The Cultural Cult Within

What Happens When Culture Silences the Cross

Friends cheering, blood rushing, common sense escaping. Macho is bonding your tongue with frozen steel after a triple-dog-dare. Maybe you could wiggle out of it with a double, but there’s no escaping the clutches of the triple, no turning back now. You followed the pied piper to that flagpole and now it’s time to pay up as you’re left alone, with your involuntarily conjoined metal twin. You wait, thirsting for the flow of warm water to send the prickling sensation of freedom, unshackling you from a frozen prison.

A smile breaks through a face still checking to see if pain and humiliation have left the building for good. It’s the look of being rescued from a cult. The sweet relief of freedom coupled with the scars of regret for years spent investing in something that left you stuck to a flagpole. The wince of reminiscing in the deception of someone who once cheered you on to new heights only to ensnare you at the summit. They left that part out of the pamphlet.

Maybe you’ve seen the harrowing testimonies of those rescued from the darkest of places where charismatic narcissists preyed on vulnerable seekers promising salvation for the small price of handing over the keys to their lives. All you had to do was empty your bank accounts, hand over your spouse, free your mind of any critical thinking and open your soul to this bright, shiny, all-encompassing enlightened life.

Sitting on the couch, adorned in those green plaid pajamas, bowl of cereal in hand with a jaw fully descended to the floor, complete disbelief slaps your face as nine hundred people drink Kool-Aid. Blood pressure rises as followers offer up their children to these hedonistic saviors. How could anyone allow themselves to worship at the altar of these sadistic soul pimps?!

---

It's the punch you don’t see that gets you every time. When deception strikes where you’d least expect from someone you threw war paint on for and blazed trails with. The kill shot was never supposed to come from behind and burst out your chest. Gasping for air, pain pulses through your body with a piercing reality: The campaign to proclaim the cross got tangled in a web of cultural relevance, cloaked in an ego using you to make a name for itself. Slipping in and out of consciousness, the reel of your life scrolls the greatest hits of compromise for the cause. Their cause. Now they stand over you, barrel still smoking, quoting scripture.

It was supposed to be simple; it was supposed to be about Jesus. An A frame building with burnt orange carpet, popcorn ceilings, dimly lit round orbs hanging from above and a sound system that almost worked. There were no cameras, no hashtags, QR codes, and click tracks, only Jesus. The website hadn’t been dusted and tidied in years, and the eighties wanted their clip art from the church bulletin back.

The piano player Karate chopped every hymn while the lead singer fought the melody into submission. It was a simple gospel message that echoed off empty pews that morning while the savory smell of pot roast tortured every nostril still conscious. For some, Sunday service was a time to tilt the head back and let the anesthesia of the pastor’s sermon work its magic. On this sleepy Sunday, however, a life altering appointment with Jesus was on the menu for one starving soul who had arrived late. A hand raised and a life was changed forever. The church hadn’t seen a new birth in years, and nobody could find a copy of “What Now” anywhere in the building.

The next week he was early, with friends. They didn’t know the songs but had no issues establishing the beat while the drums sat empty on stage. What they lacked in church etiquette, they made up for with loud enthusiasm. Two more departed that sleepy church alive in Christ and ready for more.

While the pastor was excited about this new growth, he’d also grown to love stroking his sheep to sleep every Sunday. They’re easier to manage that way.

The lobby kept getting noisier every Sunday. Not enough bulletins were being printed, and people were losing their unofficial assigned seating on a weekly basis. But no one was upset, God was moving, people were meeting Jesus.

One Sunday, the young man approached the pastor asking if there was a way to start a Bible study for his friends. “Why don’t you do it, and I’ll teach you,” the pastor said. A jolt of excitement burst out his mouth and the following Wednesday B.O.B. was born (Bunch of Believers).

The stage filled with musicians that could actually play over the following months, the pastor introduced himself in matching outfits, dressing like he cared, they found a lyrics person who could keep up, and the nursery stopped being used for extra storage. Church was growing, and the pastor was becoming less sure of himself and his ability to control it all. It was so much easier with empty pews.

The pastor reached out to a larger church seeking advice on how to manage the new growth. He shared how energetic and sometimes chaotic the services were and felt he was losing control of what God was doing. They suggested dynamic books on church management and a video series that had just been released by the fastest growing church in America on funneling people into church through pipelines (sounds slippery).

Six months later, the young man who started all this chaos now carried the title, Volunteer Associate Pastor; on fire for Jesus and unable to manage his way out a wet paper sack. Pastor requested he consume these new books and meet weekly to master the new material.

“You need to start managing your Bible study better, it’s a little chaotic.”

“Yeah, the dog’s walking me, but we’re gobbling up the bible, people are sharing their lives and struggles. It feels like family, a crazy, loving one. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be?”

“If we don’t start learning to manage this now, we’ll never get to the next level of where we need to be.” Pastor said.

“What’s the next level? Like in Marios Bros.?”

“We’ve gotta dial this in, part of growing is striving for excellence in our professionalism. New people expect that.”

“I didn’t expect that when I came.”

“We’re at a different place now. It’s time to elevate. We need to be more relevant in this town.”

He left deflated. He’d never been around Jesus loving people before and craved it. It was a circus at times, but he liked the rides. He struggled with the tension of pleasing his pastor and cloning another church, while a passion burned for what God was doing in his group. Yes, it felt untamed, but it didn’t feel wrong.

Introducing these new changes went over like a balloon filled entirely with lead that Wednesday night.

“I feel like you’re telling us we’ve been doing this church thing wrong” someone in the group said. “What’s so wrong about talking about Jesus and having fun?”

“Uh, well, Umm, our church just beat level 4….and…we need to power up, I mean level up for extra lives…and…”

He didn’t know how to answer them; he empathized. He was one of them. Proper church verbiage escaped him on crafting the culturally-correct “why.” All he knew was that his life was an absolute train wreck and a small voice led him to a dusty old church one morning.

“Hey, this is just what pastor wants, so we’re gonna do it.” He said sheepishly.

Thursday morning, the pastor requested a meeting immediately.

“I got a call this morning from someone in your group asking why they must do “all this new stuff.””

“Yeah, it didn’t fly with some people.”

“From this moment on, never disrespect me in front of my church people again, this is your only warning. And starting next week, you will begin submitting a report to me on everything that goes on in your group. You will also submit to me your teaching outlines prior to Wednesday for my approval.”

“I wasn’t disresp…..” he said getting cut off.

“Do not talk back to me, you’re a volunteer. I’m the pastor, what I say goes.” He snapped. “Tomorrow, I need you here to meet with the team from our mentor church. We’re going to learn how to do church the right way.”

Beginning that Sunday, detailed orders of service were outlined and followed to a “T”, even rehearsing the service earlier that morning. The sound and media people would get berated if something went wrong. Only certain songs were allowed from the current popular worship albums. Pastor began using “buzzwords” every Sunday, emphasizing them repeatedly to rebrand our culture. In the announcements, words like, “Authentic” and “Connect” and phrases like “You belong Here” were required. Cultural relevance became the name of the game in executing the growth strategy of the other church.

Approved teaching outlines were used on Wednesdays, and meetings only lasted an hour so unchurched people wouldn’t feel trapped. Food stopped being served because more budget dollars were going toward new lighting and the re-branding of the church.

The website desperately needed revamping with the band jumping around on stage plastered on the home page. It had to rival the big boys. The church needed a new digital front door.

Anticipating growth, pastor required more leadership training, using the video series sent earlier, assigning his associate to the task.

“Pastor, I don’t have the time to do all of this. I have a family and a job.” He pleaded.

“You can’t complain in kingdom work. Part of showing your worth, is showing your sacrifice” Pastor said.

“I’m spending more time here, away from my family. I’m rushing over on Tuesdays to submit my lesson plans, I’m racing from work on Wednesdays to teach, I’m staying up late to write the reports you’ve requested, I’m coming in on Saturdays to load all the media and put the service orders together. It’s too much, I can’t keep doing this!” he said.

“Then I guess I’ll have to find someone else who believes in the cause, who can execute the deliverables required. If you can’t perform these duties and sacrifice for God, then maybe I’ve waisted my time investing in you.”

“This is where I got saved, where my life changed. You introduced me to Jesus. This is where my friends met Jesus. That’s all that matters. People started coming because of what Jesus was doing here, now it feels like we’re trying to manufacture some watered-down, polished version of what we used to be. Everything was going great when all we had was Jesus. We don’t need all this other stuff.”

“Leave now! You have become a rebellious Spirit. An Absalom.” He gritted.

“Who? You’re like a dad, I got saved under you…why are you doing this, I love you?!” he cried.

“I thank you for your time, your services are no longer welcome here.”

“What about Wednesday nights? That’s my family!

“That’s no longer your concern.” He said, barrel smoking as his mask hit the floor.

Some cults scream out a megaphone, while others thinly veil themselves in Jesus. They have a “form” of church but deny the power. Anytime you control the cross for personal gain or preference, you’re creating a cult. When methods are prioritized above the cross, you’re in a cult. When personalities get more notoriety than Jesus, you’re in a cult. When modern vernacular saturates the stage over scripture, you’re in a cult. When man made strategies choke out prayer, we’ve lost the plot.

The scariest cults aren’t found it Waco, it’s the ones hiding in plain sight behind a man on a cross, with their people stuck to a flagpole.

These articles will remain free for anyone who wants to read them, and we’re grateful you do. We are donation based, and your generosity, in any amount, helps keep BackwardPastor going strong. Blessings!