Chapter 20:

THE HOUSE BURNS DOWN

 

The next morning, I called Theresa and said, “I’d like to talk with you,” like nothing had happened.

“It’s over,” she said.

God had given her discernment; He had let her know exactly what I was doing. She had known exactly what motel I had gone to, and she had chosen not to confront me. I am thankful for her wisdom in that choice—a confrontation probably would have turned very ugly. But she let me know, in no uncertain terms, that it was out now.

“The church knows, and the Presbyter is going to know,” she said.

Once I realized my sin was getting out in the open, I called the Presbyter myself and made an appointment to meet with him. My focus was containment: I need to sideline this thing before it gets really bad, I thought. I wanted to make sure he got the story from me. I didn’t want him to hear it from someone else; I didn’t want someone tattling on me.

All kinds of thoughts went through my head as I drove to meet him. How public is this going to become? What’s it going to do to my image? Nevermind the sin itself; my first panicked thoughts were about how to save face. Who knows what? What are they going to do? Where do I go from here? A fog of confusion surrounded me during the entire half-hour drive from Poulsbo to Bremerton.

What’s happened to me? Just eight months earlier, I was on top of the world. I had felt like I was really going somewhere—spiritually and in ministry. I was the newly raised pastor of a church I loved, where the Spirit was moving and the congregation was alive and vibrant. Now the church was falling apart, and so was I.

What am I going to say? I had known this Presbyter since I was a kid. He was the pastor who had nurtured me when I was a teen. At the same time, though, I had never felt that he thought I could amount to much. I had never felt that he saw much potential in me. So here I was giving him confirmation of all those doubts. I could feel the “I told you so” coming; the first words out of his mouth would be, “See? That’s what I thought. It’s nothing more than I expected of you, Ken.”

As I pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store where we’d decided to meet, he was waiting. We sat in his car, and I confessed everything. I wasn’t sobbing with remorse; there weren’t many tears at all. I was just numb.

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting from him. Disappointment? Certainly. Anger? Perhaps. Rebuke? Without a doubt. But he surprised me. Instead of stern judgment, he showed me compassion. I imagine he had already heard all about my sin through other channels, because he showed no surprise as I laid it out to him. But he had no words of condemnation, reproach, or even fatherly correction. He simply said, “I’ll help you through this.”

He advised me to quietly step down from the ministry. (By saying “advised,” I’m trying to emphasize his gentleness in the matter; he did have authority over me in the church.) He instructed me to resign my pastoral role immediately, without speaking to the congregation.

“I’ll take care of that for you,” he said. He announced my resignation to the congregation the following Sunday. That was a burden off of me, for sure; I couldn’t imagine having to confess this sin from the pulpit.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll escort you to the church, and we’ll get your stuff out of there.”

Then he prayed with me, and I left to go back to Poulsbo, back to Kim, the one person I knew would still speak to me. I didn’t even know how my mom was going to respond, much less everyone else I knew. I had mixed emotions. Sure, I felt terrible. I felt grief beyond words. I felt like everyone’s hand was against me and I was losing everything—it felt like death. But on the other hand, I had a strange sense of relief. Everything was out in the open now. I didn’t have to play the game anymore.

The next morning, I drove back to Neighborhood to meet the Presbyter. The whole time I drove, I thought about how I had felt, driving up to this church as the pastor. All of those times, I had felt proud and excited, like I was living my dream. And here I was now, driving back to the church, essentially sneaking back in, as a failure. I felt like a reprobate, a disappointment to everyone who had supported me; I felt I had lost everything.

I waited for the Presbyter, and when he arrived, we went in to collect my things. My stuff was already packed—it all fit in one box. So I grabbed my one box and headed out of the door. It was done.

Back to Kim I went; I had no one else. Soon, though, I did talk to my mom. Of course, she already knew. I thought she might condemn me—or at least rebuke me—but to my surprise, she didn’t. I thought she would be so angry with me, but she showed only love and compassion. So I knew I still had my mother’s love at least. My sisters also continued to be there for me. And there was Kim.

Then Sunday came, and it really hit me. Where do I go? What do I do now? I couldn’t go to church; everyone there knew about me now. I had no job, no ministry, and no friends—overnight, I had destroyed my entire life. In only twenty-four hours, because of a bad decision, everything was over.

 

Of course, more consequences were coming. The next step I had to take was to meet with the Executive Presbytery of the Northwest District of the Assemblies of God. I had to face the Executive Presbyters plus the Superintendent, Assistant Superintendent, and the Secretary Treasurer—nine men in all.

Executive Presbytery meetings were held in various locations around the District on a rotating schedule. This meeting was set for Leavenworth, Washington, of all places. Leavenworth was where Theresa and I had originally gotten to know each other, where our relationship had begun. What an ironic twist that it would end here!

As I pulled into town, a flood of memories of this town overwhelmed me—not just the beginning of our relationship but also all the trips we had taken here over the years for anniversaries or weekend getaways. I drove up to the small church where the meeting was being held, and as soon as I got out of the car, I laid eyes on the Assistant Superintendent, Les Welk.

Les was a man I deeply admired. He had been a bulwark of support for me over the years. He had striven to help me succeed, and he had truly become my friend. Now, he was very courteous, but I could see pain in his eyes the instant I looked at him. He led me into the building and asked me to wait in the foyer until they finished some other business. So I waited there until the Secretary Treasurer came out to me and said, “We’re ready to see you now.”

I walked into the room and immediately felt the eyes of all the Executive Presbyters and Senior Executives focused on me. I felt no excitement, as I had when I was called for my ordination. No joy, as I had when I was reinstated. I felt only discouragement; this was the end of all my ministry. They asked me to sit. I sat in the open seat, with all of them facing me from the other side of the table.

The Superintendent, Warren Bullock, began the conversation. After introducing the issue, he said, “I’m going to pass this on to the Assistant Superintendent. He and Ken have a personal relationship, so I want him to address this situation.”

Les turned to me with pain in his eyes—no anger, no disdain, no rebuke or condemnation, just pain. We didn’t directly address each other much, but I knew what he was thinking. I knew I had let him down. I knew I had hurt him. I felt like I had physically injured him with my failure. This was the man who would always go to bat for me, the man who would personally step in to guide me into places he wanted me to pastor. He’d write letters of recommendation and make phone calls to say, “You really need Ken Walls in your church.” After Quinault, for example, he had wanted me to go to a church in Moscow, Idaho. That position had never worked out, but it was through no failure of effort on his part; God had simply had other plans for me at that point. Always before, Les had helped me to figure out “What’s next?” Now here we were, gathered to determine, in a much more ominous sense, “What’s next?”

They asked me, “Is your marriage salvageable?”

I said, “No.”

As soon as I said that, it was over. There was no need for more discussion. They wanted me to go through rehabilitation to save my marriage, but if I wasn’t even going to try, there was no rehabilitation possible. But I felt that it truly was over. I felt like I couldn’t go back, even if I had wanted to. Les had tears in his eyes.

The meeting was over, and as we got up to leave, Mark Pearson, one of the Executive Presbyters, gave me a hug. He whispered in my ear, “I will always protect your reputation.” That meant a lot to me. Here I was, a moral failure. I had committed adultery, one of the worst sins there is. (Not that there are actually levels of sin; any sin causes separation from God. But at that time, I felt like the worst of sinners.) My evil action was irreversible. But Mark, who was also Theresa’s friend, was still going to protect my reputation.

I walked out of that office with a heavy tread. I was a convicted sinner. At the same time, though, there was a strange sense of relief. At least it was over. My sin was out in the open, and I could go on with my life.