Duty
Will you listen?
I read the headline and felt my shoulders tense.
“Gateway Church pastor Robert Morris accused of sexually assaulting a 12-year-old in the 1980s.”
I can’t read while riding in the car, so I locked my phone and turned it over in my lap. I was riding shotgun. My husband was driving.
I wish I could say Cindy Clemshire’s story surprised me. But it didn’t.
Sure, the pastor involved was shocking, but the story itself wasn’t. What hit me harder than the headline were the thoughts that came after. I can still hear them:
Why would she wait 20 years to come forward?
Whose agenda is she having to push—who convinced her she needed to do this?
People will crucify her over this.
I know what people might say, that I should be ashamed of myself for thinking those things. But the truth is… that kind of shame had already settled in like my old favorite sweatshirt. Worn daily. No matter the season, no matter the weather outside.
See, when I heard about Cindy’s story, I hadn’t told anyone about mine.
I’d hinted. I’d spoken plainly to my husband about some things that happened while I was on staff at our church. But I never gave him the gut-wrenching details and I never once told him I was a victim of abuse or sexual assault.
I told him I wouldn’t blame him if he left me.
And I told him God wouldn’t either.
In 2023, my husband and I went to a marriage intensive.
That week was holy. There was a crushing that happened, one that marked the beginning of new wine being pressed. Some might say a veil was torn. The earth didn’t shake, but it poured the entire time we were there. And we knew something was being cleansed. Something was breaking off. Something was being put back where it belonged.
I can’t explain it fully, but I know this… something shattered, and then, something new began to rise within us.
We never talked about the explicit details of what happened to me in 2021. And looking back, part of me wishes we had. But if I’m honest, I believe it would’ve rushed me. Pushed me to share this story too soon, with those same people I thought I could trust.
And if I had, I think it would’ve stayed hidden.
Tucked away in the same controlled spaces those same people are still trying to keep it in now.
I stared ahead and watched the lines on the road disappear beneath our car. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cindy’s story. I couldn’t stop thinking about my own story, that seemed similar…that felt familiar.
The memories danced in my mind, one after another.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip someone apart. But more than anything, I wanted to pretend it all never happened. I wanted to forget. To never think about it again.
I wanted so badly to tell God about all of it. I wanted to trust Him with all of it. I wanted to believe that He cared about all of it. I wanted to believe He was just as brokenhearted and angry as I was about all of it.
I so badly wanted to believe He hadn’t forsaken me because of all of it.
I wanted to ask Him why. Then, I wanted to ask Him how. I wanted to ask if I’d ever be allowed to set it down. I wanted to tell Him how much I couldn’t hold it anymore. I wanted to beg Him to take it. I wanted to trust Him. I wanted to believe God was really who He said He was. But I didn’t know how.
I couldn’t. So, I didn’t.
My husband and I wanted healing. We wanted peace. We just didn’t know how to grab hold of it. In three weeks time we’d be going to that marriage intensive, and it felt like we were trapped in a fishbowl—exposed, watched, and completely unseen all at the same time.
No one had a clue.
Some assumed it was a porn addiction, others concluded it was some generic deficit that needed to be corrected. There were plenty of investigators searching for their criminal. And when their search came up empty, they drew the conclusions they needed. Case closed. Moving on.
I wasn’t on staff at the time, and I remember a leader encouraging me to apply for any open position. Just in case my second marriage didn’t work out, I’d still be able to feed my kids.
I thought to myself, I thought working at the church was supposed to be about calling?
When we got home from the marriage intensive, some mutual friends—friends in a small group with our campus leader…told us he had texted them saying “some things had come to light,” and that we needed a lot of prayer.
He told his staff team, too. One by one, we started getting texts. And I look back now and realize... We didn’t even get to tell our own story.
We didn’t get to be held or loved on the way we had seen others get to be. We trusted two people with our pain—and they passed it down the grapevine.
We didn’t get to have our church circle up around us and help us carry the weight of what we were walking through. No, no. We were quietly talked about. Picked apart. By people we loved and trusted most.
I don’t know how to forgive it all.
I want to. I really want to. I want to walk back into that church and throw my arms around every person within it. I want to laugh. I want to hold one another. I want to remember the goodness of God like we used to.
But, I can’t. We can’t.
Because all of it…wasn’t real.
In 2022, our family began custody litigation. It ended a few months ago—it was the longest three years of my life. If you know anything about family court, you know how traumatic and financially depleting it can be. The effects are long-lasting. It’ll take years to undo the PTSD we carry from that experience.
Right out the gate, a couple of church staff recommended an attorney to us. We hired him just days later. We lost thousands of dollars on that first attorney—because less than a year in, he abandoned our case. We’re still paying the price for that trust we gave away so easily.
So freely.
Eventually, we adjusted our tithe. Not out of fear or impulse. We prayed about it for a long time. We continued giving to a smaller organization and paused our recurring giving to our church.
Just until we could catch our breath.
Litigation kept dragging on. It wasn’t a lack of faith in God’s provision. We believed He wasn’t asking us to keep checking religious boxes just for the sake of it. But to keep paying off the growing attorney bills that were simply relentless.
I have to be honest here—it made us realize something.
We weren’t giving because we felt led. We were giving because we were expected to. Because that’s what was required from staff.
God didn’t need our money. Nor did this church. And financial hardship is real.
But maybe we got it wrong. Maybe we messed with the system, and maybe we really did break the golden rule.
That’s what I used to wonder.
Until my husband got a text from our campus leader:
“Hey, I noticed your card expired and your giving didn’t go through…”
He was right—the card tied to our monthly tithe subscription had expired.
However, it was almost one year earlier.
It’s also important to note that not one person said anything to us for almost an entire year regarding our giving. So on top of us believing the Lord was giving us some breathing room—the organization itself wasn’t knocking down our door demanding we get our giving back on track.
In fact, since the church wasn’t calling us to tell us we needed to keep giving or get off staff, we actually thought it was divine confirmation sent from above telling us that we could focus on paying attorney bills and regular bills and just…survive
My husband responded to our campus leader, reminding him we were still in the middle of custody litigation.
We probably wouldn’t have said anything about it, except this same campus leader had never once asked how we were doing in the middle of it. Never checked in. Never asked for an update.
So, it made sense that he wasn’t reaching out to see how we were holding up. He was reaching out because we forgot to keep giving to his location.
My husband told him it had been a hard season financially and that we were still giving, just to another ministry. One that we felt God had led us to. One that was discipling us.
The campus leader replied:
“That’s heavy…The staff handbook says…Upper leadership checks every year and you’re on staff… I’m just looking out for you…”
There’s a lot wrong with that interaction. But let’s start here:
A text. About giving.
From a pastor. A leader. A friend.
And also, the same person who knew about the abuse I suffered. Who saw my husband every weekend for seven months.
Five services across two days. Week after week.
And never said a word.
Nothing.
I don’t care if I had waited a century to tell that campus leader about what happened to me while under his care and leadership—I will never understand his silence.
I’ll never understand how he had the nerve to reach out about a failed tithe payment…but not about the trauma we were walking through. My trauma. The trauma I carried while serving on his team. The trauma I lived through while directly reporting to the same leader he took to breakfast…the one he praised, defended, and handed me over to like some shiny toy.
He made sure we were still giving to his location. But he never had the courage to tell me what happened to me was wrong. Never had the courage to look me in the eye. He just couldn’t live up to that title. Put it on his wife to wear instead and looked the other way.
Let me spell it out—the problem we keep looking away from: We can talk about having integrity all day long but we won’t walk a mile in it.
Maybe one day, I’ll be able to forgive him and the others.
But I will never understand.
It poured outside our cabin. It was day two of the marriage intensive.
We made our way downstairs with a handful of other couples. We knew it was going to be a hard day. But none of us could’ve imagined the freedom waiting on the other side of it. Our counselors spoke with love. With honesty. With conviction that cut through the fog.
Our eyes got clearer. We stood a little taller. We weren’t just handed new tools and taught how to use them…we were shown a new way of living through stories and conversations that were nothing short of life-changing.
One of those stories stuck with us.
It was about a wife who felt unloved and went looking for love somewhere else. That evening, she called her husband. Frantic. Ashamed. She told him what had happened.
He hung up the phone, got in the car, and drove as fast as he could to get to her.
When she climbed in, she sobbed—trying to explain everything. How it started. Why it happened. She tried to tell him everything. And she almost did.
But before she could finish, he stopped her.
“I forgive you. I forgave you the moment I hung up the phone. I get why you want to tell me everything. But I don’t want you to. Because I already know I forgive you. I don’t need to know all of it to know that I forgive you, that I love you, and that we’re going to be okay.”
Me and my husband still talk about that story sometimes, right before we turn out the light.
It gave us hope. It shifted something in us. Some people might call it foolish. But we thought it was brave. All we saw were two people choosing faith. And we wanted that, too. The kind of faith that doesn’t demand. The kind that can see past what did and didn’t happened, and still believe God will show the way to something beautiful and new.
We wanted the kind of faith that stares down the impossible and still sees nothing but possibility.
Nothing but hope.
We didn’t talk about what happened to me. Not then. Not until two years after that marriage intensive. We don’t have regrets. We chose to be brave. We chose faith.
Were we wrong? Did we get it right? I don’t know. We just know it was right for us at the time.
We also believed that if God needed me to relive what happened, we’d relive it together. We’d face every part of it, together. Truly, we looked ahead with joy and stepped out with faith.
And I really believed…for just a moment, I could forget what happened to me.
But there we were, a year and a half later…driving home, reading headlines about a pastor who had sexually abused a child in the 80’s. A pastor we’d heard preach at our church. On the topic of giving, interestingly enough.
As we quietly shared our thoughts about Cindy Clemshire’s story, I wanted so badly to talk about mine. But I shoved it down. Told myself our stories were nothing alike.
She was being seen as a hero. A victim. But I knew—I would be seen as a villain. Someone projecting hurt onto others. Onto Christ’s body.
And I would not do it.
I never asked God what He thought about any of it. Didn’t ask Him what He wanted me to know. Didn’t ask Him anything. I just decided, right then and there. I’d never say another word about it.
As time went on, I’d have these flickers of courage. Like lightning bugs in a jar. Moments where I imagined telling the truth.
But they were suffocated. Choked out by fear and doubt.
Because I remembered the way gossip filled the green room or the office. The pride. The smugness. The way they’d retell someone’s story and cast themselves as the hero—like they actually knew anything real about that person.
Like they’d ever sat down and taken the time to listen without interrupting.
I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let my story become another distorted fiction. Chewed up and spit out by insecurity and ignorance.
Over time, I faded into the black. The texts grew less and less frequent. I understood. I wasn’t offended. They were busy. There were people who didn’t know Jesus and those people needed pastoring more than I did.
I totally get it. I already knew Jesus. I didn’t need to bother them.
My husband kept serving every weekend. I kept serving for a while, after stepping off the staff team. But the memories got too loud. Louder than the music ever was in my in-ears.
I couldn’t keep doing it.
Couldn’t keep getting on stage. Couldn’t keep walking through the lobby or past the kitchen. Couldn’t keep sitting in the auditorium and hearing the same message play. I couldn’t keep walking past my campus leader and be completely ignored.
Again, and again, and again.
Time went on, and I was so awful to myself. I still tell God how sorry I am sometimes, for the ways I mistreated the little girl he made within me. I treated her with the same disregard the church had.
Shame on me. Shame on them.
In that car, reading Cindy Clemshire’s story, I believed staying silent was the right choice. The safe choice. And that’s what I wanted more than anything…to know I was safe.
Because that day, thinking about Cindy, I remembered how unsafe I had been when I thought I was safe.
Am I safe now? I still don’t know.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever tell my story. But I really believed that if I kept it quiet—maybe if I let it rest in silence, at least I’d stay protected.
Maybe that’s why my campus leader chose silence, too.
Something else I remember is that, not once did I believe it was Cindy’s fault when a pastor hurt her. But it was my fault when a pastor hurt me.
Even now, I have to fight to believe the truth…because for so long, I’ve believed lies. For so long, I’ve believed I don’t have the right to heal. I don’t have the right to be free. I don’t have the right to be heard.
Because that’s what my campus leader communicated through silence. That’s what the church roared as it turned its back and looked away.
But Cindy? She had every right to healing and freedom. She was brave. She used her voice.
Not me.
I was a coward. I was too afraid to use my voice. I should’ve fought back. I should’ve ran. I should’ve spoken up.
I should’ve cried out to my pastor. I should’ve screamed for my church.
I also never questioned whether Cindy’s story was true. Not for a second. But I did question her intentions. I wondered why she waited so long to come forward. And I hated myself for wondering that…
Because I knew exactly where that thinking came from.
I had heard those kinds of questions before—from pastors, from leaders, from people I served alongside. I watched as they tore into women and men who spoke up. I sat in rooms where their stories were laughed off, twisted, picked apart like gossip. I listened as they called them accusers, manipulators, attention-seekers just looking for a payout.
They'd shrug and say, “They just aren’t a good cultural fit.”
They’d speak with certainty—like they knew what really happened. But they never even asked. And somehow, without realizing it, I started to believe the same things. Not because I’d weighed the truth for myself, but because I’d soaked in their arrogance.
I let the culture of the organization shape the way I saw people. Including her.
Including myself.
Because when I imagined telling the truth about what happened to me, I already knew what they’d say. I’d heard it with my own ears. They’d tear my story apart just like they did so many others.
If I had spoken up back then, would they have rolled their eyes behind closed doors? Would they have questioned my motives? Picked apart how I said it—or how long I waited?
I don’t know. But I do remember that data always has a seat at the table. And the enemy knew exactly how to present it.
He took every moment I’d experienced in that place and built the most convincing spreadsheet—color-coded, neatly sorted, undeniable. And all the data led to the same conclusion.
The same truth:
These people aren’t safe.
The trust issues got so bad, I stopped trusting myself.
My discernment. My instincts. My judgment. All of it got sanded down right in front of me. Smoothed over until I couldn’t even recognize my own gut anymore.
And it wasn’t just the abuse I suffered from my previous boss. It was the silence that followed. The people who said all the right things, but when it came down to it—they didn’t mean a single word they said.
Or maybe they did. Maybe they just didn’t know how to follow through. Maybe they didn’t know what to say or how to face it.
I still don’t know.
But then I remember how many attenders and volunteers they are responsible for. I think of how many people trust them to show up, week after week…to lead and to pastor. And suddenly, I don’t think it was a lack of awareness.
It’s ignorance. It’s arrogance.
Because when you have pastors casually saying things like, "I had to fire a volunteer this week" as if it’s a punchline—as if people are disposable, you realize the problem isn’t just a blind spot.
It’s a heart condition.
The rest of the car ride was silent. My husband held my hand, and I knew he didn’t fully understand why tears were slipping down behind my sunglasses. Those sunglasses still have a phrase printed on the inside of the earpiece.
You can hide behind me if you want to.
I read those words every time I wear them, and it’s still just as painful as that day in the car.
Because I was alone. I was hurting in ways most people will never understand. And the truth was, there was no one to hide behind. No one who had my back—no one I could lean on or ask for help. There was no one I could trust.
I don’t know if I really believed that back then. But I couldn’t convince myself it wasn’t true. Either way, I was too afraid to find out.
But eventually, I did. I learned the bitter, ugly, devastating truth.
They didn’t mean what they said.
And it doesn’t matter how hard you try to reframe it—sexual abuse and sexual assault were being covered up. And the cost of protecting an image was integrity. The cost of “protecting the house” was the people living under its roof.
I wonder if they realize it yet. That mask they put on everyday…I wonder if they know it’s not the image God gave us to bear.
The church paid for us to go to that marriage intensive.
I used to share that like it was proof of something holy—evidence of how generous and compassionate the church was. It became part of my testimony.
Unbelievable generosity, I’d say.
But now, it feels hollow. Like a consolation prize handed out after the damage was already done. A bandage where acknowledgment and an apology should have been. Like a thank-you card for surviving the wounds the culture gave me.
I’m genuinely grateful we got to go. The organization we worked with that week was incredible. I don’t take that lightly.
But no, I don’t see it as kindness anymore. I see it as cleanup. I see it as a way to say, “See? We care,” without ever asking what happened. Without acknowledging what they allowed.
Can I use my voice now?
Nobody is asking but I’d like to break the overwhelming silence.
People aren’t leaving the church because they’re uncommitted or lazy or flaky. They’re leaving because they’re being spiritually starved. They show up needing truth, and instead, they find good branding—millions of dollars perfectly constructed and stacked up high. Most don’t know it, but they come looking for discipleship and are convinced it’s four boxes they need to check off every week.
Hear my cry, pastor. My church, hear my scream.
We call out the spiritual consumers passive aggressively, telling them they should be spiritual contributors—but we don’t spiritually feed any of them. They’ve got performance confused with presence. We give them a great show, we keep them enamored and emotionally engaged, but every week we choke out spiritual growth and we smoke out the Spirit.
It’s two inches of motivational topsoil slapped on every weekend. We plant seeds and never cultivate the roots. We can’t expect deep, abiding growth in Christ when all we’re offering is a to-do list. Fresh mulch for the guest, while the family withers away.
That’s not leading people to become fully-devoted to God. That’s landscaping.
People are saying yes to things they simply do not understand. They believe they’ll find belonging and relationship within your walls, but that’s not really what you’re offering, is it? You’re not asking them to sit at the table with you, you’re asking them to serve your mission.
A mission you claim is about people but I’m not so sure anymore.
I can’t stop wondering, where are you pastor?
You sit on stages and film in perfect lighting, but when was the last time you handed a cup of coffee to someone who wasn’t writing you a check? When was the last time you sat with someone who had nothing to offer you? When did “being a good and faithful servant” turn into managing metrics? You expect spiritual consumers to be spiritual contributors.
But they’re following your example.
I know you’re busy. I know you have engagements and meetings. I know the platform is heavy. But I’m required to address you as pastor, am I not? So, where are you pastor?
I’ve pulled back the curtain, I’ve seen how the machine runs. I’ve seen the reports. I’ve sat in the meetings.
When giving dips or attendance drops, the texts and emails go out. Not to connect but to course correct. It’s not about reading the Word of God, it’s not about relationship and presence, it’s about getting back in position—getting back in line.
Faith has been filtered out. No longer about dependence on God but rather, maintaining good performance and sustaining productivity.
Burn out in the name of Jesus while preaching about a Jesus who was never in a hurry. Is it okay that I flip over your tables, pastor?
Which Jesus are you expecting I follow today?
Am I a good and faithful servant if I’m driven by fear? Am I a fully-devoted follower of Jesus if I stay busy and keep on building? Not to connect…but to work on my communication skills so I can bring in more people for you.
So I, too, can leave others confused, disillusioned, used up, and abandoned.
Isn’t that my story? Is that not what I know now?
A woman. A single mother. The look, the fire, the work ethic. Raised hand. Baptized. Four months later, said yes to being a pastor. And then what?
Used. Manipulated. Abused. Discarded. Ignored.
Where is everyone who played a part in my fully-devoted four years of getting to work at the best place to work?
No one wants to tell that part of my story. No one’s posting about it now. No more podcasts. No more videos. No more stage time. No more social media captions about how God used me. No comments. No shouts of praise, anymore.
Where is the church who raised me?
Where is the church who built me up?
Where is the church I once called home?
Where’s the piano that slowly builds in the background? I can’t hear it anymore.
You don’t get to parade around the benefits of working at your church without mentioning that those benefits are an essential med-kit every staff member needs just to survive the culture.
You don’t get to brag about your generosity and ignore the broken people you have left in your wake. All in the name of your church.
You don’t get to talk about how many lives you’re changing while turning your back on the ones who served beside you—the people and families who have carried your vision on their backs until the weight of it crushed them.
And you don’t get to slap God’s name on a banner and shout victory when staff spouses, volunteers, and faithful leaders are bleeding out all around you.
None of you asked, but I’ll speak now:
The back of my head still hurts.
The bruises are gone but I still feel them on the insides of my legs.
I still wake up at night afraid.
And I still struggle to trust God.
I’m still healing from what you allowed.
From what your history-making leadership missed.
Yes, I still believe in the church. And I still love you and call you my family.
Yes, I meant everything I said, even if you didn’t.
But every Sunday comes and goes, and I still hold this cup of burning anger.
Fire sits in my throat and burns in my stomach.
I am seething. I am pissed. I am appalled.
And I am so sorry that I can’t pretend otherwise.
Where were you? Where are you now?
Get off your stage, pastor.
Put down your mic, leader.
It’s time for you to lean in and listen.
Hear my cry. See my pain.
Stop managing. Stop performing. Start pastoring.
People are hurting. The sheep are bleeding. All around you. You’re still counting the ones who show up, instead of noticing the ones who’ve gone missing.
How can you fixate on reaching those who have yet to walk through your doors and not see that you’ve stopped feeding and caring for the ones who already have.
Achievements and accomplishments mean nothing if your flock is filled with injured and wounded sheep slowly making their way to the exit.
The numbers don’t matter when the sheep who came looking for safety were devoured under your care.
Pastor, is it faith or fear that leads you to look away?
Pastor, is it faith or fear that has you fixating on numbers and goals and reach and giving?
Rather than asking God what He wants you to know about all the sheep you don’t have, you instead—turn and look away from the ones He already gave you.
Where are you, pastor? Where are you?
Please stop proclaiming victory in the face of your victims. Please stop proclaiming victory in the face of my family—in the face of our pain.
You may perceive disloyalty and a lack of faith. You may see my honesty as rebellion. But maybe what looks like disloyalty and rebellion to you is actually authentic and deep devotion to a God that whispers because He’s close.
Is that not what you taught me, pastor? See my tears. Hear my pain.
How dare you sit in your glass castle behind that cross and look away from all the blood pouring out from your gates and into the streets.
Look at me, pastor. I am bleeding.
That’s my blood running from your parking lots. That’s the blood of my family puddled outside your doors.
How dare you look away and disregard what your “pastoring” and “leadership” took from me and my family.
Is your tower not tall enough? Does your empire not stretch far and wide?
Look at me, pastor!
How dare you read my story as one of failure—how dare you say I didn’t have what it takes without considering that maybe my leaving is a reflection of the high horse you sit on while ruling at a distance.
Why can’t you look at me, pastor?
You never asked, but I’ll speak the truth now:
I wasn’t saved in God’s house. I was devoured in your institution.
Long before I was ever sexually assaulted within its walls.
Our family doesn’t need better sermons. Our family needs actual shepherds. We don’t need leadership tips. We need living water. We don’t need big vision. We need someone who sees the one—someone who sees us.
You lean in and listen, pastor.
Hear the cries of God’s people. Did He not entrust me to you?
Please stop looking away, pastor.
Can you hear it? The Tsa’aqah?
Because God is listening.
God sees. God cares. God loves. God hears.
Do you, pastor?
I hope your story leads more people to tell their story. Perhaps it’s time for me to tell mine. May I share this on Facebook if I give creds?
Ashton, this is powerful and poignant. And it needs to be said, thank you. I admire your bravery. I worked at the same church for 6 years and quit 3 years ago. I’m still working on unraveling all that I went through. Praying for you as you continue to find freedom and healing. ❤️🩹