There are moments when a melody surfaces unbidden in my mind, a familiar refrain that once brought comfort and connection:
Rejoice and be glad: Blessed are you. Holy are you. Rejoice and be glad: Yours is the kingdom of God.
This song, rooted in Jesus’ beatitudes, has been a source of strength, a reminder of hope for those marginalized and suffering. It spoke of a divine order where the oppressed are elevated, where God’s kingdom is found amongst those who mourn.
Yet, now, when “Blest Are They” drifts into my thoughts, a pang of discomfort follows.
The tune I instinctively hum is the creation of David Haas, a prominent Catholic songwriter whose influence, surprisingly, reached even my Mennonite congregation. Within our church, we regularly incorporate at least five Haas compositions into our worship services. These weren’t just songs; they were often referred to as “heart songs,” deeply resonant with the spirit of our community.
However, this summer brought a painful reckoning. Over forty women courageously came forward with credible accusations of sexual abuse against Haas. Their testimonies painted a disturbing picture: grooming behaviors starting as early as age 14, unwanted sexual advances, groping, kissing, and manipulation aimed at silencing resistance. These allegations spanned decades, revealing a pattern of abuse enabled by power and influence.
The momentum of the Me Too and Church Too movements played a crucial role in ensuring these accusations were treated with the seriousness and urgency they deserved. Swift consequences followed. GIA, a major liturgical publisher, removed Haas’s work from their catalog. The Mennonite Voices Together hymnal project, in the final stages of production, made the difficult decision to pull Haas’s songs from their printed collection.
For congregations like mine, the aftermath has been a complex process of grappling with betrayal and loss. We are faced with the challenge of removing familiar and cherished songs while holding onto our core theological belief in forgiveness and redemption for all.
Our church community is no stranger to the devastating impact of abusive leadership. We watched with horror as the Catholic Church confronted the widespread accusations against priests who sexually assaulted children, enabled by a calculated system of cover-ups. Similarly, Willow Creek founder Bill Hybels was accused and admitted to sexually abusing women connected to the church, and his mentor, Gilbert Bilezikian, faced similar allegations of sexual misconduct.
Within my own theological tradition, John Howard Yoder, once revered as a theological giant, was exposed for decades of sexual abuse against women, cloaked under the guise of a disturbing theological experiment. Sadly, every Christian denomination carries the burden of survivors abused by church leaders.
While high-profile cases capture public attention due to their impact on institutions and finances, countless other survivors endure pain known only within their local communities – victims of youth leaders, small-church pastors, seminary professors, and children’s ministers.
The sheer volume of abuse allegations over the past decade has placed pastors in a difficult position. We are tasked with guiding our congregations through the process of removing books, music, liturgies, and Bible studies by problematic figures from our spiritual resources. Explaining the necessity of these actions can be counterintuitive, especially within faith communities centered on forgiveness and grace. The idea of definitively rejecting someone’s work can feel at odds with the very notion that we are all flawed and in need of grace.
Concerns arise about setting unrealistic expectations, about demanding faultlessness from preachers, theologians, and composers before we can engage with their work. There are echoes of the comforting words we often offer in prison ministry: “You are not the worst thing you have done.”
However, a critical element is often missing from these discussions of forgiveness and grace: power. At this point in my life, accusations of men abusing women in positions of authority are not shocking. The true shock lies in the duration of these abuses, the decades perpetrators can operate unchecked, evading accountability.
Power is the enabler. Institutional leaders, whether in the Catholic Church, the Southern Baptist Convention, or megachurches like Willow Creek, often prioritize the institution’s mission and reputation above the well-being and justice for survivors. They calculate that the institution’s overall work outweighs the need to address the harm inflicted on individuals.
Survivors witness this calculation play out as they are silenced, dismissed as liars, or shamed for potentially damaging ministries that are perceived to have a positive impact on many. The very Christian value of sacrificial self-giving can become a burden, compelling survivors to suppress their trauma to protect the institution.
My congregation will no longer sing the songs of David Haas. This decision is not rooted in vindictiveness or a lack of grace. We are, thankfully, not seeking perfection in our leaders. We embrace the messy and complex reality of human existence.
Our decision is about sending a clear message to those who might follow in the footsteps of David Haas, Bill Hybels, or John Howard Yoder – those who exploit their positions of authority: you are not indispensable. We may mourn the loss of their contributions for a time, but there are other songs to sing. Eventually, “Blest Are They” will fade from my memory, replaced by new melodies of faith and resilience.
The Gospels frequently depict Jesus’ frustration with his disciples’ relentless pursuit of power and status within his circle. In one such instance, he responds with exasperation, “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
Leaders who abuse their power often overestimate their own importance. They believe their wealth, institutional standing, and social influence make them irreplaceable. They assume the church needs their thoughts, writings, and songs so desperately that their gifts will shield them from the consequences of their harmful actions.
It is the church’s responsibility to prove them wrong. By setting aside the works of abusers, whether books or hymns, we are not rejecting forgiveness or abandoning hope for redemption. We are affirming a fundamental truth: no individual, regardless of charisma or following, is more valuable than a survivor of their abuse.
The future of the church does not hinge on grand stadiums or soaring anthems. Our vitality and health will not be measured by influence over worldly powers. The reign of God belongs to those Jesus called blessed – the weeping, the mourning, the poor, and the hungry. Blessed are you, for yours is the kingdom of God.
A version of this article appeared in print with the title “Who’s indispensable?”
