As many of you already know, my most recent short film (currently on the festival track) is about clergy abuse. I’ve struggled to put together an appropriate teaser for the film that is, on the one hand, enticing and kinetic as a good trailer should be, while also representing the patient and contemplative approach the film itself takes. I’m still not sure I did so perfectly, but as any filmmaker knows, finished is better than perfect.
As for the film itself, I couldn’t be prouder of the final result. I believe it to be potentially my best film to date, certainly my most mature work (in terms of filmmaking, not just subject matter), and it represents the pivot into more faith-focused art I’ve been hoping to make for some time now.
That being said, this subject was a challenging one to start with. None of my trademark whimsy is present, in fact, this is the first film in my entire career that doesn’t contain a single joke. My wife and I wrote this screenplay together after many angry (mutually, not at each other) conversations and reactions to situations both removed from and immediate to our faith traditions. I’ve regularly contemplated both that anger and my reaction to it while creating this film, and the following is a meditation I wrote in conjunction with said contemplation.
Ruth springs up from the couch, desperate, pleading. “God doesn’t want you to confront this in anger!”
Allow me to state the obvious: Lorica's subject matter should not be tackled lightly. As artists, we must often balance provocation and sensitivity, the boldness to say something with our work versus the tact with which it is proper to speak. A short film, by its nature, can only say so much. Lorica sought not to be a comprehensive examination of systemic abuse in religious institutions, nor could it ever have been that. It is, though, I hope, all it was capable of being—a perfervid inveigh against the institutional cover-ups in our holy establishments, an invitation to grieve the failings of the Church, and a summons to angry, redemptive action. If you take nothing else away from my work, be it the film or this present digression, let me make the call to action explicit: we Christians need to call out our own.
The unfortunate reality of this fallen world is that abuses of power are inevitable. A superior misusing their authority to sexually exploit an underling is not unique to Christian institutions. We hear this story anywhere power is found: headlines involving teachers, coaches, Boy Scout leaders, camp counselors, movie producers—all telling the same story. This is not to dissuade anyone from viewing these instances as horrific or tragic (they are invariably both) but merely to highlight that the abomination Lorica aimed to confront was not simply these actions but the Church's reaction. In 2002, Boston’s Spotlight exposed appalling details of abuse, but what elevated the whole rotten deal from monstrosity to catastrophe was the revelation that the Church itself was culpable in sweeping said abuse under the rug. Heartbreakingly, this exposé would be the first of many. Similar cover-ups in recent years from Hillsong, the Southern Baptist Convention, and various Neo-Charismatic movements show this is not the problem of a single denomination; this is a sickness of the Church.
So naturally, we who call the church our home must ask: how are we to respond? Ruth's line in Lorica, "God doesn't want you to confront this in anger," is an all too common sentiment. In one sense, there is wisdom here, especially in a "judge not lest ye be judged" mindset. The failings of another can too easily tempt us to a posture of superiority. But more often (or at least too often), such inclinations are weaponized to pacify those calling for justice. That is certainly Ruth’s comportment, and with all due respect to my fictional character, I firmly disagree.
This is just one small excerpt of one testimony from one of the hundreds of women Ravi Zacharias used his position to exploit:
"She said Zacharias 'made her pray with him to thank God for the "opportunity" they both received' and, as with other victims, ‘called her his "reward" for living a life of service to God,' the report says. Zacharias warned the woman—a fellow believer—if she ever spoke out against him, she would be responsible for millions of souls lost when his reputation was damaged."
If you are a Christian who believes in the sanctity of human life, that human beings have inherent and intrinsic value by nature of being created in God's image, then I don't think it’s possible to be too angry about this. In fact, if you possess functioning faculties for empathy, you might not have a choice. The question is not, "Does this anger you?" The question is, what do we do with that anger? Where do we direct it? How do we express it?
As opposed to those whose instinct might be "ignore or repress it," we can take some comfort in God-given permission to despise evil (Psalm 139:22). St. Augustine's ancient adage of "Love the sinner, hate the sin" may be an oversimplified and often abused cliché, but it does remain, in some sense, true. However, we must employ this with caution and precision. An evil person is as worthy of pity as they are deserving of condemnation. They have bought into a lie, and in our virtuous fury, we can be tempted to reduce the corrupted man to nothing but the evil that has taken root in his heart.
The instinct to do so is understandable. Even in the Western world, the Eastern concept of karmic justice is the default instinct. Our natural inclination when hearing of hurt inflicted by someone is: "hurt them back and hurt them more." If I found out tomorrow that Ravi Zacharias was alive, secretly spirited away to a clandestine facility where he was being viciously tortured day and night, kept just at the edge of death without going over, my first impulse would be: "Good. He deserves worse."
But what gain exists in torturing an evildoer? Does further suffering undo the pain caused? Does rejoicing in an enemy's agony heal the wounds they inflicted? Of course not. The only torture we should wish upon that kind of person is a hitherto unrealized self-awareness. If you can make them understand the true horrors wrought by their deeds, that knowledge, living with that, will torture them, and rightly so. Not because it inflicts pain but because it reveals the truth. Not because it hurts them for suffering's sake but because it teaches them to hate the right things about themselves and their actions.
If you harm someone you hate, you may feel nothing. If you harm someone you love, you either need to make it right, or you may seek to alleviate your guilt by avoiding it, leading to prolonged self-deception or a numbing of your affection. The selfish urge to evade our own guilt can drive us to further wrong others in pursuit of vindication from hurting them in the first place, an ironic and vicious cycle we can only break by reminding ourselves of the essence of love.
As St. Isaac of Nineveh says:
"I also maintain that those who are punished in Gehenna are scourged by the scourge of love. For what is so bitter and vehement as the punishment of love? I mean that those who have become conscious that they have sinned against love suffer greater torment from this than from any fear of punishment. For the sorrow caused in the heart by sin against love is sharper than any torment that can be…Thus I say that this is the torment of Gehenna: bitter regret."
This "bitter regret" imposed by the "scourge of love" is true, honest agony. A person “tortured” this way can, perhaps, hope someday for redemption, or more accurately, can genuinely come to embrace the free gift of grace, though we may not see those results in the here and now. While we can pray for them, some actions are so egregious a lifetime may not be enough to redeem them, and some minds are so warped by sin as to know evil's face and desire it all the same.
But the God of infinite love and mercy desires true justice. And true justice, as Christ showed us, isn't tit for tat, eye for eye, wound for wound. True justice is a purging of evil, a turning away from sin, and an embracing of the redemptive grace offered freely by Christ and accepted undeservedly by man. What more could be sought or demonstrated by meeting evil with good? As Christ so plainly said: "love your enemies and do good to those who persecute you." This isn't advocating mere passivity; it's insisting on a transformative counterbalance. Your enemy has harmed you, show them what goodness looks like. Your enemy displays cruelty; show them mercy. Your enemy is operating from a place of darkness, be the light for them. The Kingdom of God has come and is coming to renew the world; live out that redemptive truth now, in God's name, as Christ's image. "If I make my enemy my friend, have I not defeated him?"
This was our purpose in utilizing an imprecatory psalm as our climax. We take our rage, shock, and pain, and couch it in the words of scripture. Anger, yes, because again, you cannot be too angry about this. Make no mistake, Lorica is an angry film, but it aspires to be anger in search of Love. Perfect love is the only non-corruptive option for hatred. But since we are not perfect, in love or otherwise, we must seek to unite our will with the One who is. This does not require us to eschew anger or forgo punishment but to align both with the Love of God, a love so true and so pure it can seek nothing for sin but its utter destruction.
I want Ravi Zacharias to suffer. But Christ's challenge to me is to reframe that desire. The vindictive, vengeful hunger to see evil punished with pain is natural. I feel it acutely as a third-party witness; I can only imagine the depths to which it is felt by the actual victims and their loved ones. But the torture I wish upon him must be the convicting torture of pure and unimpeded love: the light of God which cannot abide darkness, the wrath of God which cleanses all that despoils His beloved, the consuming fire that will not abate until the uttermost farthing has been paid and even then purifies the good unto perfection, revealing evil for the disposable nothingness it is before annihilating it utterly.
Leaving vengeance to God or trusting in His ultimate judgment is not an excuse for inaction, nor is it a free pass to restore those who have misused their power to ministry. I can declaratively state all the rambles above about judging not being our place or learning to wish love upon our enemies while simultaneously saying certain figures should not be in leadership positions. These two claims are not in conflict. Men like Ravi Zacharias or Bob Jones (were they still alive), men like Todd Bentley or Jim Bakker or Doug Phillips or Paul Pressler or Mike Bickle or Todd Atkinson or the numerous Catholic priests who abused their young parishioners or the bishops who covered it up, all of these men should be barred from public ministry and leadership, full stop.
We Christians must be uncompromising in exposing evil. But once the evil has been brought to light, we must be just as uncompromising in our response to what comes next, and that means barring these men from leadership positions in any church. There can be no talk of "restoration" to public ministry, no PR teams hired to rehabilitate their image, no solemn promises from higher-ups vowing to guide the repentance process before releasing them back into "limited ministry." Abusing your spiritual authority is a bell that cannot be unrung, and no one who does it should be institutionally provided the chance to do it again. If these men wish to continue serving God, let them do so as monastics, hiding away in reverent silence and lifting up fervent prayers from their isolated cells, as far away from the general public as modern transportation can take them. They should never again, under any circumstances, be given access to a stage or a pulpit.
Likewise, we laity must be uncompromising in our prayer. We must pray relentlessly for insight into preventing these monsters from gaining leadership positions in the first place. We must pray ceaselessly for the sagacity to see the warning signs, the wisdom to distinguish truth from falsity, and the bravery to support the courageous victims speaking out. We must pray for integrity to stand beside these survivors and support them, even when our own ministries seek to silence or minimize their voices.
These men were our leaders, are our brothers, but they are also, make no mistake, our enemies. While Christ emphatically commanded us to love our enemies, this should never be misconstrued as an excuse to tolerate their behavior nor to enable them to continue it. Because they were our leaders, we should pray for their repentance. Because they are our brothers, we should pray for true, maddening, agonizing conviction to rend their hearts in two. And because they are our enemies, we should stand with their victims against attempts to minimize their wrongs, starkly opposing any efforts to reclaim their diminished authority.
A final issue stands unaddressed: "Is God active in these ministries?" One common denominator in the more recent and notable examples of clergy abuse is popularity. By any metric, Ravi Zacharias led an enormously successful ministry. As I write this very digression, social media is replete with followers of Mike Bickle offering metrics of his success in defense of recently exposed abuses. As I make my final edits, the same defenses are being made for the just-exposed Robert Morris. "Yes," they say, "he may have made mistakes; he wasn't a perfect man, but he was clearly anointed for this ministry. God uses imperfect men all the time, doesn't he?"
Indeed, he does. God is the God who brings reality out of nothingness. In classical Christian thought, evil is not a thing unto itself but a non-thing, a privation. This privative framework is an essential reality of our known existence, which is, in part, what makes the Gospel such genuine good news. The creator God is working continuously in a work of new creation, and not just new, but redemptive. Jesus is the God who trampled down death by death. He defeated evil through evil's chiefest weapon and united us to himself through the means meant to separate us. This is the heart of God's redemptive work: He works in all things and through all things to turn all things back towards the light.
This is not to say, though, as it is so often phrased, that every individual wrong committed by these men is part of some master "plan," as if God was a utilitarian algorithm blithely sacrificing an unfortunate few for the sake of the fortunate many. It is an ancient and essential Christian claim that God neither wills evil nor is its author. But just as God can use the tragedy of death to overcome death, he can bring good even from ministries led by deleterious charlatans like Ravi Zacharias or Mike Bickle.
However, because of this good that God can work, we may be tempted to see these situations as otherwise "positive" ministries gone astray. This understanding is not impossible, but to prevent history from repeating, we must infuse our foresight with lessons learned from the clarity of hindsight. Too often, the warning signs are there from the beginning, and they go unseen until it’s too late.
Taking Bickle as an example, here is a man who was rotten to the core from day one. In addition to decades of provably false prophecies, he spent some of the earliest days of his ministry leveraging his station and authority to sexually exploit women under his influence. While these revelations shocked his adherents, it should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with his particular breed of self-proclaimed "prophets," a collection of opportunistic sensationalists play-acting as divine emissaries while hawking a shallow gospel of self-aggrandizement. Intoxicated by the allure of faux-supernatural charisma, these fraudsters wield their supposed “gifts” with reckless abandon, leading thousands away from the humble path of Christian orthopraxy and instead towards the dogged pursuit of fleeting “miracles,” desperately attempting to maintain a steady high of ephemeral experiences. The surprise in hindsight should not be that Bickle, Bickle's primary mentors, and Bickle's mentors' mentors have all been exposed as either frauds, sexual deviants, or, in most cases, both. The surprise should be how many genuine conversions have arisen from this parody of Christianity, how many actual encounters with Christ have been facilitated, and how many remarkable, Jesus-loving Christians have managed to escape the caricature with some semblance of the real picture intact.
But even if we can place hope in God's redemptive work in darkness, we must learn from these failures. Bickle is not the last of his kind. Nor was Ravi Zacharias nor any of the other men mentioned above. Carnivorous shepherds lead flocks today, and we must seek them out with the shrewdness of serpents, the guilelessness of doves, and the determination of heat-seeking missiles. Lorica is a single story portraying a single response. Our efforts in combating these men must be a continuous, vigilant pursuit so that the Church may be a place of refuge, not ruin.
There is a quote often attributed to St. Augustine, (though in reality, no one is quite sure where it comes from): “Hope has two daughters, anger and courage: anger with the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”
This meandering essay and the film it accompanies are written as (hopefully) an expression of anger rightly focused. Anger that does not seek retribution but justice. Anger that does not burn wildly for its own sake but for the sake of focused destruction. My sincere hope is to use my words and my art not just to stoke the fire of anger at the way things are but to foster the courage to do something about it.
Admittedly, there are days when I’m not sure I actually believe any of this. One too many minutes reading testimony from victims of the latest Christian leader exposed as a sexual predator, one too many arguments online with the most fastidiously idiotic minds mankind has to offer, one too many videos of ISIS decapitating hostages or headlines about this war or that war to remind us evil is not merely an abstract concept. Some days, holding fast to this ardent view of redemptive hope feels noble. On others, it feels dismissably naive.
Christ’s earliest followers styled themselves followers of “The Way.” In an age where religion is ever more systematized and categorizable, where we are ever more encouraged to understand our faith and social status along tribalistic battle lines, I think to remember this framing could prove helpful. We could all do with a reminder that following Jesus is a Way of living as much as (if not far more than) it is a doctrinal affirmation of abstract propositions. Belief in Jesus means taking up our cross and following in his footsteps even during seasons when it all just seems too bleak to handle.
This is the freedom brought by the yoke of Christ: even on the days when we can’t believe a word of it, we can choose to walk the narrow path.
Break the arm of the wicked and evildoers;
Seek out their wickedness until you find none.
The Lord is king for ever and ever;
The nations shall perish from his land.
O Lord, you will hear the desire of the meek;
You will strengthen their heart,
You will incline your ear,
To do justice for the orphan and the oppressed,
So that mortals may strike terror no more.
This subject of filmmaking (and art in general) has been missing your unique voice. I'm so excited for your future and the future of humankind.
I want to watch, where can I stream this