We Thought It Was A Carnival

This is Anonymous Church. Every week we share real stories behind faith and ministry, the kind that people don't always feel safe to say out loud. Our hope is that by listening you'll remember you're not too much, you're not alone, and your story matters.

Today's guest is Paige, a mom of three amazing kiddos under the age of five. Most of her days are spent homeschooling and doing life alongside her kids, a mix of exhausting and rewarding in equal measure.

When she does find a moment to herself, she loves being outdoors, going for a run, or getting lost in a good book. Paige grew up loosely connected to church, but it was in high school that her faith really became her own. Now she's continuing to explore what it looks like to follow Jesus in a way that's authentic and life-giving.

Welcome, Paige. I'm so excited that you're here. On my way here, I was thinking I want to tell a story about how we met. And I literally don't know how we met. I just feel like we've always known each other. I know that we have like many paths-crossing moments.

Kind of crossing moments and we've been friends on Facebook and Instagram for what—10 years? But not a real-life connection until more recently, which I'm loving.

I'm glad we're on the same page.

Today we're going to talk about red flags. I think I knew pretty early on that I wanted to have you as a guest, but I wasn't quite sure what we were going to talk about. I feel like you have so many areas of expertise that you could bring value to. After chatting the other night, I was like, oh—I know, it's going to be red flags, because your story is littered with them. I'm just so excited for you to share.

I asked our followers: what are some red flags that you ignored?

We’ve got gaslighting—pretty common. People who would just disappear. Like staff members or volunteers—maybe both—people who just stopped going and you never…

Yeah. Ooh, this is a good one because this was like this at the church I worked at too—being asked to drink alcohol only in secret, not in public or like only in other towns. You couldn’t partake in your zip code or your local town where you lived, right?

That's so sketchy. Maybe they legally couldn't tell us not to drink. They're like, we can't tell you not to drink, we're just going to give you these weird rules.

I don't understand that one either. There are way more important things that do matter that are not being addressed that I feel like should be.

Ooh—being afraid that I would be fired if I didn't tithe. That’s a really good one. Being shamed if I was caught attending another church.

Yeah, ouch. Okay, I was on staff at a church and for the last two years I did not attend or tithe and nobody noticed.

I think—did you share that one? Because I remember seeing it. That is so… I will say about the tithing: that just shows whoever the pastoral staff is isn’t looking. I do agree with that. But also the attending—nobody noticed—that’s… It’s like nobody cared. Like you really didn't care about me enough to even notice. But I don't know which is worse, because I've also heard people say they only got a call from their pastor when they stopped tithing or stopped attending—and that just seems so gross.

Kind of the same level. They're only noticing when you're not tithing or not tithing enough—where you get that call. And then I was thinking about that—or the celebrations of tithing.

“Hey, I’ve been tithing for the first time”—like that was a thing where I worked. It's supposed to be done anonymously, right? From a biblical standpoint. Oh—being terrified if I forgot to show up for my volunteer time because I would be yelled at.

I managed a lot of volunteers and I didn't yell at anyone, so I'm curious. I don't know this person but I'm so curious and so sad that someone yelled at a volunteer.

It is sad, yeah. Did you ever yell at anyone for not showing up?

I don't think so. I do have this overwhelming awareness that there are gonna be people who listen to this podcast and are like, “Wow, you did that to me,” because I did do a lot of really shady, terrible stuff—but I don't remember yelling at anyone. I don't think so. Okay—assuming everyone who left was no longer “called” or was listening to lies. Did you ever do that?

I mean, yes—also as a high-level volunteer. A lot of times when people leave, you don't know why—they just disappear. They're gone. You're like, what happened to them? No one gets to speak into it. It's whatever narrative the church is sharing.

I forgot about this one. This one's really rough: someone was fired and we spent an hour practicing the same line to tell people.

I remember seeing that shared and it didn't shock me—and that's really sad.

It is sad. I don't know how I avoided that during my time, but I don't think I ever had to…

I also did not experience that, but I've heard about it multiple times, especially when people are leaving not on good terms or they are fired. I've heard so many times where “no one gets fired—everyone leaves on their own terms.” That’s part of being fed that line—we're having to say, “They left on their own terms. They're pursuing ______. Pursuing new endeavors.”

I remember someone leaving and their announcement was that they were “pursuing the secular lifestyle now” or something—from stage.

I keep thinking I will not be shocked and then I'm constantly picking my jaw up. Wow. I can't imagine saying that: “They're pursuing a secular lifestyle.” Wow. And then you're shocked again. Maybe that’s part of it—the crazy stuff that’s said.

And then the one that I think—I’m curious if you relate to this one: speaking up about unhealthy behaviors meant that you didn't trust leadership.

Oh yeah. That's a good one. Using that, you have a very eye-opening story. I wish there was a camera you were wearing when you initially shared it with me, because my face was probably like 😳 the whole time. You have an eye-opening story. Let's start from the beginning.

So when did you start serving in ministry? And how did you go from serving to being in a paid vocational ministry role?

Yeah, from the beginning—where I went to church, serving was talked about all the time. It was pushed. I really wanted to serve. I was pretty young—before I was driving, I decided to serve in our kids ministry. I was serving with younger kids, like two-year-olds, as a… I can't even think how old I was. But it kept trickling. I wanted to pour into the next generation. I don't know if it was something I was lacking, but that's what I wanted to do. I served there until I was an adult—maybe five or six years. Quite a long time. Served in several ministries before deciding where I wanted to work in vocational ministry.

When I was 16, I did more in-depth serving—more behind-the-scenes with staff members instead of just in the kids' rooms. Weekday stuff, or I started serving in youth ministry, and on Wednesday nights, shadowing our youth pastor instead of being one-on-one with the kids. More leadership-style roles. That segued into moving into full-time ministry.

We talked a lot about the interview process. We were at the same church, probably similar interview processes. Even though we never worked together, same timeline—and it was brutal. I hear so many stories about that process being traumatic, with no follow-up care.

The interview process is really long. Days long. You tour different locations, interact with a lot of people, and it all leads up to one large event. I was an interviewer often and can attest to it being horrendous. I don’t feel like I can say what we actually called it. It's the whole day.

That interview event is all day. It's not like you have a break. You're in a room with the rest of the interviewees. There's no time to process—you’re going from person to person. Behind the scenes, as an interviewer, we'd get a list of every person interviewing and go in teams of two or three. We had specific questions to ask. Then we'd come back and rank the individual candidates on a wall.

I did know we would rank candidates. We all got to vote and then the people who were below the line got cut—every round.

Multiple times in the day, not just at the end. And if we went back and, say, I ranked them high and someone else ranked them low, I had to go to bat for this person that I didn't know—and no one did that because we didn't want to get yelled at. It was awful on both sides. I went through it again a couple of times while already on staff, applying for other positions. It was weird going through it and knowing what they were doing. It hurts. Makes my skin crawl. Icky. At least when I did it, we tried to create some level of safety—and I feel like that was completely gone in your experience.

At the end of the day: you're sitting in a room, all the candidates are there, people are being pulled to leave—they never come back. I get pulled and then go sit in a room. They put me in there and I sat by myself for a good amount of time. I don't know how long—no phone. Any amount of time feels like forever, especially with anxiety after a whole day of exhaustion.

I was maybe 19 applying for this role—pretty young. Four men walk in the room. They're all in the same ministry I'm applying for. They start asking me questions—about my past. I got married the day after I graduated high school. Really rough situation. Obviously, what 18-year-old runs away from her family and gets married—red flag to begin with. They just start grilling me about that. At this point I'm divorced, so they're asking me questions. The biggest one that stuck out: “How will you avoid a failure like this in the future?”—something like that.

Another problem: my pastors from that time—maybe not the one who helped me get to this interview, but the one before—knew the details. He knew about the abuse. I'm guessing he was in that interview event. He had every opportunity to say, “Hey, let's pause—this is incredibly traumatic, and leaving was the best decision. It was not a failure.” That’s so dangerous and gross.

I'm absolutely sure he did. In my opinion, they got this knowledge from somewhere—either previous pastors who walked with me through it or the new pastor at this church. He knew too because we sat down and processed it. At this time I had a new boyfriend, and we were walking through what that looked like after being in an abusive marriage.

I did not share this information in the interview process. I was prepared—my leader told me I needed to be prepared to talk about it. I was prepared for the stations, not the panel. I was prepared for a two-on-one station with a short amount of time to give a quick answer—not a 30–45 minute panel. I don't remember how I responded. I blocked it out. Completely. I remember being in there; I don't remember the details.

The stations were about 30 minutes each round including movement time; culture questions at each station; candidates rotated; interviewers stayed put. I was expecting the question there. My leader had told me they'd ask about my “marriage failure.” They called it a marriage failure. It is not a marriage failure. If anything, the church failed me.

If we're talking red flags, there were red flags even back then. During this time when you noticed these things—not just after—did you gaslight yourself? “This is normal, this is okay, it's worth it”?

Yeah—because this was my dream job. My now-husband—my boyfriend at the time—was very anti this church. Didn't want to attend there, didn't like how the staff was run. I told him this was my end-all be-all. “This is where I will go to church and work the rest of my life.” While I was working there—early on in full-time staff—in the midst of all of it.

Let's talk about your time in vocational ministry. You did get the job—congratulations. During that time, what was your experience like? Mostly positive, or were there red flags then too?

There were red flags from the beginning. That was my interview. Then your first day is not on the job—it’s a training. You meet your team leader. Pretty chill. Then my first day at the church where I was working, I had a one-on-one with my team leader. First day, first ever one-on-one. I was at a different location (multi-site church). He brought up my interview and told me he had asked one of the men who was in there about my past and whether he thought I’d make it. The guy said it was basically up to me if I was going to succeed because of my past. First day. And I'm 19.

Is that a tactic? “If we put all the responsibility on her, we don't have to take any if it doesn't work out.”

I think so—because that’s how the ministry was run. A lot of sayings about how it was all on me—on everyone. It was your job to succeed. But this was an entry-level position—I needed direction.

Statistically, how many people retired from that church? I can think of a few—there a very long time. But statistically, they're bringing people in and people are leaving way more frequently than the fantasy that we would retire there. “We will die at this church.”

Now on the outside, that seems so silly to have believed.

Someone at my location called it Disneyland. She read a book—Behind the Scenes of the Magic Kingdom.

We had to read that going into kids ministry. It was “required reading.” As if we didn't have enough to do.

I think we were all kind of in that “Disneyland” headspace: we're welcoming people into the Magic Kingdom; we're the luckiest people on earth to be employed here.

Have you been to Disney World with kids? I went as a child. I haven’t gone with my kids because it sounds like… not the happiest place on earth. It’s Florida—it’s hot. You wait in line for hours; your kids are crying; everyone’s exhausted. But we don't remember that part—we remember someone brought us an ice cream cone or the cool hotel. I feel like that's what ministry is like—we look back and say “It’s wonderful,” and ignore the red flags.

Or what it's actually costing you. I was thinking about the thousands of dollars Disney costs, but ministry costs you too—maybe not thousands directly, but it might cost you your healthy marriage. It might cost your mental health, your physical health—which will cost you thousands in the end.

Thousands in therapy at minimum. I’ve spent at least thousands in therapy. I never considered the cost aspect like that. That perspective is so good. I love that people thought it was Disney World. Maybe the first year I bought into that. After that—no.

Even if you didn't buy into “Disneyland,” we still had that mindset. “We’re going to retire here. Work here forever. Our kids will grow up here, be in all the different ministries, then work here too.” Some kind of bliss.

I feel like there's a grieving process for people who leave. You have to grieve what you thought it would be. My kid at six said, “When I grow up I want to be a pastor.” He really believed that. He’s not growing up in that anymore. If it is his path, I’ll support him. But I thought that was best for him then. So there’s grief—what I thought my life was going to be. Red flags—so many. We thought it was a carnival. That’s my only excuse.

Looking back, which red flag do you wish you had paid attention to? Or would it have changed anything?

I don't know that it would have changed the outcome. I did stand up for myself. I brought in a lot of people, including our lead pastor and other bosses over my lead. I asked for help. I'm proud of myself for that. I don't think I would have done anything differently. I wish it hadn’t affected me so much. It really affected me then and later—10 years later—in how I process. Maybe I wish I had left sooner.

Because it went on the whole time I was there. The talking down to me that happened in that first meeting—that wasn't the only time. It happened in front of people and they didn't care. I was so embarrassed. My leader embarrassed me so many times—in ministry, in front of students, small group leaders, my family. All the time. That's the part I regret most—letting someone belittle me like that and just accepting it. “It is what it is.”

It's funny—I literally cannot imagine you allowing that now. If someone told me that happened, I’d say, “Wrong girl. No way.”

I did go to people for help. “He's not going to treat me like this.” But then I was basically told he was going to treat me like that and I had to accept it. So I had to accept it because this was my dream job. If I wanted to succeed here, I had to put up with this behavior.

I'm so sorry. I know it doesn't fix it—but truly, I'm sorry. What have you learned about trusting yourself? What does that look like now versus then?

It's been a long time coming—not overnight. It took a lot of therapy. It's also about trusting others and men. Coming out of an abusive marriage and stepping into a manipulative, gaslight-y role (which is abuse)—you forget you can trust yourself. All intuition is gone. I've had to learn to trust what I'm feeling—if it's real—because I was told, “Suck it up.” I’ve learned: once is enough for me. You're not going to treat me like that more than one time. Not strangers—I'm thinking of certain people in my life then and after leaving that I let disrespect me and my family. I don't put up with that anymore. People can change, but I can stand up for myself now. Therapy helped me do it without being mean.

Someone smarter than me said, “When people tell you who they are, believe them.” I'm not thinking the worst—I'm going off what you showed me. You showed me who you are; I believe you. That's all I need to know.

Exactly. And I'm letting you do that one time at this point. There aren't chance after chance after chance. My husband is a chancer—so soft and kind. Not that I'm not kind—I've just learned boundaries. I will let that person affect me way too much otherwise. If I could change something: I wish I wouldn't have let it hurt me so much, because it's not about me. No one’s behavior is about me—it's about them. So I'm not going to take it personally, but you're not going to treat me like that.

“Once is enough”—that might be my line for the rest of the year. What advice would you give to someone convincing themselves their situation in ministry is normal?

Listen the first time. The first time they show you who they are—whether it's your direct leader, a peer, or someone far above you—trust what they show you. That goes for ministry, relationships, life. I'm not saying never give chances; I'm saying listen to your gut, your intuition. It’s telling you something. God gave it to us for a reason—no matter what you believe, intuition is real. Trust yourself.

Thank you for being on the podcast. I can't wait to share this with the world.

I'm thankful and proud of you for doing this. It's not one church. I've thought about that so much. It's not one church. We talked about more things in my life that are ministry-related that are not necessarily churches. It's not one place. It's not local. It's a global issue.

People in vocational ministry are celebrated for sharing their stories. But people who have left—especially those hurt by the church—those stories aren’t celebrated. They're shamed. They're told to be quiet, or that it didn't happen, or “you don't know what you're talking about,” or “that happened to you but not to anyone else.” Or you're told your truth will cause someone else not to go to church or hinder their relationship with God—all the responsibility put on the hurting person. Talking about your hurt is healing. It's healing for you and for others who think they're crazy—because that's how we're made to feel. I appreciate this platform. We're not bashing anyone. It's important for people to feel safe to share.

We're forced to share our testimonies—“If you don't share that, someone's not going to get saved.” Well, if I don't share it now… Other people need to know they're not alone. So many are dealing with this alone—it's isolating. It's unnecessary. There are so many of us who have gone through this and we're on the other side saying: “This is temporary. It sucks, but it won't last forever.” I hope more people will continue to share. I'm excited about what's happening here.