When I First Questioned the Church
Where I first learned to untangle culture from the Gospel
I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, in a world where church wasn’t just a Sunday ritual — it was the foundation of everything.
My grandparents were deeply involved in First Baptist Church of Atlanta, pastored by Charles Stanley, one of the most well-known Southern Baptist preachers in America. My grandfather was a deacon there, and my grandmother was close friends with Stanley’s wife. It wasn’t unusual for the Stanleys to have Sunday lunch with my grandparents after church.
So faith — and particularly Baptist faith — was not just part of my life; it was the air I breathed.
By the time I was fourteen, I attended another Baptist church in suburban Atlanta, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, the pews were filled with middle-class families, and the biggest moral threat most parents worried about was whether their kids listened to too much Motley Crüe.
That year, we got a new youth pastor. And that’s where the story begins.
The Youth Pastor and the Sound System
Our new youth pastor was dynamic — young, energetic, and eager to grow the youth group. He wore loud ties, told jokes, and brought a kind of showmanship that felt fresh to some and artificial to others.
Before long, I started noticing something that didn’t sit right. He seemed far more focused on numbers — how many kids were attending — than on actually knowing the kids who were there.
The breaking point came when I overheard that he was planning to spend a large chunk of church funds — I think around $2,000 — on a new sound system for the youth group. At fourteen, I didn’t know much about church budgets, but I knew $2,000 was a lot of money.
So I asked him about it. He told me it was essential — that we needed better sound equipment to “attract more students.”
Even then, something in me bristled. Why did we need to be entertained to hear the Gospel? Why did the message of Jesus need better speakers?
The Deacons’ Meeting
I mentioned all this to my dad, who told me it was going to be discussed at an upcoming deacons’ meeting. For reasons I still can’t fully explain, I asked if I could attend. He agreed.
So there I was — a fourteen-year-old kid sitting in a room full of men in suits and ties, clutching notebooks and Bibles. The fluorescent lights hummed; the room smelled of coffee and floor wax. When the youth pastor’s turn came, he stood up, smiling, and made his case for the sound system.
When he finished, I stood up and spoke. I don’t remember my exact words, but I remember the feeling: firm, clear, and certain. I told them we didn’t need expensive equipment. We needed leaders who actually knew us. That we didn’t need to be entertained — we needed to be discipled.
It was quiet when I finished. Then two older men stood up and motioned for me to step into another room.
The Back Room
In that small back room, away from the group, they told me I was out of line. That I didn’t understand how things worked. That I had shown a lack of respect for my elders — and that questioning a church leader, especially as a teenager, was inappropriate.
Their goal, I think, was to intimidate me. But it didn’t work.
Even at fourteen, something in me knew that being older didn’t make them right. I wasn’t being rebellious — I was being honest. And I left that meeting more convinced than ever that something was off.
My dad didn’t scold me. In fact, I think he was quietly proud. But that moment marked a turning point. For the first time, I began to see a gap between what the church said and what it practiced — between the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the culture of church.
Cultural Christianity, Before I Had Words for It
Looking back, I now recognize that moment as my first encounter with what we often call cultural Christianity — the idea that church becomes less about following Christ and more about maintaining comfort, status, and control.
This wasn’t about a sound system. It was about values. Was the church a community of faith, or a marketing operation? Were we forming disciples, or consumers?
At fourteen, I didn’t have the language to describe it. But I could feel it — the tension between what was holy and what was merely habitual.
What That Moment Taught Me
That night planted something deep in me: a willingness to question. A conviction that authority deserves respect, but not blind allegiance.
It didn’t make me lose my faith. In fact, it did the opposite — it made me take faith more seriously. Because if the Gospel was true, it had to be more than a budget line item or a stage show.
Over the years, I’ve met plenty of people whose experiences with the church were similar or far more painful — stories that led them to walk away from a congregation, or from faith altogether. I understand that urge; I’ve felt the pull myself. I didn’t make the same choice, but I don’t dismiss those who did.
That confrontation became an early compass point for the rest of my life. I’ve carried it into my work, my faith, and even my understanding of leadership.
I’m still loyal — but not to personalities or programs. I’m loyal to the Gospel itself.
A Question to Carry
How often do we confuse what’s comfortable in our culture for what’s faithful to Christ?
Thanks for sharing this. It takes courage to question authority, even more so when it is done in a public forum. I applaud you. Critical thinking requires questioning, challenging, and, yes, courage.
“Anyone who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.” - Voltaire
A good start, Will. I'm looking forward to more of your story.