Sleepwalking in the Sanctuary

My husband looked at his phone, eyes wide, mouth open — that expression I’ve seen so many times before. It’s the face he makes when one of his fantasy football players is out for the season, or when some beloved childhood show gets a race and gender swapped reboot, or when a politician does something unbelievably ridiculous but completely on brand. He jumped off the couch and started pacing.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said. “Let me verify that it’s true.”

He was half‑laughing, as he often does. It makes guessing a completely futile effort, and so I don’t. He’ll tell me eventually. “You think you’re ready, but you’re not ready,” he said to me, still pacing and staring into his phone. Unhelpful. That could be anything. I continued my conversation with our guest, but then our guest interrupted, “Jake looks like he’s going to burst if he doesn’t get to show you what he’s looking at.”

I reached out for the phone.

He was right. I wasn’t ready.

A prominent volunteer from our old church — someone visible, trusted, woven into more than a decade of Sundays — had been arrested for child pornography and prostitution.

I stared at the mugshot. For a moment, everything in me went quiet. It was like my mind couldn’t categorize the information. I knew this face. I had seen it hundreds of times — in hallways, in Sunday school classes, on stage in the sanctuary, at children’s events, at outreach programs. And now it was a mugshot.

I didn’t react right away. Shock has a way of suspending emotion, like your soul is holding its breath, or trying not to vomit.

It wasn’t until later — after the initial numbness — that the thoughts began creeping in. Not all at once, but in slow, unwelcome waves.

A memory from the youth sports outreach we were involved in.

A Sunday morning greeting.

A choir practice.

A conversation in the lobby.

A video he did promoting foster care.

A moment when he interacted with my son.

A moment when he interacted with someone else’s child.

None of these memories are sinister. But they keep surfacing anyway, because my brain is trying to reconcile the person I thought I knew with the person he actually is.

And then there’s his wife. Oh, his poor wife.

Did she know?

Did she suspect?

Did she dismiss dozens of red flags?

Or was she sleepwalking too- comfortable in the busyness, the programs, the momentum, the “everything is fine” culture?

I find myself scouring the internet for more information. I don’t expect a statement that will make any of this make sense, but some part of me wants to hear him acknowledge the betrayal. Or at least see someone close to him say something that proves they understand the gravity of what he’s done. I want to know that someone feels the weight of a tarnished witness. 

Luke 12:2–3  

There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed…

It’s all too common, isn’t it? He led the children’s choir, which my son participated in for a year. He was involved in the youth sports outreach with us, joyfully surrounded by kids. I don’t believe anything happened to my child, but the mind still wanders. It still scans old memories. It still asks whether I missed something. Whether I was foolish. Whether I was too quick to assume safety. 

2 Corinthians 11:14–15  

Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light…

Scripture doesn’t soften this reality. It names it plainly: evil can look like righteousness. Darkness can wear a smile. And human eyes are not always able to see what God sees.

But the shock isn’t just about him. It’s about the environment that made it possible.

I keep thinking about the culture of that big church — the polish, the momentum, the branding. The friendliness that felt like community but wasn’t. The positivity that felt like spiritual health but wasn’t. The way busyness became a substitute for vigilance. The way programs became a substitute for shepherding.

I used to call it “harmless laziness and comfort.” It’s not that those people never had problems or never struggled, but they just didn’t bring that stuff to church with them. It sounds crazy saying it now, however when you’re in there, there’s a level of decorum that is expected. Be professional. Keep yourself together. Now that we’re out, I’m not so sure it was harmless. It seems like it was the perfect ecosystem for hidden rot.

When a church prioritizes image and growth, discernment quietly erodes. Red flags get brushed aside because confronting them is inconvenient. People stop paying attention because the atmosphere encourages you to trust the branding and assume leadership has everything under control. They talk often of brokenness, but you never really see it anywhere, do you? Maybe in a quiet corner… I’m remembering how I was politely discouraged from talking about my miscarriage by someone on the ministry staff. I even recall thinking and actually believing, “Oh yes, that makes sense. It is inappropriate to bring up outside of a group dedicated to that particular grief.”

I thought I was sharper than that. My husband and I both were critical of various aspects of church life and would make jokes, but we kept going and we experienced person growth during our time there. I handed my children over to programs run by people I barely knew. And now I’m wondering whether I was sleepwalking.

Ezekiel 13:10–14  

They build a flimsy wall and cover it with whitewash…

I’m connecting dots now — the quiet removals, the superficial culture, the flashiness. Am I overthinking it? Or am I finally seeing the environment clearly? We left because something felt off. We saw smoke, but I don’t know if it occurred to us that there was fire. Should we have left sooner?

I don’t know. I really don’t. My husband is not as freaked out as I am, but I also don’t think he trusts the church as implicitly as I do. Even when we were on our church search, I was very quick to walk up to total strangers, hand over my children and then walk away. I thought nothing of it. Rather instead I was happy to demonstrate just how much I trust my brothers and sisters in Christ, sight unseen. Was that wrong? Should I be worried about this more than I have been?

What I do know is that this has landed heavy. It’s the kind of heaviness that makes you rethink the last decade of your life. The kind that makes you realize how much you didn’t see. The kind that makes you grateful for God’s protection in ways you didn’t understand at the time.

We stopped going to the children’s choir after that first season because of scheduling conflicts. At the time, we felt guilty — like we weren’t committed enough. We want to be people who are all in at church. But now I see it differently. Sometimes protection looks like inconvenience. Sometimes preparation looks like closed doors.

And that’s the part that keeps echoing in my mind:

I just wrote about shifting from protection to preparation.

But the truth is, God has been doing both all along. I’m still reeling. I’m still processing. I’m still waking up. Thankfully, God has been keeping us — perfectly, completely — even while we sleep.

1 Thessalonians 5:5–8  

Let us be awake and sober…

I can’t tie this up neatly because I’m not neat right now. I’m awake in a way I wasn’t before, but I’m also aware of how much I was asleep. I’m grateful for God’s protection, but I’m shaken by how much I needed it. I’m thankful for His preparation, but I’m humbled by how unaware I was of the dangers around me.

So I’m asking God to steady me while I process what has been exposed. To keep my heart soft while my eyes adjust to the light. To teach me how to parent with vigilance without parenting from fear. To remind me that He keeps us- fully and faithfully, even when we are sleepwalking through places we thought were safe.

May He hold us as we wake up.

May He guide us as we learn.

May He keep us as we grow.

And may He continue to protect us - even in the moments when we don’t yet know we need protecting. 

Perhaps especially then.