The Day Two Pastors Told Me To Stay Away
A Love Letter to Luke 15.
I never expected two pastors—men I respected, men who knew my story—to tell me not to come back to church. I approached them with humility, a clearer mind than I’ve had in years, and a simple desire to grow spiritually. I wasn’t running, rebelling, or questioning the Gospel.
I was trying to come home.
And yet both responses left me in a strange place: frustrated, confused, and wondering how the message of Jesus could be so welcoming while the messengers felt so dismissive.
Why does it feel like I need permission to return to a community I once belonged to? Why is stepping back into a church—of all places—treated like something that needs to be screened, evaluated, or pre-approved?
Instead of either pastor asking honest questions, trying to understand my heart, or welcoming the fact that I’m seeking growth, I was told to “pray about it” or to schedule a private meeting before attending a Sunday service.
It made me wonder: What exactly am I being assessed for?
My sincerity?
My stability?
My motives?
Since when does coming home require a checkpoint?
And for anyone reading this, thinking,
“What did Barnaby do that was so terrible pastors wouldn’t welcome him back?”
let me be clear:
At Trinity Baptist Church, I was sick for years with the wrong diagnosis. I was not adjusted to medication, which led to manic episodes—episodes that clashed with the rigid structure of ministries like the Borden House. I publicly questioned my relationship with God. I doubted my sincerity of faith. Once, during a mental break, I vandalized the building by putting peanut butter in the door locks. It was wrong. I own that. But I was not in my right mind or in a stable state.
But let’s be real:
Did I sleep around?
Did I cheat on a spouse?
Did I commit some vile crime?
Did I harm a child?
No.
None of that.
In fact, I’ve met people in the very same churches who have done those things—and they were still welcomed, embraced, covered, and restored.
Yet somehow I am the one treated like a liability?
At Cornerstone, my issue was never with Jesus, Scripture, or spiritual hunger — it was with the environment. I questioned some of the so-called “gifts” in operation because what I witnessed wasn’t order, discernment, or humility. One woman in particular acted like an oracle, speaking as if God Himself were channeling through her. It was out of place, out of order, and absolutely a valid reason for me to step back. It wasn’t spiritual — it felt performative.
I also openly challenged the traditional concept of Hell — the eternal fiery torture chamber many Christians assume is settled doctrine. I couldn’t reconcile that image with the character of God revealed in Scripture. I never believed God torments people forever because they didn’t articulate the right prayer or choose the correct religion.
I believe Scripture teaches something far less sadistic and far more consistent with God’s justice: that the dead sleep, await judgment, and that those who reject God ultimately cease to exist, rather than being tortured endlessly.
Whether I’m right or wrong isn’t the issue.
The issue is that asking honest questions in church culture is often treated as rebellion rather than what it actually is — spiritual maturity and theological curiosity.
What struck me the most after both pastors told me not to come back wasn’t the disappointment — it was the contrast. Because everything Jesus describes in Luke 15 stands in direct opposition to the responses I received.
Jesus tells three stories:
A shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to chase the one who wandered.
A woman who turns her whole house upside down to find one lost coin.
A father who runs toward his returning son “while he was still a long way off.”
That’s the heart of God.
That’s the Gospel.
That’s the blueprint of welcome.
Yet somehow, in real life, I came to two pastors with sincerity and humility, and instead of being embraced like the prodigal son, I was essentially told:
“Maybe don’t come. Pray about it.”
Which is fine if we’re talking about joining a gym.
But when someone tries to come home spiritually, the biblical instinct is supposed to be joy, not caution.
Luke 15 reveals God’s heart.
My experience revealed church culture.
And the two did not match.
When I look back at my twenties and early thirties, it’s impossible not to see it now:
I wasn’t “rebellious,”
I wasn’t “drifting,”
I wasn’t “double-minded,”
I wasn’t “hot and cold,”
I wasn’t “uncommitted.”
I was sick for thirteen years.
Misdiagnosed.
Under-medicated.
Unstable chemically while trying to be stable spiritually.
The church interpreted my mental illness as:
a faith problem,
a discipline problem,
a rebellion problem,
or an immaturity problem.
But it wasn’t any of those things.
My manic episodes clashed with ministry structures.
My depressive episodes were labeled as spiritual backsliding.
My psychosis was interpreted as demonic or sinful.
My questions were treated as threats.
No one in those years said,
“Hey Barnaby, this looks like a medical condition. Let’s get you help.”
That’s why, when pastors respond hesitantly rather than with understanding, it hits a nerve.
Because if anyone should understand how far I’ve come, it should be them.
Instead, I was treated as if my old instability defined my present identity.
But I’m not that kid anymore.
I’m stable. Grounded. Honest. Clear.
And frankly, more spiritually healthy than I’ve ever been.
In both churches, the moment I started asking deeper questions, the dynamic shifted.
I wasn’t attacking anyone.
I wasn’t divisive.
I wasn’t spreading doubt.
I was thinking.
But in many church cultures, curiosity is viewed as a threat.
Question Hell?
You’re dangerous.
Question prophecy and tongues?
You’re divisive.
Question theology?
You’re “not submitted.”
Question interpretation?
You’re “leaning on your own understanding.”
It’s wild because in every other area of life — therapy, science, academia, authentic discipleship — questioning is a sign of maturity and development.
But in church systems, questioning is interpreted as instability.
Yet the irony is this:
I didn’t ask to tear anything down.
I asked because I actually wanted truth — not tradition, not performance, not inherited beliefs.
The fact that pastors reacted more strongly to my questions than to people actually living in blatant sin tells you everything you need to know about what church culture prioritizes.
It’s not holiness.
It’s not spiritual growth.
It’s not depth.
It’s control of the narrative.
My frustration isn’t with Christianity.
It’s with a system that claims to be the body of Christ while functioning more like a membership organization.
Where:
Attendance matters more than honesty
Emotional issues of expression, more than maturity
Compliance matters more than questions
Stability is measured by presence, not internal health
Leadership is unquestioned
Suffering is spiritualized
Trauma is mislabeled as rebellion
And people who need support the most are often treated with suspicion
Church is supposed to be a hospital for the broken.
But too often it becomes a platform for the perfect.
The moment you’re not easy to manage, easy to categorize, or easy to predict — you’re a problem, not a person.
And that’s the thing I’m waking up to:
I didn’t fail the church.
The church failed to be what it claims to be.
Not God.
Not the Gospel.
Not Jesus.
The system failed.
And maybe that’s why this moment hurts so much — because I expected shepherds and got gatekeepers instead.
In the end, what happened with these pastors didn’t push me away from God — it pushed me deeper into understanding Him. Their hesitation revealed something important: that the Gospel and church culture are not always the same thing. And that’s okay. Because my faith has never been dependent on the behavior of men. My anchor does not rest in personalities, leadership styles, or institutional approval.
My anchor remains in the One who ran toward the prodigal while he was still far off.
The One who leaves the ninety-nine.
The One who searches for the lost coin until He finds it.
The One who welcomes, restores, heals, and rejoices.
If pastors can’t understand my heart, God does.
If church culture can’t hold my complexity, God can.
If people hesitate, God runs.
What I’ve learned is simple:
I don’t need permission to come home.
God already opened the door.
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him.
He ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him.”
— Luke 15:20
This is the heart of God.
This is the Gospel.
This is the standard.
Any church that doesn’t resemble this is simply not functioning as the Father intended.
And that’s not on you.
If you’ve been pushed away, overlooked, dismissed, or spiritually mislabeled by churches or leaders, I want to say this clearly:
You do not have to abandon faith to walk away from dysfunction.
You do not have to choose between Jesus and your mental health.
You do not have to silence your questions to belong.
If you’re seeking truth, healing, or community:
Start with Jesus, not church culture.
Seek the heart of God, not the approval of leaders.
Stand firm in your journey — even if others don’t understand it yet.
And if you need to step away to heal, step away.
If you need to rebuild your faith outside the systems that wounded you, rebuild.
You are not alone.
Your story matters.
Your questions matter.
Your growth matters.
And the God of Luke 15 — the God who runs toward you — has not hesitated once.