Detoxing from Church

Postscript: Doctor Bob

It's been over ten years since I starting "resurfacing" out of the most intense season of detox. During this time -- especially since posting the original Detoxing from Church article, I have been privileged to connect with people from literally around the world. And as we have all shared our stories, discoveries, struggles, and questions, I suddenly realized that there was another piece of the detox that needed to be mentioned.

I originally wrote Doctor Bob for my blog in 2004, and I didn't realize how appropriate it would be as a Post-Script to wrap things up in the discussion of detox until later.

In hindsight, I wonder if this conversation with Doctor Bob back in 1992 might have become the subconscious inspiration for the Younger/Elder series. Regardless, Doctor Bob's wise counsel to me all those years ago is still valid to day to all who are walking the journey of detoxing from church.

In the fall of 1992, I had the dubious distinction of experiencing first-hand what it feels like to be fired from a church, after being labelled "too Vineyard" and therefore a threat to the well-being of the Body. Well, technically, I "resigned", but if you've ever been in a hostile environment where life is being made as unbearable as possible with the intention of forcing you out, it's functionally being fired. I think the word is "duress"...

But I digress...

In the midst of the pain, feelings of betrayal and disillusionment, as I watched my very first pastoral position turning into something less than what I had hoped for, I felt alone and without anyone I could get pastoral insight or counsel from. A gag order from the senior pastor prevented me from getting input from our church's elders, or even from Jorge Mercado, our former youth pastor near Toronto, who normally functioned as a sounding board and mentor for Wendy and I.

One of the most amazing youth leadership teams we've ever served with, "The Dead Prophet Society", had become a difficult place for everyone. They were our closest friends and co-workers, but all of us were suddenly caught in a maelstrom of church politics and power plays, which none of us had a grid for processing. Wendy and I couldn't see a way of telling them the truth without being accused of sowing division, and the numbing silence that grew between all of us resulted fairly quickly (for Wendy and I) in isolation.

My last official pastoral duty was locking up the church after the midnight Christmas Eve service, and then tossing my keys back into the church through the mail slot.

We lost our church family, our house (the parsonage), the youth ministry we had pioneered two years earlier, our income (pastors aren't eligible for unemployment benefits in Canada), and a lot of friends, who believed whatever the senior pastor told them from the pulpit about us.

It was a very dark time.

During that hard season, just a few weeks before the Christmas Eve service, the phone rang in my office, and I heard an unfamiliar female voice asking if she could schedule me for a lunch appointment with Dr. Bob Roxburgh. I had heard of Bob by reputation, but I had never met him nor heard him speak, although I was aware that he pastored a Baptist church downtown. I agreed to a time and a restaurant, and the secretary (I assume) told me that Dr. Bob would meet me there.

At the appointed time and place, Bob showed up and treated me to pumpkin pie and coffee. Over our one hour together, Bob delicately probed the situation I was experiencing, and allowed me to sort through some of my thoughts and feelings through his wise combination of insightful inquiries, and lots of reflective listening.

As the close of our far-too-brief hour arrived, Bob gave me the only piece of pastoral advice that he was to offer that day.

Stirring his coffee, seemingly fascinated with the concentric swirls he was creating in the cup, he said, "Tell me, Rob, how old are you?"

"I'm 30," I replied, and waited.

Bob took his time, stirring his coffee slowly and deliberately. Still gazing thoughtfully into his cup, he softly told me, "You're still quite young. You have many, many years of fruitful ministry ahead of you."

Then he stopped stirring, carefully placed his spoon on the napkin beside his empty pie plate, and finally locked eyes with me.

"Unless you grow bitter."

His gaze held mine for what seemed an eternity, as he watched the lesson sink deep into my soul, before he spoke once more.

"Guard your heart, young man, guard your heart."

Then he paid our bill, bade me farewell, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

If there's anything I would add as the "last word" on detoxing from church, it would be to point back to Bob Roxburgh's wise counsel to me:

Guard your hearts, my friends, guard your hearts.