When the Accusation Isn’t True, but the Wound Is
Believers, buckle up. This may stretch you.
And to the non-believers reading this—some of what follows may land closer to
home than you expect.
I did not set out to write this with
controversy in mind. I didn’t wake up one morning hoping to stir discomfort or
challenge systems. I simply found myself standing in a moment that forced
reflection—a moment where faith, structure, accusation, and conscience
collided. And when those things collide, clarity is rarely immediate, but it is
always necessary.
Recently, I was called into my local church
via email. The tone was polished. Professional. Organizationally sound. The
kind of email anyone familiar with organizational development would immediately
recognize. It followed the familiar pattern:
Thank you for your service.
Here is what you did wrong.
Here is how we will correct the behaviour.
On the surface, nothing about that structure
is inherently wrong. Accountability matters. Transparency matters. Open
discussion matters. In fact, when done well, those things are not only
healthy—they are biblical.
But here is where the problem began.
The premise of why I was there was
false.
The central accusation—the “meat” of the email
sandwich—never happened. Not partially. Not accidentally. Not misunderstood. It
simply did not happen. Even more troubling, the individual who made the
accusation wasn’t even present for the alleged incident.
That detail matters.
Because when correction is built on truth, it
can heal.
But when it is built on falsehood, it wounds deeply.
Scripture speaks clearly about this.
“A false witness will not go unpunished, and
whoever pours out lies will not go free.” (Proverbs 19:5, NIV)
False accusation is not a small thing in
Scripture. It is not brushed aside as a misunderstanding or a clerical error.
Biblically, false witness is treated as a serious moral violation because it
fractures trust, distorts justice, and damages community.
And yet, here I was—sitting in a meeting that
had already gone wrong before it began.
What struck me most was not the desire for
discussion, but the assumption of guilt. There was no curiosity. No
inquiry. No “help us understand.” The narrative had already been written, and I
had been invited into the room to receive it—not to contribute to it.
C.S. Lewis once warned that one of the most
dangerous spiritual conditions is when good intentions become untouchable.
When leaders believe their position sanctifies their process, they stop
checking whether truth is still present.
And that’s where this experience began to
press on something deeper than discomfort—it pressed on identity.
The Inner
Question: Do I Belong Here?
After the meeting, I felt something
unexpected—not anger, not bitterness, but disorientation.
Maybe I don’t belong here.
That thought startled me. I’ve served
faithfully. I’ve shown up. I’ve volunteered. I’ve invested. I’ve cared deeply
about the spiritual growth of others. And yet, one false accusation was enough
to make me question whether my presence was still welcome—or even safe.
When I shared the experience with my parents,
my dad’s initial response was simple, practical, and well-intended:
“It’s not a big deal. Just keep going to
church.”
I understand why he said that. He comes from a
generation that learned to endure quietly, to stay put, to not rock the boat.
And often, that endurance was a form of faithfulness.
But here is the tension: what feels small
to one generation can feel spiritually significant to another.
To me, this was not a minor misunderstanding.
To be falsely accused—especially in a spiritual setting—cuts deeper. Scripture
tells us that accusations don’t merely happen on earth.
“For the accuser of our brothers and sisters,
who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.”
(Revelation 12:10, NIV)
False accusation is one of the enemy’s oldest
tools. Not because it always convinces others—but because it destabilizes the
accused. It makes you question your footing, your calling, your place.
And as I sat with this experience, I began to
ask a harder question:
Why now?
Why, in a season where I’ve been growing,
serving, writing, reflecting, and encouraging others in their faith, would this
kind of spiritual friction appear?
Lewis reminds us that spiritual resistance
often increases when growth is real. The enemy is not threatened by
stagnation. But movement—especially movement rooted in service, honesty, and
humility—draws opposition.
Still, even knowing that intellectually didn’t
erase the emotional weight.
A Shift in
Wisdom
A few days later, something changed.
My dad came to me again—this time with a
different posture. Not dismissive. Not directive. Just kind.
He said, “You know, it’s your choice. And I
know you have the tools to make the right decision for you.”
That moment landed with surprising force.
Because that—right there—is what church
was always meant to be.
Not control.
Not fear.
Not conformity through pressure.
But trust—trust that the Holy Spirit is
active in the believer, not just the institution.
Jesus himself said:
“But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he
will guide you into all the truth.” (John 16:13, NIV)
Notice what Jesus does not say.
He does not say the Spirit will only guide you
through committees.
He does not say discernment must be outsourced.
He does not say maturity requires perpetual supervision.
He says the Spirit will guide you.
That doesn’t eliminate leadership. It reframes
it. Leadership is meant to equip—not replace—the believer’s relationship with
God.
John Maxwell often says that leadership is
influence, not position. When position overrides influence, leadership
becomes brittle. When influence flows from trust and example, it becomes
life-giving.
And Andy Stanley reminds us that healthy
organizations create clarity, not dependency.
Faith,
Freedom, and the Bike Analogy
Let me be clear about something.
I am not advocating spiritual anarchy. I am
not saying we should all “do whatever we want” and slap a Jesus sticker on it.
Scripture is filled with guardrails—for our protection, not our restriction.
But there comes a point in growth where you
are no longer wobbling on training wheels.
There comes a time when you’re riding the
bike.
You may still fall occasionally. We all do.
But you get up. You learn. You adjust. You keep moving.
Isn’t that what discipleship is meant to
produce?
Jesus didn’t say, “Go and wait until you’re
told what to do.”
He said:
“Therefore go and make disciples of all
nations…” (Matthew 28:19, NIV)
Going implies motion. Trust. Responsibility.
Sitting indefinitely, waiting for approval,
waiting for permission, waiting for instruction—can slowly replace obedience
with dependence. And dependence, when prolonged beyond necessity, weakens
confidence in the Spirit’s work within us.
There is profound value in guidance.
But there is also profound value in release.
A church that never releases its people is not
building disciples—it is building compliance.
When
Denominations Divide
As I sat with all of this, I began to notice a
broader pattern.
Across religious landscapes—Christian and
otherwise—leaders confidently declare their way as the right way.
Evangelical. Lutheran. Catholic. Orthodox.
Muslim. Jewish.
Each tradition has leaders who will say,
sincerely, “We are right.” And often, they’ll explain that they’ve prayed about
it—and God has confirmed their theology.
Here’s the honest question:
If everyone prayed—and God told everyone
something different—what does that say about how we understand God’s voice?
Is division biblical? Or is it human?
Paul writes:
“For we know in part and we prophesy in part.” (1
Corinthians 13:9, NIV)
Knowing in part requires humility. It requires
space for mystery. It requires an acknowledgment that our theology—however
sincere—is still filtered through culture, history, language, and human
limitation.
Then there’s the uncomfortable historical
reality: Scripture itself has a story.
Books included.
Books excluded.
Translations shaped by context.
Ethiopia still holds a broader biblical canon
than most Western churches. That fact alone should humble us. It doesn’t mean
Scripture is unreliable—but it does mean our handling of it must remain
reverent, cautious, and open.
Jesus is love.
So where does all this division come from?
I don’t pretend to have the answers. This is
not a manifesto. It’s a testimony.
A reflection from someone trying—imperfectly
but sincerely—to follow Jesus, serve others, and remain open to truth wherever
it appears.
And that leads us forward—into Scripture
itself—to explore not just what we believe, but why.
Searching
for the “Why”: Scripture, Discernment, and the Courage to Apply
If Section One was about the wound, then
Section Two is about the work. Not the kind of work that earns approval, but
the kind that builds understanding. Because faith that never asks why
eventually becomes fragile—and fragile faith either hardens or breaks.
One of the quiet misunderstandings in
religious environments is the belief that asking why is dangerous. That
curiosity is rebellion. Those questions signal immaturity. Yet when we read
Scripture honestly, we discover the opposite: God consistently invites
inquiry. What He resists is pride masquerading as certainty.
Andy Stanley often says that faith isn’t
destroyed by questions; it’s destroyed by pretending we don’t have them.
And John Maxwell reminds leaders that growth stops the moment learning stops.
If that is true in leadership, it is even more true in spiritual formation.
So let us do what Scripture itself
models—return to the text, not to win an argument, but to understand the heart
of God.
Old
Testament: Faith Was Never Blind
The Old Testament is often misunderstood as
rigid, authoritarian, and punitive. But when we look closely, we find something
far richer: a God who engages, reasons, listens, and even adjusts His approach
in response to human dialogue.
Abraham: The Courage to Question God
In Genesis 18, Abraham is told that God
intends to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham does something that would make
many modern believers uncomfortable—he questions God’s decision.
“Will you sweep away the righteous with the
wicked?” (Genesis 18:23, NIV)
Abraham does not accuse God. He does not
posture as superior. He reasons with Him. He asks why. And God does not
rebuke him for it. Instead, He engages in the conversation—step by step, number
by number.
This is critical.
God was not threatened by Abraham’s questions.
In fact, the dialogue reveals something deeper: God invites participation
from those who walk closely with Him. Abraham’s faith was not proven by
silent obedience alone, but by relational trust strong enough to ask hard
questions.
Application:
If God allowed Abraham to question His justice, then asking why within
faith is not rebellion—it is a relationship.
Moses: When Calling Meets Resistance
Moses’ story offers another striking example.
When God calls him at the burning bush, Moses does not respond with immediate
confidence. He resists. He questions. He doubts his ability.
“Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…?” (Exodus
3:11, NIV)
Again, notice what God does not do. He
does not shame Moses. He does not disqualify him. He answers the question—not
by inflating Moses’ self-esteem, but by redirecting focus.
“I will be with you.” (Exodus
3:12, NIV)
The why is not answered with a full
explanation of the plan. It is answered with presence.
Application:
When God calls us into uncomfortable or confusing spaces, He does not always
explain the process—but He consistently offers His presence. Discernment grows
when we learn to distinguish between needing clarity and needing companionship.
Job: When the Why Is Never Answered
Then there is Job—the story that unsettles
almost everyone who reads it carefully.
Job does everything right. He is righteous. He
is faithful. And yet, suffering comes anyway. Throughout the book, Job asks why.
His friends offer theological certainty, moral explanations, and spiritual
formulas. All of them are wrong.
When God finally speaks, He does not answer
the why in the way Job expects.
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s
foundation?” (Job 38:4, NIV)
This is not dismissal. It is perspective.
God does not explain suffering. He reveals
Himself.
C.S. Lewis, writing from his own experience of
loss, observed that pain is not God’s absence but often the place where we
become most aware of Him. Job’s story teaches us that faith is sometimes
sustained not by answers, but by encounter.
Application:
Not every “why” receives an explanation—but every sincere seeker is offered
God’s presence. Maturity is learning the difference.
New
Testament: Jesus Welcomed Questions, Not Performances
If the Old Testament establishes that God is
not threatened by inquiry, the New Testament reinforces it through the life of
Jesus.
Jesus consistently confronted certainty
without compassion—but welcomed questions rooted in humility.
Nicodemus: A Safe Place for Curiosity
Nicodemus, a religious leader, comes to Jesus
at night. He is cautious, curious, and unsure.
“Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has
come from God…” (John 3:2, NIV)
Jesus does not scold him for coming quietly.
He does not demand public allegiance first. He engages him deeply, speaking
about rebirth, Spirit, and transformation.
Nicodemus doesn’t fully understand—but Jesus
does not push him away.
Application:
Jesus creates space for seekers who are not ready for certainty. Churches
should do the same.
The Disciples: Confusion Was Part of Formation
The disciples ask terrible questions. They
misunderstand constantly. They argue about status. They miss the point—often.
And yet, Jesus never says, “You should know
better by now.” Instead, He teaches patiently, repeatedly, sometimes using
parables precisely because truth takes time to settle.
“Are you so dull?” (Matthew
15:16, NIV)
This question is not condemnation—it’s an invitation.
Jesus expects growth, not perfection.
Application:
If Jesus was patient with slow understanding, then spiritual environments
should prioritize formation over performance.
The Bereans: Faith That Verified
In Acts 17, we read about the Bereans—a group
praised not for blind acceptance, but for discernment.
“Now the Berean Jews were of more noble
character… for they examined the Scriptures every day to see if what Paul said
was true.” (Acts 17:11, NIV)
This is remarkable. Even the apostle Paul’s
teaching was subject to examination.
Application:
Healthy faith does not fear scrutiny. It invites it.
Three Ways
to Understand the “Why” and Apply It Today
Now we arrive at the heart of this
section—three practical, biblically grounded ways to understand why
faith matters, how discernment works, and how to apply it in our lives today.
1.
Discernment Grows Through Relationship, Not Control
Both Testaments reveal the same truth: God
desires a relationship, not mere compliance.
“I no longer call you servants… Instead, I
have called you friends.” (John 15:15, NIV)
Friends talk. They ask. They wrestle. They
trust.
Application:
If a spiritual environment discourages questions, it may be protecting control
rather than cultivating trust. Growth happens where relationship is prioritized
over regulation.
2. Maturity
Means Moving from Instruction to Application
Paul writes:
“By this time you ought to be teachers, you
need someone to teach you the elementary truths… all over again.” (Hebrews
5:12, NIV)
There is a progression in faith—from receiving
instruction to living it out.
Application:
At some point, discipleship must shift from supervision to empowerment.
Churches should celebrate believers who are learning to apply faith
independently, not penalize them for it.
3. Unity Is
Found in Love, Not Uniformity
Jesus’ prayer for His followers was not that
they would agree on everything, but that they would love one another.
“By this everyone will know that you are my
disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:35, NIV)
Uniform theology has never existed in the
Church. Love has always been the marker.
Application:
We can hold convictions without pushing people away. Faith grows when
conversations remain open and rooted in love.
Love That
Holds, Faith That Sends, and a Church That Makes Room
If Section One named the wound, and Section
Two explored the work of understanding, then Section Three is about where we
land—not with answers neatly tied in a bow, but with posture. With
direction. With love that is strong enough to hold tension without breaking
fellowship.
Because if faith leads us anywhere, it must
lead us toward love. Not the thin, agreeable version of love that avoids
discomfort, but the robust, Christ-shaped love that welcomes conversation,
bears misunderstanding, and refuses to reduce people to accusations or labels.
The tragedy is not that churches wrestle with
theology. That has always been the case.
The tragedy is when wrestling replaces relationships.
When certainty replaces curiosity.
When protecting systems becomes more important than protecting people.
Jesus never seemed particularly impressed with
religious precision when it came at the expense of compassion.
Jesus and
the People We’d Rather Avoid
One of the most unsettling patterns in the
Gospels is this: Jesus consistently makes religious leaders uncomfortable while
making broken, curious, and excluded people feel seen.
He touches lepers.
He eats with tax collectors.
He defends a woman caught in adultery.
He speaks with a Samaritan woman—alone, publicly, and across every cultural
boundary of the time.
“Now he had to go through Samaria.” (John 4:4,
NIV)
That sentence matters. He didn’t have
to geographically. He chose to relationally.
The woman at the well asks questions—awkward
ones, theological ones, defensive ones. Jesus doesn’t shut her down. He doesn’t
say, “That’s not how we do things here.” He meets her in conversation and leads
her toward the truth without humiliation.
And what happens?
She becomes a witness.
A carrier of good news.
A catalyst for belief in her entire community.
Jesus didn’t protect His reputation. He
invested in her restoration.
Andy Stanley often says, “The church should
be the safest place to hear the truth about yourself.” That safety doesn’t
come from lowered standards—it comes from secure love.
When Fear
Replaces Trust
Somewhere along the way, parts of the modern
church became afraid. Afraid of being wrong. Afraid of losing influence. Afraid
that if questions are allowed, chaos will follow.
But Scripture shows us the opposite. Fear
never produces maturity—trust does.
Paul writes:
“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us
timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” (2 Timothy
1:7, NIV)
Notice what Paul doesn’t list. Control.
Anxiety. Image management.
When churches rely on fear—fear of exclusion,
fear of correction, fear of being misunderstood—they may gain compliance, but
they lose courage. And courageous faith is the kind that actually changes
lives.
John Maxwell teaches that people don’t follow
titles; they follow trust. When trust erodes, influence collapses—no matter how
sound the structure appears.
The
Difference Between Guardrails and Cages
Earlier, we spoke about guardrails—and they
matter. Scripture is clear about boundaries that protect us from harm. But
there is a critical distinction between guardrails and cages.
Guardrails guide movement.
Cages restrict it.
A healthy church provides guardrails that keep
people safe while still allowing forward motion. An unhealthy one builds cages
disguised as care.
Jesus said:
“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the
Sabbath.” (Mark 2:27, NIV)
Rules were meant to serve life—not suppress
it.
When structure begins to suffocate calling,
something has gone wrong. When policy replaces pastoral wisdom, discernment is
outsourced rather than developed. And when believers stop trusting the Holy
Spirit within them, faith becomes borrowed instead of lived.
Faith That
Sends, Not Shelters
One of the quiet dangers in church culture is
the belief that safety is found in proximity to pastors, programs, or
platforms. But Scripture tells a different story.
Jesus doesn’t gather His disciples to keep
them close forever. He trains them—and then He sends them.
“As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” (John
20:21, NIV)
Sending implies risk. Independence. Trust.
Faith that never leaves the building never
fulfills the mission.
C.S. Lewis once wrote that Christianity is not
meant to be a “comfort religion” but a transforming one. Comfort has its
place—but transformation requires movement, tension, and responsibility.
A church that measures success by attendance
rather than discipleship may grow crowds but shrink courage.
Unity
Without Erasure
One of the deepest fears in faith communities
is that inclusion means compromise. That welcoming conversation means
abandoning conviction.
But Jesus proves otherwise.
He holds truth firmly—and people gently.
“Neither do I condemn you… Go now and leave
your life of sin.” (John 8:11, NIV)
Notice the order. No condemnation first.
Transformation second.
Jesus does not erase difference—He redeems it.
He doesn’t demand uniformity—He invites unity.
Paul echoes this:
“Make every effort to keep the unity of the
Spirit through the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:3, NIV)
Unity of the Spirit—not uniformity of opinion.
We can disagree without disowning.
We can question without quitting.
We can hold conviction without hardening our hearts.
Why People
Leave—and Why Many Stay Silent
Many people don’t leave church because they
stop believing in God. They leave because they stop believing they are safe to
be honest.
Others don’t leave at all. They stay
physically present but emotionally disengaged. They stop asking questions. They
stop serving authentically. They shrink their faith to fit the room.
That is a quiet loss—one that rarely shows up
in metrics.
Jesus warned about this kind of faith:
“These people honor me with their lips, but
their hearts are far from me.” (Matthew 15:8, NIV)
The solution is not looser faith. It is deeper
trust.
Three
Closing Invitations
As we close this journey, not with answers but
with invitations, here are three ways forward—rooted in both Old and New
Testament wisdom, and grounded in love.
1. Choose Curiosity Over Certainty
Certainty feels strong—but curiosity keeps us
humble.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and
lean not on your own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5, NIV)
Leaning not on our own understanding does not
mean abandoning thought—it means holding it loosely enough for God to refine
it.
Invitation:
Stay curious. Ask why. Listen deeply. Faith grows where humility lives.
2. Choose Relationship Over Reputation
Jesus consistently chose people over
perception.
“What good is it for someone to gain the whole
world, yet forfeit their soul?” (Mark 8:36, NIV)
Churches grow strongest when they prioritize
relational integrity over institutional image.
Invitation:
Protect people more fiercely than platforms. Restoration matters more than
reputation.
3. Choose Love That Makes Room
Love is not passive. It is active, courageous,
and inclusive without being careless.
“Above all, love each other deeply, because
love covers over a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8, NIV)
Love does not eliminate truth—it creates space
for it to be heard.
Invitation:
Make room. For questions. For stories. For people who don’t fit neatly into
categories.
A Final
Word
To the believer reading this:
You are not weak for asking questions. You are not rebellious for thinking
deeply. You are not disqualified because you’ve been misunderstood.
The Holy Spirit is not fragile.
Truth does not fear examination.
Love does not require uniformity.
To the non-believer reading this:
If faith has ever been used to silence you, shame you, or push you away—I’m
sorry. That was never the heart of Jesus.
Jesus is love.
Love invites conversation.
Love stays at the table.
And perhaps that is where faith was always
meant to live—not in closed systems, but in open hands. Not in fear, but in
trust. Not in control, but in courage.
May we be people—and churches—who love well,
listen deeply, and leave the door open.
