as I could, I couldn’t stretch the Bible enough to make it okay. I can’t tell you how many times I vowed to myself never again to do it, but as many times as I vowed, I eventually caved in.

“Can you imagine, living in one world as the upright, successful, ‘moral’ leader of a community, and in another world as a driven captive of desire? I’d preach, but inside I could only condemn myself: You corrupt impostor! Who are you to preach anything? You’re the worst kind of hypocrite. And my unending success made it worse. For twenty years, I was expecting God to strike me down — I’d even pray for it — but in return, everything I did prospered. The contrast between who I was and what I accomplished never ceased to dismay me. When I’d see real saints laboring without any of the rewards I received, it always got to me.”

When the pent-up pressure became too great, Robert subconsciously blew his cover. His daughter had been in a serious accident, and her hospitalization and eventual death added stress to the family. In what Robert considers “a really stupid way,” he let slip a clue: he left a note from a companion on the dresser. His wife found it and confronted Robert.

For a while, Robert thought they might patch things up. But the humiliation and especially the history of twenty years of deceit proved too reprehensible to his wife. Soon after they buried their daughter, Robert’s wife and son moved out in vindictive rage.

Years of hiding, years of battling a vicious enemy and losing, years of living a lie, and then the loss of his family nearly drove Robert over the brink. He considered walking into the Pacific surf and swimming out to sea. An end to life sounded better than the shambles of his exposed life. But he was sharp enough to commit himself to a psychiatric hospital instead.

One week after entering the hospital, Robert Millen sent a letter to Christ Church, resigning his pastorate. With that letter he relinquished his good name, his lunches at the club, his adobe mansion, his oak pulpit, his livelihood, and most of his future. But the letter had character. Robert spelled out his moral failing with delicate clarity. He confessed. He made no excuses; he requested no favors. He asked only for their prayers and their forgiveness for his sin, fully expecting awkward silence at best and more likely hostile reprisals. He knew how he felt about himself, and he expected them to feel the same. Yet he received from his congregation amazingly open and warm forgiveness, even as they did what they had to do: accept his resignation.

“If you hadn’t walked around in our lives, we would have been less blessed,” they told him. When he left the hospital nearly seven weeks later, the outpouring of love startled him. With literally nothing — his wife had taken all their family belongings — he had to rely on the charity of his friends, a bitter realization for a man accustomed to making his own way. But somebody loaned him a car, and somebody else arranged a place for him to live. Months later he found a position in Oregon as manager of a group-care facility for the elderly. He learned the ropes quickly, and survived.

The pastor of the church he ended up attending in Oregon knew Robert’s past. He also knew Robert, so he urged him to teach a seniors’ class. Robert enjoyed the opportunity to minister, and it kept him thinking about positive things.

Robert has maintained celibacy for some time now. He says it’s not easy. It probably never will be. But it beats living a lie.

Sin, although a tragic mistake, is so much more than a mistake. Robert could not just grin sheepishly, say “I goofed,” and get on with ministry. His brand of mistake — moral failing — ushered in drastic consequences: loss, a constant battle with himself, life that will never again be the same.

The story would probably have had many of the same elements had he injured a deacon in a rage, run off with his secretary, been proved a fraud, or siphoned church money into his own account. Immorality, lying, cheating, stealing, or injuring others bear consequences far greater than those of mere blunders or even major mistakes.

The leaders of God’s people are expected to match proclamation with practice. When their lives are exposed as a living contradiction of their message, all hell laughs.

And yet we all sin. Ministers make mistakes, little or large, innocent or culpable, sooner or later. Since we are bound to make them, probably in many varieties, how best can we manage them? Or, better yet, how can we even benefit from mistakes? That is our remaining topic.