Let the Rot Be Exposed
Righteous Anger, Clergy Abuse, and the Crisis of Silence in the Church
“Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ.”
— Ephesians 4:15, ESV
This essay examines the role of righteous anger in confronting spiritual abuse, drawing from biblical mandates, psychological insights, and firsthand accounts to call the church toward truth and moral accountability. It also acknowledges the many faithful pastors who are men of integrity and humility, who are themselves harmed by corrupt systems and abandoned by the very leadership tasked with supporting them. I am hearing their stories. I believe them. This is not a condemnation of all pastors. It is a call to stand with those who tell the truth, no matter how high the cost.
I. Righteous Anger and the View Behind the Curtain
Righteous anger belongs to the category of moral emotion. It signals a deep disturbance not in one’s personal preferences, but in one’s moral imagination. This form of anger does not originate in pride or self-defense; it emerges when an individual perceives a fundamental betrayal of justice, often by those entrusted with moral or spiritual authority. The experience is not disorienting. It is clarifying.
For many within the church, the encounter with corruption does not begin with obvious moral failure. It begins with a whisper behind closed doors, a contradiction between pulpit and practice, or a silence maintained in the face of harm. These early moments accumulate. Eventually, the weight of dissonance forces a reckoning: not all who lead with confidence lead with integrity.
Psychologist Harriet Lerner, in The Dance of Anger, describes anger as “a signal and one worth listening to.” She identifies it as a diagnostic emotion—one that alerts the individual to a violation of values or boundaries. In particular, Lerner observes that women, often conditioned to suppress confrontation, experience anger as a return to moral agency. “Anger is not a reaction to loss of control,” she writes. “It is a way of holding others accountable for what ought to be done.”
But what happens when the boundary-violator is a pastor?
What happens when the church urges the violated to stay quiet—for the sake of unity, for the sake of the institution?
Paul acknowledges the emotional and moral dimension of grief and indignation. In 2 Corinthians 7:11, he writes to the church about the fruit of godly sorrow:
“See what this godly grief has produced in you: what earnestness, what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what longing, what zeal, what punishment! At every point you have proved yourselves innocent in the matter.”
Indignation (aganaktēsis) appears not as a vice, but as a mark of godly conviction. Paul affirms it as part of the church’s response to sin—an emotional expression rooted in the desire for integrity. He includes it among the fruits of repentance, not as instability or chaos, but as moral clarity taking shape. This is not an anger that destroys, but one that participates in the renewal of what sin has compromised.
The anger that emerges in response to pastoral abuse or institutional silence is not the product of impulsivity. It is the natural consequence of witnessing betrayal in sacred space. When religious institutions fail to confront wrongdoing, especially when committed by those in spiritual authority, righteous anger becomes a holy response. It refuses to bless what God never called good. It insists that clarity is more faithful than silence. And it begins not with exposure, but with awakening.
II. Paul and the Call to Expose Darkness
Among the apostles, Paul stands as the clearest voice in matters of ecclesial discipline and moral exposure. His epistles offer theological instruction and pastoral strategy for confronting sin within the community of believers. For Paul, love and truth are never in opposition. The health of the church depends not on the concealment of transgression, but on its unambiguous confrontation.
In Ephesians 5, Paul exhorts the believers:
“Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them.” (v.11)
The Greek term translated “expose” (elenchō) implies more than passive revelation; it denotes active reproof, correction, and public accountability. This is not a private internal struggle, nor a call to personal reflection. It is an outward act—a moral imperative addressed to the church as a body.
Paul’s concern is not limited to individual morality but extends to communal integrity. In his letter to the Galatians, he openly recounts his confrontation with Peter for hypocrisy (Galatians 2:11–14). The matter, while interpersonal, carried implications for the gospel itself. Paul, therefore, brought it into the open. His logic is instructive: if silence distorts the gospel, speech becomes a form of fidelity.
A similar framework appears in 1 Timothy 5:20, where Paul directs the church to rebuke sinning elders “in the presence of all, so that the rest may stand in fear.” The phrase enōpion pantōn (“in the presence of all”) conveys a deliberate visibility. For Paul, public rebuke is not vindictive but pedagogical. It teaches the community what it values, what it protects, and what it refuses to tolerate.
This approach contrasts sharply with many contemporary ecclesial strategies, which often prioritize reputation management and risk aversion. Paul does not advocate for institutional self-protection. He prioritizes the spiritual health of the flock over the comfort of leadership. He writes to Titus that certain teachers “must be silenced” because they are “ruining whole households” (Titus 1:11). His concern lies not with the prestige of the teacher but with the vulnerability of the people.
The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod possesses formal processes for ecclesiastical supervision and church discipline. Yet these structures lose credibility when accountability is applied unevenly, protecting institutional reputation while minimizing the voices of the harmed.
The integrity of Christian witness depends on this distinction. The church cannot claim to be a sanctuary for the broken while shielding those who break others through coercion, deception, or pastoral betrayal. When leaders exploit their authority—spiritually, emotionally, or sexually—their actions must be addressed with the same force and visibility that Paul applied to doctrinal error.
A church that silences whistleblowers, minimizes harm, or insists on private forgiveness without public accountability betrays its calling. Paul’s letters leave little room for ambiguity. Darkness, when left unaddressed, grows. The only antidote is exposure, not to shame, but to heal.
III. What Happens When Women Are Silenced
In many church communities, the pressure to protect reputations outweighs the call to protect people. When women come forward with stories of misconduct, especially involving clergy, they often encounter a familiar triad: minimization, redirection, and silence. Institutions may acknowledge their pain in vague terms, while simultaneously shielding the men who caused it. This dynamic does not promote healing; it reinforces harm.
Psychologically, the consequences of this silencing are profound. Judith Herman, a leading expert on trauma and abuse, writes in Trauma and Recovery that “recovery can take place only within the context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation.” For survivors of clergy abuse, the church should be the most obvious site for relational healing. Instead, it often becomes the source of secondary trauma.
This betrayal, known in clinical literature as “institutional betrayal,” exacerbates the original harm. It deepens shame, disrupts the ability to trust, and creates a dissonance between the survivor’s spiritual convictions and their lived experience. Theologian Diane Langberg describes this rupture as “soul damage,” noting that when the one who represents God behaves like a predator, the survivor’s very understanding of God becomes fractured.
Women in these situations often carry not only their own silence, but the burden of the abuser’s secret. They are told, explicitly or implicitly, that disclosing the truth would destroy a ministry, a marriage, a church. These suggestions invert responsibility. They imply that the woman’s voice causes destruction, rather than the man’s actions.
This inversion has theological consequences. It teaches the church, both consciously and unconsciously, that grace is available only when justice is deferred. It replaces repentance with image management and encourages women to protect the very systems that failed to protect them.
Spiritual abuse thrives in this environment. When a pastor uses his position to create emotional dependency, confide inappropriately, or initiate physical contact under the guise of pastoral care, he has already crossed a boundary of grave moral and theological consequence. The power differential alone renders the relationship unequal. Consent, in these cases, becomes a complicated and often impossible category. What may feel mutual in the moment is often, in retrospect, a carefully constructed manipulation.
When institutions respond by emphasizing the woman’s role—her complicity, her silence, her pain—as a private matter to be resolved internally, they erase the very structure that allowed the abuse to occur. They address the symptom, not the system.
Silencing women in the church is not a neutral act. It teaches those watching, especially other women, that honesty is dangerous, that protection is selective, and that leadership matters more than truth. Over time, this erodes the moral authority of the church itself. Without courageous reckoning, the pulpit becomes a performance, and the pews a place where secrets settle into the walls.
IV. A Word to the Woman in the Affair
This section is not theoretical. It is not hypothetical. It is written for the woman who currently finds herself in a relationship with a pastor or spiritual leader, whether physical, emotional, or something difficult to define. You may not call it an affair. You may tell yourself that you are soulmates, or that your connection is exceptional, or that this is the first time he has ever truly been seen. Perhaps he says the same about you.
You may be protecting his reputation. You may be protecting his family. You may believe you are protecting his ministry.
You are not.
In clinical language, what often develops in these scenarios is a trauma bond, which is a powerful, confusing attachment that forms between a person in authority and the one who becomes dependent on them for emotional and spiritual affirmation. The imbalance of power distorts reality. What feels like intimacy is often grooming. What feels like mutuality is often manipulation.
This is not love in the biblical sense. Love does not isolate. It does not hide. It does not cost you your voice or your clarity. And it certainly does not rely on deception to survive.
If you are in this situation, here are ten reasons why this will not and cannot end well, especially for you:
1. He will preserve his ministry.
His vocation is his identity, his protection, and his public credibility. He will surrender the relationship before he risks his role.
2. You carry the emotional cost.
He has someone to go home to. You carry the guilt, the shame, the confusion, and eventually, the silence.
3. You know more than his wife does.
He may have shared his frustrations, secrets, or longings with you. That may have felt like intimacy. But secrecy is not trust—it is strategy. The more you knew, the more you were pulled into the hidden part of his life, not the honest one.
4. He created the spiritual frame.
Pastors are trained to use language that sounds holy. If he spoke of discernment, prayer, calling, or spiritual connection to justify what unfolded, he created a theological veil around misconduct.
5. You were not on equal ground.
Power imbalance corrupts consent. Even if the relationship began slowly, you were responding to someone with spiritual and emotional authority over you.
6. You are not the exception.
This pattern is common. The dynamic is familiar to trauma counselors and theologians alike. You are not alone, and this is not a unique story.
7. He will alter the narrative.
When pressed, he may describe you as needy, unstable, or delusional. He may already have. Many women in your position discover later that they were erased before they ever spoke. This is what happened in my relationship with Erik Herrmann.
8. He will cry convincingly.
His remorse may look sincere. He may grieve the loss of your connection. This does not indicate repentance. True repentance requires confession, consequence, and repair, not emotional display.
9. You are carrying his secret.
That weight is not love. It is a burden that belongs to him, not to you.
10. God is not absent, and He is not confused.
God does not build with secrecy, deception, or harm. God does not require you to stay hidden to preserve someone else’s influence. He invites you into the light, even if the first step feels unbearable.
There is a way out. It begins with naming the truth. It continues with surrender—not to the man, but to the God who sees clearly, speaks gently, and frees completely. You are not alone. But you are not free until you walk away from the lie.
V. A Plea to the Church
The health of the church cannot be measured by the charisma of its leaders or the smoothness of its operations. It must be measured by the degree to which it protects the vulnerable, confronts corruption, and embodies truth, even when that truth implicates those in authority.
The church often speaks of grace, but grace that shields the powerful at the expense of the harmed becomes a distorted version of itself. In such settings, grace is not offered but weaponized. It asks the wounded to absorb the cost of silence, while the leader returns to the pulpit with applause. This does not reflect the character of Christ. This reflects institutional self-preservation dressed in liturgical language.
Christ is not passive in the face of corruption. He is the standard by which all leadership is measured. He is the one who overturned tables, rebuked religious hypocrisy, and declared that what is hidden will be brought into the light. Paul and the early church did not invent this posture. They inherited it. All glory to God!
The solution has never been to whisper, stall, or divert. The solution is to tell the truth. In the face of deception, telling the truth becomes a holy act—a form of worship, a defense of the sacred, a refusal to bless what God never called good.
The future of the church depends not on protecting leaders from discomfort, but on cultivating a culture where no one is too important to be accountable, and no one is too small to be believed.
Let the rot be exposed. Let the light in. Let the church be the church again.