The Messy Middle

Wrestling with Failure, Faith, and Courage

A few years ago, in a conversation with my counselor, I found myself asking, "How can I move forward not knowing if I've hurt someone?" His response was blunt: "Daniel, you've hurt people." My stomach dropped. Panic surged through me. My mind raced— Who? How? Did someone tell him? Was this a trap?

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he continued, "You've been in ministry for over 20 years, and during that time, you've hurt a lot of people." I braced myself for the impact, my mind trying to shield me from the weight of his words. Then, he softened his tone, his voice full of empathy, and added, "But you’ve also helped a lot of people."

At that moment, I realized this truth: If I truly want to make an impact and engage in the hard work of walking alongside others through their pain and joys, I will inevitably help some people while hurting others.

It's part of the journey, and I need to learn to hold both truths simultaneously.

For better or worse, I've always been the type of person who chooses not to play it safe or hide behind my insecurities, struggles, and doubts. Instead, I prefer to engage fully with life. In my twenties, while working as a teacher and coach and volunteering as a youth director in my small-town church, I had a quote from C.T. Studd (you’ve got to love his name) hanging behind my desk. It read, "When I die, I want all of hell to throw a party because I'm no longer in the fight." This has shaped my mentality: I want to move toward need and create spaces for people to connect with God and one another.

We dedicated four years of our lives to students in that town. While there are many things I would do differently now and many of my beliefs have evolved, it’s easy to judge my younger self as legalistic, careless, or immature (which may all be true). And yet, I must also acknowledge the deep love we had for those kids and how we sacrificially gave of ourselves—our talents, time, and money.

Later, I started a campus ministry that brought together hundreds of students seeking belonging and faith. Many have shared how transformative that experience was for them, and for that, I am grateful. However, some felt that the ministry was not a safe space, and they were right. I did not always create an environment that welcomed marginalized voices. I often interpreted "sin" through a limited perspective, without fully understanding the trauma some students had experienced. I was too close to some individuals while being too distant from others. Despite these shortcomings, I poured everything I had into those students because I genuinely loved them.

Still,I felt called to do more- to create a place where we could walking into mess with courage and kindness. 

That calling led us to take a financial and personal leap: starting a church. I courageously led our community to wrestle with challenging topics such as racial inequality and reconciliation, police brutality, trauma and abuse, and the harmful effects of purity culture. I questioned the idea that evangelicals could be "pro-life" while also being strong advocates for the death penalty. All the time, unaware of what I didn’t know about the complexities and grey in all of these issues; I was unequipped to hold the ambivalence. 

As people shared their trauma and struggles, I began to realize something deeply unsettling: I didn’t have the tools to help them. That realization led us to the Allender Center, where Emily and I embarked on a journey that would change everything.

During our training of more than 200 hours with the Allender Center, something transformative occurred for Emily and me. We had to engage with our own stories, confront our brokenness and beauty, and accept that healing does not equate to perfection. This process of self-discovery and growth not only changed our marriage but also transformed how we parented and interacted with others. Through this journey, I began to recognize the dualistic foundation on which my faith had been built, and I saw it start to crumble.

As we were finishing our training, Dan Allender, the lead psychologist, addressed a room of about 120 people. Dan is a man of deep faith who has witnessed some of the darkest realities of hell on earth. Near the end of his talk, he asked how many of us planned to use storytelling and narrative work in church ministry. About a third of us raised our hands. He responded with a "Good luck," and a facial expression that conveyed the challenges we might face.

Then, he shared something I would never forget: "In most churches, you can't tell the truth."

Armed with new knowledge, Emily and I began our journey with people through the challenging landscape of trauma. We embraced the understanding that redemption is not just about heaven and hell; it’s about being willing to uncover our scars and find blessings in them. We created a safe space for others' brokenness with tenderness, and in doing so, we witnessed real transformation and healing—both in ourselves and in those we supported.

I must also acknowledge my naivety and the complexities of engaging in this new territory. We made mistakes, and there are many things I would approach differently.

A culture built around authority, where the pastor is positioned as a direct "messenger of God", creates an unhealthy power dynamic that I was unaware of at the time.

I just saw myself as Daniel.

So, while some individuals felt that our conversations lifted the burden of shame, others may have had a different experience. Where I have been aware of any negative impact and had the opportunity, I have sought to acknowledge and repair any harm caused. I would change some aspects of our approach, yet I firmly believe that if we cannot address these challenging topics within the church, then where else can we discuss them? 

I've sat with couples as they faced the shattering of a marriage that once felt safe but now was cold and distant. I listened with a kind face as people bared their souls and bravely faced their deepest shame. I walked with many young engaged couples, riddled with guilt over their passions and knowing that if anyone else knew, they would lose their place in ministry. I cried with the woman who felt bound to pornography yet hated herself because she believed it was "a man's struggle."  I held their stories close and am in awe of their courage. In those moments, it felt like I was standing on holy ground. 

The dualistic, black-and-white nature of the evangelical machine is sucking the life out of us, leaving only a puddle of shame.

Our secrecy has left us feeling isolated. Shame researcher Brené Brown states, "Shame grows in secret and withers in vulnerability." Yet, we often feel we cannot be fully vulnerable. We can't teach a Sunday school class if we enjoy wine with our steak. We can't participate in the worship band if we use cannabis to help us sleep or manage anxiety. We can't be leaders in our college ministry if we cross boundaries before marriage, even though 95% of us do. Meanwhile, greed goes unchecked, obesity is deemed normal, and addiction to our phones is often laughed off. Being "busy" is seen as a badge of honor. It’s a paradox.

How can you be a pastor during a season of doubt?

How can you help others while grappling with your own contradictions?

How do you reconcile asking a congregation to sacrificially contribute millions to a building that will not only increase attendance but also potentially boost your salary?

How do you tell a gay person they cannot serve communion while allowing others who may be greedy, addicted, or unforgiving to do so?

You simply can't.

This is the angst, even as I write this. In my last two months at the church, I was beaten down, exhausted, and barely hanging on. In a moment of vulnerability, I confided in someone that I was struggling to even want to read the bible. Weeks later, as I was being dismissed from my role, he said, "I can't go to a church where the pastor struggles to read the bible."

At that moment, I understood what Dan Allender had meant a couple of years before— You really can't tell the truth. 

As a result, we create labels: good or bad, sinner or saint, in or out. We preach about how the Pharisees constantly missed the mark, failing to realize that we can often be just like them. To some, I was seen as a hero, with my cape flapping in the wind; to others, I was a villain deserving of solitary confinement. Whether you are labeled a hero or a villain, both roles can feel like hell.

In reality, I am neither; I am simply human.

There is a quote by President Teddy Roosevelt that has given me much comfort over the past 4 years.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

Emily and I are moving forward into the work we feel called to do, but I still have feelings of ambivalence. I’m afraid of my past and uncertain about the future. I want to help others, but I know I will make even more mistakes along the way. I am not the person I used to be, but I will fall and stumble. Jesus encouraged people to “count the cost”, and I’m really trying to because the price was high.  You will make mistakes when you step out and try to forge new ground, and the stones hurled from the faithful hurt deeply. 

My face is bloodied. I've stumbled and fallen. I've taken stones hurled from the hands of the faithful. But the fight isn’t over. I’ll keep moving forward a little more wise and a lot more curious. 

Some may think me a failure… but I fought my ass off.