His voice cracked, and tears began to stream down his face.
We were sitting on the steps inside the elementary school where our youth group met on Wednesday nights. That night, one of our church elders stood in front of us to tell us our youth pastor had been "asked to leave".
None of us were surprised. We had known something was happening for a while. I honestly don’t remember much now about why he was leaving or whether the decision itself was justified. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was handled badly. I don’t know. What I do remember is that enough pieces had made their way into enough homes that by the time the announcement became official, everyone had an opinion.
This particular elder had been asked to deliver the news. I liked him. To my knowledge, most of us did. He was older than our parents, closer to a grandfather figure. A big guy with a loud booming voice. Funny. Warm. One of those adults who seemed genuinely comfortable around teenagers, and not in a creepy way, which is probably why he had spent so many years volunteering with us.
He finished what he had been asked to say and, for a second, the room was quiet.
Then someone spoke. Angrily. Why? How could they do this? This is wrong! Then someone else joined in. And someone else. Within moments, middle schoolers and high schoolers were yelling at him. The thing is, some of them were my friends. Kids who had heard pieces of conversations at home. Kids who knew fragments of what had happened. Kids who had inherited the outrage of the adults around them and arrived that night ready to defend someone they loved.
The elder tried to answer. Then I watched his face change. Even as his voice cracked and the tears streamed down his face, they kept at it.
I remember looking around the room, trying to understand what was happening. That was when I saw him. Our youth pastor. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest, watching.
I can still remember the expression on his face. He looked pleased. Maybe pleased isn’t even the right word. Satisfied. Justified. He seemed to be soaking in the scene unfolding before him. As though every accusation thrown at the elder proved something. As though the anger filling the room belonged to him and he was content to let a group of teenagers carry it.
I remember feeling something turn in me because whatever had happened between the adults, whatever decisions had been made behind closed doors, this man standing in front of us was not the enemy. And these were children. We were children. We had been given just enough information to become furious and nowhere near enough information to understand what we were furious about.
But no one stopped us.
And the person who could have stopped it stood against the wall and watched.
For years, I thought faith deconstruction began much later for me. With theology. With questions. With realizing certain beliefs no longer made sense. After trying again and again to find a community that would accept me. After the pain had accumulated to a certain point.
But when I look back, I wonder if some of the earliest cracks were much earlier and quieter than that.
Maybe they were moments when something I had been told was good suddenly didn’t look good anymore. When authority didn’t look wise. When loyalty didn’t look loving. When a room full of religious adults allowed children to carry a conflict that never belonged to them.
I didn’t have language for any of that then.
I only knew that I was sitting on the steps of an elementary school, watching children scream and yell at a grown man who was crying, while another grown man lounged against the wall and seemed to enjoy it.
Something about that stayed with me.