My childhood church

First Baptist Church of Farmers Branch just celebrated its 138th birthday. That’s my childhood church in a Dallas suburb. It’s the church where a minister, Tommy Gilmore, repeatedly molested, abused, and ultimately raped me in the sanctuary, in the choir loft, in the balcony, and in his office.

It’s the church where another minister, Jim Moore, knew about the abuse and stayed quiet. He first learned about it from the perpetrator himself, but didn’t stop it, and so he allowed the abuse to escalate. He didn’t tell my parents. He didn’t report it to the police. And he didn’t help me in any way.

It’s the church where minister Moore finally told the perpetrator to move on only after I myself, as a kid, broke down crying uncontrollably. Gilmore did move on, but his career as a children’s minister continued.

It’s the church where, as a kid, I was made to apologize to minister Gilmore’s wife just before he left. And I did.

It’s the church where minister Moore told me it would be better if I didn’t talk about it with anyone else. And I didn’t.

It’s the church where, after Gilmore moved on, pastor Glenn Hayden told me I should rededicate my life to Christ. And I did.

It’s the church where, as a kid, I was obedient and submissive to a sickening fault.

But the story of this church didn’t end when I was a kid. This is also the church where the same Jim Moore is still a minister. When I finally broke my silence and again sought his help, Moore said I had no business bringing it up.

It’s the church that responded to my clergy abuse report by threatening to seek recourse against ME… as a sort of preemptive strike, I suppose. It was hateful. This is the sort of leadership that was provided by the church’s current pastor, Sam Underwood, a man who was previously reported for sexual abuse of an adult congregant.

It’s the church whose current deacons wouldn’t even meet with me in person until over a year after I submitted my written clergy abuse report, and only after I filed a lawsuit.

It’s the church where, before I filed that lawsuit, I put a letter on cars in the parking lot, telling about what happened to me there as a kid and about the sort of help I was seeking. Naively, I hoped that congregants might call their deacon-body to task and insist that something be done (and thereby save me from filing a lawsuit). But of course, it made no difference.

It’s the church whose lawyer insisted, after I filed the lawsuit, that it wasn’t even the same church as what it had been when I was a kid. So why should I bother these people with my problems? After all, he said, these were different people and they had nothing to do with what happened to me as a kid.

Ironically, I was the one who argued that a church is an enduring body and not just a bunch of people at a particular point in time. It was the church’s attorney who wanted to minimize the meaning of “a church,” and I was the fool who still thought the concept of “a church” held meaning. (Of course, the church’s attorney was also ignoring the fact that the same music minister, who was very much involved in what happened to me as a kid, was still there.)

In light of this recent history, I can’t help but see some hypocrisy in the church’s birthday brag about how it has been a congregation for 138 years.

And I can’t help but feel revulsion at pastor Sam Underwood’s reflections on “the children” and his pondering on “What kind of church am I going to leave them?”

Here’s the answer, pastor Underwood. You’re leaving them a church that, from beginning to end, turned a blind eye and a cold heart to clergy child molestation.

You’re leaving them a church that chooses to keep a minister who admittedly knew about another minister’s sexual contact with a kid, but who allowed that minister to quietly move on and work as a children’s minister in other churches. By retaining the minister who kept quiet, the message your church sends is “no big deal.”

You’re leaving them a church that, then and now, chose to protect itself rather than to protect kids.

You’re leaving them a church that, long ago, broke covenant with the next generation and that continues to break that covenant by retaining leaders who treated clergy child molestation cavalierly.

You’re leaving them a church that is premised on little more than a self-serving pretend game. Why should anyone imagine that anything you profess holds any true meaning if you don’t even care enough to protect the safety and well-being of kids?

Recently, I watched the movie “Forrest Gump” again. Remember the scene where Jenny throws rocks at the house she grew up in where her father abused her? Remember how she fell to the ground in front of it, crying and flailing? Remember how, after she died, Forrest Gump bulldozed that house into the ground?

That’s how I feel about First Baptist Church of Farmers Branch.

Perhaps some feeling of goodness could have been retained if only the church had readily chosen to do the right thing in the here and now. If only the music minister had not again chastised me for speaking about it. If only the deacons had been willing to sit down with me face to face. If only the church had not tried to silence me by threatening to sue me.

As it is, I see nothing good in that church. Every molecule is polluted just as all my memories are. Every church service, every Sunday School class, every youth retreat, every bible drill, every camp-out, every Vacation Bible School, every mission trip, every choir trip, every prayer group, every ping-pong game....all of it.

If you go there, you’ll see a building with a sign that says “First Baptist Church.” But it’s not real. It’s an illusion.

There isn’t any church there. It’s just a phony facade.

What’s really there is a barren wasteland.