The Next Woman Has Evidence. The Pastor Is Currently Preaching.
Silence, Power, and the Real Meaning of the Eighth Commandment
Preview:
A woman reaches out. She has years of messages, admissions, and patterns—evidence of an ongoing relationship with a high-profile LCMS pastor. He still preaches, he still holds influence. If she brings that evidence to the Missouri District President today, what should happen next?
This piece explores the moral tension at the heart of her story—and asks why the Eighth Commandment is so often used to silence the people who are telling the truth.
I am asking this question in good faith. If you have insight, pastoral wisdom, or thoughts to share, I hope you will. I’m listening.
What the Eighth Commandment Invites Us to Consider
Recently, I’ve been told—more than once—that I’m breaking the Eighth Commandment by speaking publicly about what happened between Erik Herrmann and me, and by naming the institutional silence that followed.
The commandment is familiar to many of us:
“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.”
(Exodus 20:16)
And Martin Luther’s Small Catechism offers this explanation:
“We should fear and love God so that we do not tell lies about our neighbor, betray him, slander him, or hurt his reputation, but defend him, speak well of him, and put the best construction on everything.”
(Small Catechism, Explanation of the Eighth Commandment)
It’s a beautiful call. One that invites us to protect one another’s dignity. But like many good things, it can also be misunderstood—and, in some cases, misapplied.
The Commandment Is Not a Muzzle
The Eighth Commandment was never meant to silence those telling the truth. It is meant to protect against falsehood, lies, betrayal, and malicious gossip. But telling the truth, especially when that truth is well-documented and told with care, is not the same thing.
In his Large Catechism, Luther offers a deeper reflection:
"Where the sin is public, the rebuke also must be public, that everyone may learn to guard against it."
(Large Catechism, Eighth Commandment, para. 284)
And also:
"No one shall say anything evil of a neighbor whether true or false, unless it is done with proper authority or for that person’s improvement."
(Large Catechism, Eighth Commandment, paras. 284–287)
These are not loopholes—they’re reminders that truth, when spoken with wisdom and the intention to protect, can serve the body of Christ rather than harm it.
What I’ve Chosen to Share—and Why
From the beginning, I’ve tried to speak plainly. I haven’t shared intimate details or private confessions. I haven’t written with anger or revenge in mind. And when I made a factual mistake about President Egger, I corrected it publicly.
What I have shared is:
Screenshots and emails from church leadership
Reflections on my own accountability
And a story I’ve lived, step by step, for more than two and a half years
I’ve shared it with restraint, with care, and with full awareness that others are watching—not just those close to the situation, but those who have lived through something similar and have yet to find the words for it.
Not About Shame—About Clarity
When Erik resigned from Concordia Seminary and the LCMS clergy roster, no public explanation was given. No acknowledgement of the report that led to his resignation. Only a vague reference to a personal decision.
In fact, his resignation was mentioned in a single sentence in the September 2023 issue of The Reporter, the official publication of the LCMS:
"REV. DR. ERIK H. HERRMANN [has] resigned from the ordained roster of The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod and [is], therefore, no longer eligible to receive a call."
For many who have lived through church hurt, this kind of quiet withdrawal feels all too familiar. It offers protection to the institution, but not always to the people left behind, trying to make sense of what happened.
This isn’t about punishing anyone. It’s about providing clarity for those who were affected, and care for those who might otherwise be vulnerable again.
From Silence to Shared Experience
Since I began writing publicly, I’ve heard from multiple women who have experienced something similar. One of them, Rachel (name changed), reached out after reading my story. She says she hasn’t told anyone outside her closest circle. She is still scared. Still unsure what counts as harm. But when she read my words, she said, “You get it. You’ve lived it. That’s why I trust you.”
Rachel isn’t describing a distant or unknown figure. She is describing an LCMS pastor who remains in ministry and holds significant visibility within the Synod today.
Her story began with admiration and spiritual trust, gradually deepened into private conversations, and eventually became a physical relationship with a pastor she had once revered. Like me, she loved him. Like me, she trusted him. And like me, she believed what was happening was mutual and unique.
But in situations like this, consent isn’t simple. Rachel is an adult. She agreed to the relationship. But her consent was shaped by years of spiritual grooming, reverence for his pastoral authority, and emotional dependence that blurred her ability to act freely.
It’s also important to name this: he pursued her. He was the first to hint at deeper feelings. He crossed that initial boundary—not impulsively, but with care, patience, and spiritual intimacy that made the shift feel safe and mutual. That pursuit changed the dynamic, and it complicates any claim that this was merely a consensual relationship between equals.
Rachel’s story shows clear patterns of covert pastoral abuse—control framed as care, emotional intimacy blurred with spiritual support, and blame redirected when she expressed pain. When she tried to explain how deeply she was hurting, he often responded with distance, confusion, or frustration. Her suffering wasn’t met with steady compassion—it was met with fragility, deflection, and fear.
These aren’t just moral failings. They’re patterns that form slowly and entangle deeply. When we treat them like private sins instead of systemic vulnerabilities, we miss the chance to protect others.
This woman still hasn’t come forward publicly because she’s afraid. She reached out to me because when she read my story, she saw that I would understand the complexities, nuances, and dangers of her situation. She didn’t need a response rooted in shame. She needed a witness. And a mirror.
She’s still speaking with him, still untangling what this relationship has cost her. And while I won’t share all the details of her current situation, I will say this: she has expressed suicidal thoughts, deep fear, and a return to self-harming behaviors. She is not doing well. And she trusted me with that truth—because she’s not ready to tell it herself, but she couldn’t hold it alone anymore.
It’s also important to note that she’s watching how I am regarded and the responses I’ve received from leadership within the LCMS.
An Open Question for the Church
Let’s imagine this: Rachel—the woman currently enmeshed in this long-term emotional and physical relationship with a prominent LCMS pastor—chooses today to step forward. She brings her evidence. She places it in the hands of the Missouri District President.
What should happen next?
Would the church, especially its leaders, benefit from that truth being named clearly? Would the pastors who are watching this story quietly unfold feel relieved to see accountability modeled with integrity? Or would we once again default to silence, suggesting that the most loving thing she can do is protect his reputation?
And what about the people sitting in his pews right now? The seminary students who may look up to him as a mentor? The families who receive his spiritual guidance, unaware of the patterns he’s lived out behind closed doors? What about the women who might seek him out for counsel or comfort, never knowing there’s a history? Do they not deserve clarity, too? When the truth is hidden, it's not just institutions that remain unchallenged—it's entire communities that are left unprotected.
Is it really more faithful to keep that truth hidden?
Would it be best for the LCMS to publish a one-line sentence stating he’s resigned and then move on?
So I ask you, pastors, laypeople, leaders, readers:
What is the best way forward when the harm is ongoing and the evidence is clear?
What kind of church are we building if silence is seen as grace, and truth is seen as a threat?
If you have thoughts, reflections, or wisdom to offer, I would be grateful to hear them. You can share in the comments or reach out directly.