Evangelicals, Lutherans, and the Quiet Exit Strategy
How Evangelicals and Lutherans Handle Pastoral Misconduct
Author’s Note:
I’ve spent time in both Lutheran and evangelical spaces—close enough to observe how differently they talk about sin, but how similarly they tend to respond when a pastor crosses the line sexually. This essay isn’t an exposé. It’s a reflection on two cultures, two strategies of institutional self-preservation, and one shared failure to speak the truth in the face of pastoral misconduct.
Where do pastors go when they fall?
In evangelical megachurches, the pattern is often public, almost cinematic. A charismatic leader is caught in sexual misconduct. There’s a press release, a prayerful “stepping down,” and maybe even a staged return months or years later, sometimes under a new brand, a new book deal, or a new church across town. There are tears. There’s talk of healing. There’s often little mention of those who were harmed.
In the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod (LCMS), the pattern is quieter. There’s no livestreamed apology. No headlines. No restoration narrative. Instead, the pastor quietly resigns. There is no public explanation, no naming of sin. Sometimes, even the congregation is left wondering what happened. Inquiries are deflected with phrases like “he’s no longer on the roster,” as though clerical misconduct were a misfiled document. The pulpit is filled. The institution moves on.
For traditions that differ so dramatically in theology, aesthetics, and ecclesiology, evangelical and confessional Lutheran churches have a surprisingly similar instinct when it comes to clergy sexual misconduct: protect the pulpit, control the narrative, preserve the institution.
In this essay, I use “sexual misconduct” to describe situations where a pastor engages in a sexual relationship, consensual or not, that violates the ethical and spiritual boundaries of pastoral office. Adultery is one form of misconduct, but not the only one. When spiritual authority and sexual activity intersect, the ethical breach is compounded by power.
When Carl Lentz, lead pastor of Hillsong NYC, was fired in 2020 for sexual misconduct, the church issued a statement citing “moral failings.” Media outlets filled in the blanks. Lentz, once known for baptizing Justin Bieber and wearing designer sneakers, vanished—only to reappear three years later in a documentary and, eventually, back on staff at a different megachurch. There was no public process of discipline or restoration. There was branding, optics, and silence.
Mark Driscoll, who resigned from Mars Hill Church amid allegations of bullying, spiritual abuse, and authoritarian leadership, re-emerged less than two years later as the founding pastor of a new congregation in Arizona. He brought the same theology, the same tone, and—somehow—no sustained accountability.
Evangelical churches often have elder boards, charismatic senior leaders, and sprawling donor bases. When a scandal hits, the instinct is to act quickly: remove the threat, protect the brand, and replace the face. For all its public visibility, that instinct rarely centers the people harmed. Optics, not truth, often define restoration.
The LCMS presents a different image. Steeped in confessional language and a high view of pastoral office, the church teaches that pastors are called not by congregations, but by God through the church. With that calling comes a weighty responsibility. The LCMS underscores theological integrity and moral clarity, particularly regarding public pastoral sin, as reflected in its official documents and doctrinal statements.
Yet when a pastor engages in sexual misconduct, the institutional response is often muted. There is no press release, no public reckoning, no acknowledgment of the nature of the sin. Pastors are quietly removed, or sometimes permitted to resign “for personal reasons.” The seminary where he once taught may simply state that he is no longer employed. The district may confirm he is no longer “on the roster.”
This silence, though dressed in theological dignity, is its own kind of misdirection. It suggests that if sin is handled privately, the witness of the church remains intact. But this is false security. In reality, silence erodes trust, especially when those harmed by the misconduct, often spouses, congregants, employees, or students, are left without clarity or care.
Martin Luther himself warned against this very instinct. In his Large Catechism, he writes, “Where the sin is public, the rebuke must be public, that everyone may learn to guard against it.” The LCMS officially affirms this principle. In 2006, the Commission on Theology and Church Relations (CTCR) adopted a statement titled “Public Rebuke of Public Sin,” emphasizing that public rebuke is appropriate for notorious or scandalous conduct, particularly when the Gospel is at stake. The statement emphasizes that public rebuke should be administered by those with ecclesiastical authority, aiming to instruct the church and provide spiritual care to the offender. However, it notably lacks explicit directives concerning care for victims.
Despite these clear guidelines, in practice, public rebuke is frequently bypassed. The church often opts for quiet resolutions, prioritizing institutional preservation over transparency and accountability. This discrepancy between doctrine and practice raises concerns about the church's commitment to its own teachings.
Evangelicals and confessional Lutherans may differ in doctrine, but both traditions too often treat the pastoral office as something to protect at all costs, even when that protection compromises the integrity of the gospel they proclaim.
In evangelical spaces, that protection looks like marketing. In Lutheran spaces, it looks like silence.
In both, there is a fear that if the full truth were told, the church would lose credibility. The opposite is true. What costs the church its credibility is not sin, it’s dishonesty about sin. As theologian Robert Kolb notes, “Our confession is not diminished by admitting where we have failed. It is diminished when we pretend we haven’t.”
When leadership fails to name what happened, the body of Christ is left to absorb the confusion, the hurt, and the unanswered questions. Often in isolation.
When a pastor commits sexual misconduct and the institution fails to respond with clarity and truth, the consequences ripple outward. The spouse, often pressured into silence. The children, living with a version of reality they cannot name. The congregation, left to fill in the gaps with speculation. The students, wondering if what they learned about integrity, vocation, and repentance truly applies.
And the pastor? In many cases, he moves on. Starts over. Perhaps with a little more caution, perhaps with a little more insulation. But without public clarity, no one outside the institution is ever invited to see what real accountability requires.
The New Testament does not hesitate to name sin or to name it publicly. Paul rebukes Peter to his face for hypocrisy in Galatians 2. He calls out sexual immorality in the Corinthian church in 1 Corinthians 5 and instructs the church not to “associate with anyone who bears the name of brother” if he is unrepentantly immoral. In Ephesians 5:11, Paul writes, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”
Again and again, Paul calls for speech that is truthful, clear, and for the sake of the whole body. He does not suggest that public sin should be shielded for the sake of unity. He suggests the opposite: that the church can only be unified in Christ when it is also unified in truth.
Public sin, especially when it involves abuse of trust, power, or sexuality, requires public clarity. Not to shame, but to protect. Not to destroy, but to restore integrity where it’s been lost.
This doesn’t mean pastors must be permanently exiled. It means they cannot write their own narratives. It means the institution must tell the truth, not just to the press or to the donors, but to the people in the pews and classrooms. Especially to the ones who were harmed.
What churches fear most, that transparency will destroy them, is the very thing that silence ensures. Evangelicals, for all their charisma, and Lutherans, for all their theology, must reckon with the same hard truth: you cannot heal what you refuse to name.