This has been a very difficult letter for me to write. For many reasons, I have been very resistant to putting any of this down on paper. I’ve wrestled, hesitated, procrastinated and wept. I’ve asked God, over and over, to let me find peace without needing to write at all. But I’ve come to see that peace will only come by sitting down, opening my heart, and allowing the words to flow.
In 2020, after being troubled for many years, I made a quiet decision to begin reading my Bible with fresh eyes. I set aside the lens of my conditioning and went through it chapter by chapter, line by line – trying to understand it anew, as if I had never seen it before. I wanted to understand the Scriptures in their original context, with the culture and language of that time in mind.
I began this process because things that I’d previously thought were factual, true and right, were beginning to unravel. The cognitive dissonance had become too loud to ignore so I started studying. It wasn’t with the view to poke holes or find fault – far from it. My prayer was simple: “God, please show me where I’m wrong.” I just wanted to have peace again. I wanted God to show me where my thinking was wrong, and I truly believed that if I kept reading, and seeking, He would lovingly correct my thinking and show me where I’d gone astray.
The more I read, and studied though, the clearer it became that many teachings, traditions and practices that I had grown up with didn’t actually align with the heart of Scripture. This realisation was devastating, and for so long I resisted it. I didn’t want it to be true. I felt disoriented – like the ground beneath me was shifting. What had once felt so solid now felt fragile, and I was really afraid of what I might find if I kept digging. It felt like betrayal. Like the spiritual scaffolding I had leaned on my whole life was quietly collapsing. And yet, as painful as it was, I couldn’t unsee what I was seeing. I couldn’t unknow what I now knew.
This has never been about bitterness or rebellion. It has always been about honesty. It was about finally having the courage to ask hard questions and being willing to follow the answers – wherever they led. And the more I asked, the more I realised that many of the core beliefs I’d internalised were not rooted in the teachings of Jesus, but in human tradition. Well-meaning, perhaps. Sincere even. But ultimately not true to the gospel of grace that I was coming to understand.
This is not an easy topic, and I’m no theologian so I feel so very inadequate as I attempt to articulate these issues. It has been very difficult to challenge long-held beliefs, and putting this down on paper has been the most painful, incremental, resistance-filled extraction of words I’ve ever endured.
I believe we are all, in many ways, victims of a system that most of us were born into – immersed in it before we even knew how to question. It became the framework through which we understood faith and truth. It shaped how we saw ourselves and others, how we interpreted the Bible, our perception of God, and how we lived out our beliefs. The system we were raised in influenced every part of our lives, and we were taught to trust it, to believe in it, and to accept it as the only way – because it was the only truth we knew.
My heart aches knowing this may be difficult to read, but I feel a deep sense of responsibility to share what I believe God has slowly, patiently revealed to me – truths that have come only through much searching, prayer, and tears. Though it breaks my heart to know the pain this may cause, and my fear of being misunderstood is overwhelming, I write it down because I know that speaking my truth will present me with a doorway to healing, and peace at last.
In the beginning…
For the first 18 years of my life I believed – with deep sincerity – that our fellowship was a direct continuation of the ministry that began with Jesus and His apostles. I had heard it spoken of the workers being there in the beginning, all the way back at the shores of Galilee. I learnt that the way the workers lived and preached was the way Jesus had intended – God’s only true ministry. Over time, this story was quietly, consistently reinforced through sermons, conversations, and the unspoken assumptions woven into daily life. And because questioning was discouraged, we accepted it as fact.
In 2007, my boss at work was asking me all kinds of questions about my beliefs. I didn’t have a lot of answers, so I started looking into the historical origins of our fellowship. I was shocked to find that the story
I had believed since childhood – one I had built my life around – didn’t align with reality.
Despite the claim that this ministry traces back to the apostles, there is no historical evidence to support that. I discovered that it actually began in 1897 in Ireland, through a man named William Irvine. Irvine had been a preacher with the Faith Mission, and he became increasingly disillusioned with what he saw as the worldliness and structure of traditional churches – particularly the reliance on church buildings, and the existence of paid ministers.
He felt called to return to a simpler, purer model of Christian life and ministry – one modelled after verses in Matthew 10, where Jesus sent out His disciples two by two, without possessions or income, to preach.
The book “Preserving the Truth” by Cherie Kropp-Ehrig* is well researched and documents the beginnings of our church very well.
Although on the surface, it appeared to be a return to early Christian practices – simple, unadorned, and humble – in truth, it was the beginning of a system that, while well-meaning, slowly grew into something that strayed from the heart of the gospel.
Like any movement, it began small – just a seed. And like any seed planted with conviction, it took root and began to grow. It was a seed that carried within it both beauty and burden, and as it set down roots, a subtle thread of elitism wound its way up through the trunk and outwards into every branch – a quiet but unwavering belief that this was the only way. The branches spread far and wide across countries and generations, and over time, a tree took shape. There was beauty, no doubt – deep devotion, a heartfelt community, beautiful fellowship and many honest, sincere souls.
From the outside, the tree looked noble – marked by sacrifice, commitment, and a rejection of worldly status – but over time, this outward simplicity became the defining feature – not the person of Jesus, not the message of the cross. But the way in which that message was delivered. The structure became sacred. The system itself became the gospel. And slowly, subtly, the living, breathing faith that Jesus offered was replaced with a framework – one that was difficult to question, and even harder to leave. But as with all living things, what is planted in the ground will eventually be revealed in the fruit.
“Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.
Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.” — Matthew 7:16–20
The fruit looked good from afar, but not all fruit is what it seems from a distance.
Up close, some of it was bruised. Some carried a bitterness just beneath the skin.
Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control – these are the fruits of the Spirit. These are the signs of a tree rooted in Christ.
If instead the fruit is fear, shame, silence, spiritual pride, or abuse of any kind – then the tree must be examined, no matter how noble it appears on the outside. Because Jesus didn’t tell us we’d know the truth by its form. He told us we’d know it by its fruit.
In a culture where appearances sometimes mattered more than truth, and where questioning – even gently, even prayerfully – was discouraged, it took courage to examine the fruit closely. I traced back through the branches, the beliefs and patterns that had grown over time, shaping the whole tree. Some branches held beauty and goodness. But others, I came to see, bore fruit that didn’t reflect the Spirit of Jesus – the Jesus who welcomed the outsider, lifted burdens, and shattered the dividing lines.
So, I’m going to share what I’ve come to find about the branches that are hanging heavy with fruit that just doesn’t reflect the heart of Jesus. Because the fruit matters.
The Branch of Exclusivity.
Resulting fruit: idolatry, spiritual pride, judgment, division, and diminished gospel outreach
One of the most deeply rooted beliefs I’ve had to untangle is the idea that this fellowship wasn’t just a way to follow Jesus – but the only true way.”. For so long, I didn’t question the idea that the workers were not just ministers, but the only true servants of God on earth – continuing the line Jesus established. It was presented so confidently, so consistently, that I accepted it as fact.
As I began to explore the roots of that belief, I realised that it stems from Irvine’s teachings. He believed the true church had been lost for centuries and that he was restoring it. The implication was that salvation wasn’t just about faith in Jesus, but about belonging to this fellowship, under the authority of ministers who preached in pairs and lived without a permanent home. Instead of resting in the finished work of Christ, the emphasis was placed on a method – the structure of ministry – as the marker of spiritual legitimacy. What started as a desire to return to the simplicity of the early church evolved into a system that equated salvation with conformity. Over time, that system became the foundation of an identity, creating a culture where “the way” was more about form than faith, and where belonging became the litmus test for being right with God. This focus on exclusivity and works-based righteousness diverts the attention from the simple, transformative truth of the gospel – the good news that salvation is found only in Jesus Christ.
When exclusivity becomes central and we believe that our fellowship/church is the only place where the true gospel is preached, it creates a huge divide between us and the rest of the world, even other
Christians. I’ve come to realise just how harmful this mindset can be. It sets up an “us vs. them” mentality, where anyone outside our fellowship – whether they believe in God or not – is seen as spiritually lost or inferior. This belief doesn’t just push people away, but it can also make us feel proud or spiritually superior, as though we have a special claim to God’s truth that others don’t have access to. It creates this feeling of being “better” than others, a sense of superiority, that we are “a chosen people” – it’s the most subtle form of spiritual pride. I now grieve this quiet but powerful sense of spiritual elitism. That unspoken belief that we were “in” and everyone else was “out.” It makes us look down on others with pious pity, self righteousness and through a lens of judgement instead of a loving, Christ-like lens. This judgement is a very heavy burden.
Over time, I began to see echoes of something I never expected: the very spirit Jesus challenged in the Pharisees. The Pharisees weren’t evil – they were sincere, passionate, disciplined. But they clung to their system so tightly that they missed the heart of God. Their righteousness became a badge, and their rules a means of control. Jesus called it out not because He hated them, but because He loved the truth too much to let it be twisted. Jesus pointed out that their hearts were far from God, and their actions were motivated by pride rather than humility or true love for God and others.
Unfortunately, as we’ve recently seen, this culture of exclusivity or superiority opens the door to other dangers too – the silencing of questions, the protection of authority at all costs, and the kind of environment where people can be harmed in silence. Abuse (spiritual, emotional, even physical) often thrives in systems where leaders are above reproach, and where loyalty to the group is confused with loyalty to God. This, in turn, leads to a culture where spiritual leaders might use their position of authority to exploit their power, knowing that their actions are not to be questioned by the faithful, because they are seen as the sole representatives of God.
I have also come to realise that this kind of exclusivity creates quite a fragile kind of faith – one tethered not to the finished work of Christ, but to belonging within a specific structure. It becomes difficult to separate our relationship with God from our relationship with the group. Questioning the fellowship feels like questioning God Himself. That was true for me. It wasn’t until I began reading the Bible for myself – without the lens I’d always worn – that things began to shift. I saw, again and again, how central Jesus is to the gospel. Not a method. Not a structure. Not a denomination. Jesus.
There have been several verses that, over time, have shown me a bigger gospel than the one I had previously known – one that was rooted in belonging to Christ.
- 1 Corinthians 12:12–27 — Paul describes the church as one body with many parts, each with a role.
- Matthew 28:18–20 — Jesus commissions all His followers to make disciples, not just a select few.
- John 17:20–23 — Jesus prays for the unity of all believers, not just one group.
- Galatians 3:28 — In Christ, we are all one – no divisions based on background, role, or group.
- Mark 9:38–40 — Jesus affirms someone outside His circle doing good in His name.
- Ephesians 4:4–6 — There is one body, one Spirit, one Lord – not one exclusive fellowship.
- Colossians 1:18 — Christ is the head of the church. Not any one group, but Christ alone.
Jesus gave His gospel to all who believe, not to one specific group. He prayed for unity, not uniformity. He warned us about pride, and He welcomed the ones others rejected. He made it abundantly clear in John 14:6, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
To keep giving those titles to a system or fellowship felt wrong – even irreverent. Jesus didn’t come merely to model a godly life or set an example for us to follow – He came to reveal that He Himself is the Way. If salvation could be achieved through our own efforts or by following a particular method, then His sacrifice would not have been necessary. But the heart of the gospel is this: we are saved not by what we do, but by who He is and what He has done.
When any system begins to call itself “The Truth,” we risk placing our faith in the form instead of the Saviour. And once that line blurs, it’s easy to lose sight of Jesus altogether. We start striving for approval instead of resting in grace. We worry more about appearances than inner transformation. We try to earn what can only be received.
Method Over Message
Resulting fruit: idolatry, disregard for the power of the Holy Spirit, division, spiritual pride, elitism, limited gospel reach, spiritual abuse, manipulation, lack of accountability
In our fellowship, there has often been an emphasis placed on the method of preaching – specifically, the tradition of sending workers in pairs, without a home, job, or material possessions. For many years, I didn’t question this. It was all I had known, and I believed it must be the way God intended.
Over time, though, I began to wrestle with some quiet questions. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with this approach, I started to wonder: have we sometimes placed more importance on the method than on the message itself? Could it be that in holding tightly to a particular form of ministry, we’ve risked obscuring the very heart of the gospel – Jesus Christ?
It felt uncomfortable to consider. So much of what I loved and trusted was tied up in this way of doing things. But slowly, I began to see that when we treat the method as essential to salvation, we risk losing sight of the simplicity and power of the message: that Christ came to save sinners, and that His grace – not our form – makes us whole. Instead of focusing on the transformative power of Jesus’ death and resurrection, we often become preoccupied with how the message is delivered, as though the method itself is what makes the message valid or sets us apart as the “true” church.
It is a humbling realisation, but I have come to see that the emphasis on the outward form of ministry – how we do things and the way it looks – has unintentionally lead to the idolisation of the method itself. We can get so focused on ensuring we are doing things the “right” way, according to our traditions, that we risk missing out on the deeper work of the Holy Spirit, which is to transform hearts and lives through the gospel itself.
There are verses in Matthew 10, Mark 6 and Luke 9/10 that are often quoted to support our fellowship’s structure – where Jesus sends His disciples out two by two. I held onto these verses for a long time, believing they laid out a fixed blueprint. But as I looked more closely, I noticed something. Jesus’ instructions were very specific: go only to the lost sheep of Israel. Take no extra clothing or money. Don’t move from house to house. Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers. This wasn’t a universal, timeless pattern – it was a particular mission in a particular moment. I found myself asking: if we believe this model is the eternal standard, why do we follow some parts of it and not others? Why do we hold to the two-by-two pairing (at the time, in Jewish culture, two witnesses were necessary to count as a credible source (Deut 19.15; John 8.17-18) but not the prohibition against going to Gentiles, or the command to perform miracles? If we believe that the model set forth in these chapters is the definitive and eternal model for ministry – essential for salvation, then logically, we should be following every part of it.
Then I came across Luke 22:36, where Jesus’ instructions shift. He tells the disciples to now take a purse, a bag – even a sword. Something had changed. It was becoming clear that ministry was moving into a new phase. This ministry completed its goals sometime prior to Jesus being put to death. I also began to understand that everything Jesus set in motion before the resurrection took place under the Old Covenant and was only ever directed to Jews. The message it carried was not salvation for all mankind through the Gospel of grace. It simply couldn’t be, because Jesus had not yet died. After His death and resurrection, everything changed. In John 20, Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit onto His disciples, sending them in a new way. That moment finds its fullness at Pentecost, in Acts 2, when the Holy Spirit is poured out – not just on the apostles, but on all believers. It was the fulfillment of Joel’s prophecy: God’s Spirit poured out on sons and daughters, young and old, men and women.
Jesus had finished the work. The veil that once stood between us and God was completely torn down. Through Him, a new and living way was opened wide – not just for a few, but for anyone willing to receive it by faith. Jesus Himself became our eternal High Priest, and the priesthood, as it was, was no longer needed. The Holy Spirit was given to dwell within us. Not just with us, but in us. God, no longer distant, but near. Personal. Present. Always. Everything about the two and two ministry mission to the Jews and its limited message had changed. Because of what Jesus had done, the message was now different. It’s not just a continuation of what was, but something entirely new, alive, and transformative.
From that point on, the early church looked nothing like a rigid, uniform structure but by a deep dependence on the Spirit’s leading. It was alive. The gospel spread in houses, streets, synagogues, and fields – through conversations, letters, miracles, and ordinary people. The Spirit called, equipped, and sent people in various ways – regardless of their marital status, occupation, or pairing. God’s presence and power now dwelt within His people, making them living temples and ambassadors of Christ.
Jesus didn’t begin His ministry with a human companion. When questioned by the Pharisees, He pointed to the presence of His Father – saying, “I am not alone, for the Father is with me” (John 8:16, 29). From the very beginning, He modelled a life led by the Spirit. In many ways, it was a foreshadowing of what He would make possible through Calvary – that through His death and resurrection, we too would have direct access to the Father, never alone, led by the Spirit.
I began to notice how varied the New Testament examples of ministry actually are. Peter, Stephen, Philip, Paul, Barnabas, Apollos sometimes they preached alone, sometimes with others – in synagogues, homes, cities, or on the road. Paul made tents. Peter had a wife. Priscilla and Aquila taught together. Acts 8:4 tells us that those who were scattered went about preaching the word – ordinary believers sharing the gospel in their everyday lives. It wasn’t about a formula. It was about a Person: Jesus.
Paul had his own personal, transformational encounter directly with Jesus. He often traveled with companions, but didn’t hold to a strict two-by-two model. He spoke about elders, deacons, and fellow labourers in the faith. He also said that while preachers could receive support (1 Corinthians 9), and he often worked with his hands. It wasn’t about money or method. It was about magnifying Christ.
Even the personal lives of these early ministers were diverse. Paul was single. Peter was married. Priscilla and Aquila were a couple in ministry. Paul wrote that he had the right to take a believing wife, as the other apostles did (1 Corinthians 9:5). Scripture never commands singleness, and in fact, 1 Timothy 4:3 warns against forbidding marriage, calling it the “doctrine of devils”.
The more I studied, the more I came to see: under the New Covenant, there is no special class of priests. We are all part of a royal priesthood (1 Peter 2:9). The Great Commission is not limited to a few – it is for every believer. And how we live it out may look different in different contexts, cultures, and callings. Coming to these conclusions was not easy. It felt like my spiritual foundation was shifting. But underneath it all, I found something deeper, stronger, and more beautiful: Christ Himself.
When our faith is centred on Him – not on tradition, form, or system – we find freedom. We’re no longer performing, striving to meet a human standard. We’re invited to walk in grace, guided by the Spirit, rooted in love.
Remembering that Jesus is the heart of our faith frees us from unnecessary burdens. It opens us up to the vastness of His work, the diversity of His people, and the richness of the gospel – a gospel that’s always been about reconciliation, hope, and new life.
This is the mission we are all called to live out, in whatever way God leads, empowered by His Spirit and grounded in His Word.
God in a Box: Limiting the Gospel
Resulting fruit: spiritual elitism, diminished awe of God’s power, dependence on human intermediaries rather than Christ, and a stunted view of the gospel’s reach
A very troubling doctrine within our fellowship that I came to question, is the idea that the gospel can only be received through the workers – this is referred to as the “Living Witness Doctrine.” Romans 10:14-15 is frequently quoted to justify this belief: “How shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach except they be sent? These verses have been interpreted to mean that salvation is dependent on hearing the gospel preached by workers.
Yes, Romans 10 affirms the importance of preaching. But it does not confine God to one narrow method. At the time it was written, the gospel was still brand new – just beginning to spread beyond Jerusalem. Preachers were essential. But even then, the power to save didn’t come from the preacher – it came from Christ. Always from Christ.
God is not limited by our channels. He is not restricted to our structures. He can speak through a sermon, yes, but also through Scripture, through nature, through a crisis, through a dream, through the quiet whisper of His Spirit in the heart of a seeker. He is God. He is not bound.
To suggest that salvation hinges on only hearing the gospel from a worker – is to shrink the gospel to something controllable, something human-managed. But the gospel is divine. It moves where it will.
Paul’s conversion was a pivotal moment in Scripture, and it didn’t happen through human preaching. Paul was not saved by hearing a worker preach. He was stopped in his tracks by a blinding light on the road to Damascus – an encounter with Jesus Himself. Galatians 1 and 2 make this clear. Paul says: “I did not receive it from any man, nor was I taught it; rather, I received it by revelation from Jesus Christ.” – Galatians 1:12
Later, Paul states, “Those who seemed to be influential added nothing to me. Whatever they were makes no difference to me; God shows no partiality.” – Galatians 2:6
These aren’t minor footnotes. Paul’s revelation and salvation came directly from Christ, not through the sanctioned method of a group of approved preachers. If salvation came through Jesus alone for Paul, then why are we now told that salvation must come through one group of human messengers?
God is not beholden to our sacrifices. We are beholden to His.
The only “living witness” required for salvation is Jesus Himself – crucified, risen, and reigning. It is not the workers, or the method, or the meeting.
It is Him.
Legalism and Performance-Based Righteousness
Resulting Fruit: Spiritual bondage, fear, empty rituals, judgmentalism
I’ve always wanted to please God. That desire hasn’t changed.
But somewhere along the way, pleasing God got tangled up with pleasing people and conforming to an outward appearance of “holiness”.
At first, I didn’t see it. It crept in slowly, disguised as faithfulness. But over time, I started to realise how easy it is to lose sight of the difference between devotion and display. I recognised that within our fellowship, spirituality was something that could apparently be measured – by the way someone dressed, or how closely they followed a certain set of (often unwritten) rules. It was never said outright, but it was implied in so many subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways.
There is nothing inherently wrong with ministering in pairs, or wearing dresses, or putting hair in a bun, or meeting in a home. These can be beautiful outward expressions of reverence or modesty. There’s nothing sinful about these actions in and of themselves. But they are not the point. The issue arises when these practices become elevated above their true purpose, or when they are insisted upon as mandatory for salvation or when they are enforced as markers of true faith.
When we take customs or traditions and elevate them as the essence of holiness, we drift into the same error Jesus warned against in Matthew 15:6–9 where Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for placing human tradition above God’s truth.
Modesty in dress is of course commendable, but when external appearance becomes a measuring stick for righteousness – when a woman is made to feel her worth or standing before God depends on her hairstyle, hemline, sleeve length or what kind of jewellery she wears/abstains from wearing, it crosses into the harmful territory of legalism.
Legalism, whether in dress or in behaviour, shifts the focus from grace to human effort, creating an environment where people feel shackled by rules rather than liberated by the gospel. Scripture reminds us that God does not look at the outward appearance, but at the heart (1 Samuel 16:7), and that true beauty comes from a gentle and quiet spirit, not outward adornment (1 Peter 3:3–4).
We become just like the Pharisees, when we allow traditions and outward appearances to take on too much significance. The issue isn’t necessarily about wearing buns or dresses, but about the attitudes that come with them – especially toward those who don’t follow the same practices. It’s the spiritual pride and the subtle message that says, “Because I look this way or do this thing, I am holier than you.” Just as the Pharisees lengthened their phylacteries to showcase their piety, we may use our appearance or traditions to seek approval from others, rather than from God.
Take for example, someone wearing earrings – we may wrongly assume they are not walking in alignment with Christ. But that assumption is not true. The point of Paul’s teaching about avoiding adornment was not about the physical items themselves, but about the attitude of pride they might represent. In Paul’s time, jewellery, elaborate clothes, and braided hair often signified wealth or status. Braids might have symbolised that a person had the means to have their hair washed and styled by a servant. The real issue was the pride they took in these things, exalting themselves above others. Today, these symbols don’t carry the same weight. Anyone can wear braids or buy jewellery, and they don’t necessarily reflect social standing anymore. Fashion may still convey status, but not in the same way it did back then. The real question, is not about outward appearances, but about the state of our hearts. True humility comes from within, not from what we wear or don’t wear. It’s the heart that matters most, not whether we follow certain rules about attire.
Legalism also manifests in the way we view the format of worship and fellowship. Many within our fellowship believe that worship must happen in a home, and that other forms of worship – especially public churches, are somehow false or unbiblical. While worship in homes can be meaningful and biblical, insisting that it is the only valid form is historically and scripturally unfounded.
In the New Testament, believers met wherever they could – synagogues, homes, and various public spaces. They adapted to persecution and opportunity alike. Worship was not defined by a location but by presence – God’s presence among His people. Stephen declared, “The Most High does not dwell in houses made by human hands” (Acts 7:48), and Jesus told the Samaritan woman that true worship is not tied to a mountain or temple, but is done “in spirit and in truth” (John 4:21–24). Idolising a format – whether it be worship in a home or ministry in a certain style – misses the point of the gospel. Fellowship is not about where we gather but how we gather: with hearts united in Christ, in grace, in truth. To insist on one exclusive method of worship risks turning a tool into a test of faith, creating barriers where Christ has torn them down.
Ultimately, legalism in any form shifts our focus from Christ to ourselves – from what He has done to what we must do. It breeds fear, comparison, and self-righteousness. It leads to judgment, to feelings of inadequacy, to a constant striving that never rests in grace. Instead of the fruit of the Spirit – love, joy, peace, kindness – we produce anxiety, pride, division, and shame.
When we begin to believe that salvation is found in the right dress, the right hairstyle, the right meeting place, or the right sacrifice, we have traded the gospel of Jesus for a gospel of human effort. We may take pride in having “given up more” than others, but God does not delight in sacrifice that leads us to boast. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgement of God rather than burnt offerings” (Hosea 6:6; Matthew 9:13).
Our offerings become unsavoury when they lead us to judge others, to reject fellow believers, or to believe we are more holy simply because we’ve followed more rules.
Jesus addressed this very thing: “Woe to you… you clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside you are full of greed and self-indulgence… First clean the inside… and then the outside also will be clean” (Matthew 23:25–26). The Pharisees were obsessed with outward purity, but inwardly they were unchanged.
In the end, the gospel is not about what we wear or where we worship – it’s about who we are becoming in Christ. It is about being changed from the inside out by His Spirit, walking in humility, and living in love. It is about letting go of our attempts to earn righteousness and receiving, instead, the gift of grace. Only then are we truly free.
“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast.” Ephesians 2:8–9
Distortion of the Gospel / Misunderstanding of Grace
Resulting Fruit: Shame, spiritual exhaustion, transactional faith, lack of assurance, fear of falling short
Over the years, I have witnessed an ever-present undercurrent in my life and in the lives of those around me – a quiet but constant feeling of not enoughness. It threads its way through fellowship meetings, missions, special meetings and conventions.. The sentiment is always that we haven’t given enough, sacrificed enough, surrendered enough, served enough, done enough to truly be accepted by God. A constant focus on our lack. It’s a constant measuring of our shortcomings. And though the language may be cloaked in humility, the effect is far from freeing. We are subtly taught to live under the weight of what is still missing, still unoffered, still imperfect. The spotlight remains fixed on us – our efforts, our performance, our lack, our failures, our shortcomings, our inability to live up to an impossible standard. What about what God has done? What about His sacrifice, His sufficiency, His perfect love poured out on the cross? What about the finished work of Christ – the righteousness freely given, not earned? What about grace that covers, redeems, restores? Why is the spotlight not on that? Why are we taught to fix our eyes on our own striving, when the gospel calls us to fix our eyes on Jesus?
In all my years in our fellowship, I’ve heard so much about sacrifice, about surrender, about striving and self-denial.
But grace? Rarely spoken of. Why are we afraid of grace? Perhaps it’s because grace threatens the systems that men have built – systems that rely on effort, hierarchy, conformity, and control. Grace doesn’t play by those rules. It levels the playing field. It says that the addict on his knees and the head worker at the convention are both equally in need – and equally invited. Grace exposes the futility of our striving. It declares that our salvation isn’t something we can earn or deserve – and that’s deeply uncomfortable for pride.
I’ve always had an almost subconscious perception that grace was somehow “cheap” or “easy” – as though to be saved by grace through faith meant there was no cost, no depth, no transformation. But I’ve come to understand that nothing could be further from the truth. The reality is, salvation by grace isn’t easy at all. In fact, it’s incredibly difficult for the human heart to receive. It requires humility. Honesty. A total laying down of pride. Because to accept the grace of God, we must first admit that we cannot save ourselves – that all our striving, all our best efforts, all our self-discipline and rule-keeping, are not enough to earn what Christ already paid for with His blood.
We often talk about the “narrow way,” but I’ve come to believe the truly narrow path isn’t a system defined by external rule-keeping – it’s a path that cuts against our human pride, and our desire to be “right”. The narrow way is the way of grace – and grace is anything but easy, or wide and permissive. It demands everything we cannot manufacture in our own strength: a broken and contrite heart, a childlike trust, a deep and daily reliance on a Saviour outside ourselves.
Truthfully, I can now see that adhering to the rules and rigidity of religion are far easier than having the condition of heart, the humility, the honesty, and the repentance that receive salvation through grace. This, I now believe, is the narrowness of the strait gate: pride simply cannot fit through.
We’ve had it backwards for so long – that salvation was somehow the reward for a life well-performed. But that’s not the gospel. The truth is: our effort, our desire to live rightly, our love for holiness – these are not what save us. They are the result of being saved.
We are not saved by what we do.
We are saved by what Christ has done.
Jesus didn’t wait until we had cleaned ourselves up to die for us. He loved us and gave Himself for us while we were still sinners (Romans 5:8). He gave His life for us while we were still broken, still undeserving. And when we truly understand that – or even begin to – it changes everything. It draws love out of us. It stirs a longing to please Him, not to earn something, but because we already have everything in Him.
Righteousness doesn’t come before salvation; it flows out of it. Our works are not the currency we pay for salvation – they are the fruit, the natural overflow of a heart transformed by grace.
This is the difference. And it is everything.
There is no such thing as “cheap grace.” Grace cost everything. It came at an unthinkable cost. It cost the very life of Jesus. When we begin to comprehend the weight and wonder of that gift, it doesn’t make us careless – it makes us new. Grace doesn’t give us permission to sin. It gives us power to live above it. As Titus 2:11–12 says, “The grace of God… teaches us to say no to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in this present age.” Grace doesn’t make holiness optional – it makes it possible.
The law of love and grace written on our hearts constrains us – not through fear, but through love. It doesn’t demand we prove ourselves. It remakes us. It clothes us in Christ’s righteousness and says, “You are Mine.”
We don’t work to become worthy of it.
His grace makes us worthy.
We don’t earn it by living perfectly.
His grace empowers us to live differently.
This is the miracle.
This is the message.
And it is good news.
The message of Christ is not that we are never enough, but that He is enough. And in Him, we are made whole.
A distorted gospel trades freedom for fear. It creates a spiritual environment where people are afraid to fail, afraid to rest, afraid to be honest. It produces shame instead of security, performance instead of peace. It tells us we must be enough when Christ has already done enough. And it’s no wonder that joy becomes hard to find. How can you rejoice when you’re constantly anxious you’re falling short? How can you rest when you’re always trying to prove you’re faithful enough? When the gospel becomes a burden instead of a gift, it ceases to be good news.
The truth is, we are not accepted because of what we’ve done, but because of what Christ has done. We are not loved because we are flawless, but because God is faithful. This kind of grace doesn’t excuse sin – it transforms us from the inside out. It changes our “have to” into “get to,” and our striving into surrender. It produces fruit that legalism never can: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness… (Galatians 5:22–23). Not because we’re trying to earn something, but because we’ve received something so good we can’t help but live differently.
Incorrect Interpretation of Scripture
Resulting Fruit: Confusion, distortion, false teaching, misplaced trust, spiritual dependency
As I began to understand things with fresh eyes, I realised that over time a sort of culture has taken root in our fellowship – I’m not even sure what to label it. Maybe anti-intellectualism? It’s about our inherited interpretation of the Bible and the way there’s a subtle pride in saying “our preachers aren’t trained,” as though lack of formal study somehow makes their words more spiritual and pure. But over time, I’ve come to wonder: does the lack of training actually protect the truth, or does it make us more vulnerable to misunderstanding it?
Most of us weren’t taught how to read the Bible with context in mind – to consider genre, covenant, historical background, original language, or the broader narrative arc of scripture. Instead, we learned to receive whatever the workers said as gospel truth. If a worker said it, it was assumed to be correct – not necessarily because it was supported by scripture, but because it came from someone we trusted.
And within the fellowship, the workers’ voices carry particular weight. Workers are often seen as the sole authorities when it comes to interpreting Scripture, and preserving the “true” gospel. Their words can become to be seen almost inseparable from the Word of God. To question their interpretation can feel like questioning truth itself. Rather than a priesthood of all believers – each one invited to study, discern, and grow in understanding – what quietly emerges is a kind of spiritual hierarchy. One where the worker is seen as having a clearer line to God, a deeper grasp of His will.
I don’t write this with bitterness – many workers I’ve known have been sincere, humble people doing what they believed was right. But even with good intentions, this dynamic can place them in a position of spiritual control – not because they demanded it, but because the system quietly assigned it to them. And when only one voice is trusted to interpret Scripture, it becomes difficult for others to truly engage the Word for themselves.
The effect of this dynamic is that many of us grew up with a kind of spiritual dependence – not on Christ directly, but on the workers’ interpretation of Him. Personal engagement with Scripture often became an exercise in confirmation rather than exploration – looking for verses that supported what we’d already been told, rather than letting God’s Word speak freshly and fully for itself.
I can now see how often verses are “cherry-picked” – lifted out of context to support a particular doctrine or uphold a tradition. Interpretation came more through repetition than revelation: familiar phrases, familiar applications, a familiar voice behind the microphone. The names changed, but the message stayed the same – never examined, never re-anchored in context. To question those interpretations wasn’t just discouraged – it felt spiritually dangerous. Out of place.
The King James Version has always been held up as the only acceptable translation – not because it was the clearest or most accurate, but because it was what we had always used. Other translations are met with suspicion. Commentaries, study tools, historical context – all seen as suspect, as though seeking understanding from outside sources might somehow lead us away from the truth, rather than toward it.
And so the circle stayed closed. A kind of echo chamber forms. Repetition of the same interpretations, the same doctrines – regardless of the scripture’s actual context or message. The lens became so fixed that it became difficult to see the text clearly anymore.
When I first started my study, there was a huge tension between what I was reading and what I would hear in the meetings and missions. The tension grew, until sitting and listening to verses taken out of context became quite unbearable.
At first, I thought the problem was with me. Maybe I was reading it wrong. Maybe I wasn’t spiritual enough. But the more I studied, the more I saw how deeply some interpretations were shaped not by the text itself, but by tradition.
And this raised many hard questions. Perhaps hardest of all was – how do I follow Jesus with my whole heart, when it seems that I’m being called to walk a path different from those I’ve loved and trusted my entire life?
One of the most significant truths I’ve come to understand in this journey is that Jesus Christ is the only mediator between God and humanity. In our fellowship – as in many religious systems – there can be a strong emphasis on a specific group of people, like the workers, who are seen as the only ones authorised to preach, interpret Scripture, or offer spiritual guidance. Over time, this creates the sense that access to God’s grace somehow depends on the actions or approval of these individuals. In our fellowship, workers have often come to function – whether intentionally or not – as intermediaries between God and the people. There is a sense that spiritual legitimacy must be conferred by a worker, as though their blessing is what makes one’s relationship with God valid.
This dynamic becomes particularly visible when it comes to things like baptism and communion. In the
Scriptures, baptism is immediate. Again and again, we see people believe and be baptised on the spot. There is no mandated waiting period. No approval process. No vetting by a worker to determine if someone is “worthy”. And yet in the fellowship, many are asked to wait – sometimes for years – until a worker decides they’re “ready.” Even those who have been previously baptised as sincere followers of Christ are often told they must be re-baptised, as though their previous faith and commitment were invalid. But this is not what we see in the New Testament.
We are also taught that the bread and wine can only be partaken of in worker-sanctioned homes, in a setting that has been “ordained.” But nowhere in the Bible do we see that a certain type of house, or setting is required to remember Jesus. Early believers broke bread together in one another’s homes regularly and joyfully (Acts 2:46). There was no designated structure, no sanctioned location. Jesus did not require a special place. He simply said, “Do this in remembrance of Me” (Luke 22:19) It wasn’t about who presided or whether the location had been officially blessed. It was about Jesus. It was always about Jesus.
This isn’t to say that baptism or communion aren’t important – they are. They are sacred and beautiful expressions of our faith, given to us by Jesus Himself. But their power does not come from the hands that administer them or the place they occur. Their meaning is rooted in Christ – in what He has done for us, and in our response to His invitation.
To restrict access to these expressions of faith unless a worker deems someone “ready” or the space “approved” is to create spiritual barriers where Christ removed them. It quietly reintroduces the need for a mediator – when Scripture is clear that Jesus is our only mediator (1 Timothy 2:5).
These are just two examples, but they point to a larger issue – how easily the simplicity of the gospel can be overshadowed by systems of control.
Jesus alone is the way to the Father. Through Him, we are invited to come boldly to the throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16) – not because we’ve earned it, or because someone else has granted us access, but because He has made the way open by His sacrifice.
One of the most beautiful things I’ve come to understand is that we, as believers, are already part of a royal priesthood (1 Peter 2:9). We don’t need a special class of people to bring us into God’s presence – we belong there already, because of Jesus.
This truth is so freeing. It means no human being – no worker, no preacher, no meeting or method – stands between us and God. We don’t need a spiritual go-between to receive His love or know His will. We are all called to draw near, to listen for His voice, and to follow Jesus with hearts wide open.
Culture of Secrecy
Unaddressed abuse, broken trust, systemic injustice, deep spiritual and emotional harm
One of the things that has troubled me so much is the culture of secrecy that seems woven into the very fabric of our fellowship. It’s very subtle, and deeply ingrained. I didn’t have words for it when I was younger – it just felt like certain things weren’t talked about. There was this quiet understanding that you shouldn’t question too much, especially when it came to the workers. If something uncomfortable or upsetting happened, the message – whether spoken or implied – was to let it go, keep the peace, forgive, and trust that those in charge knew best.
Instead of transparency, confession, and biblical accountability, a system has formed where wrongdoing is often handled “quietly” – if it’s handled at all. Those who raise concerns are seen as critical, divisive, or even rebellious. This has led to a tragic pattern: problems are buried, victims are dismissed, and the system moves on – unrepentant, unchanged, and unchecked. It’s a system that protects its reputation at the expense of its people.
The consequences have been devastating.
I’ve read heartbreaking accounts in recent years – and heard some firsthand – of survivors of abuse within our church. The pain and betrayal in those stories is hard to put into words. These are not rare exceptions. They reveal a pattern: when image matters more than integrity, truth gets buried.
The Bible calls us to expose evil, and yet in our fellowship, confronting sin – especially when it involves someone in leadership – seems to be more dangerous than the sin itself.
That is not the way of Jesus.
When sin is covered instead of confessed, when victims are silenced to preserve appearances, when justice is avoided because it might “cause trouble” – we’ve lost sight of the gospel. We’ve allowed a system to become more sacred than the people it was meant to serve. And the fruit of that is devastating: broken trust, lifelong wounds, and deep spiritual confusion.
I’m not writing this out of bitterness. I’m writing this because the truth matters, and the vulnerable matter, and Jesus does not turn away from the bruised and brokenhearted – He draws near. What has been hidden must come into the light if there is ever to be healing.
“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites!
You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces.”
— Matthew 23:13
I believe Jesus has strong words for any system – religious or otherwise – that silences the suffering to protect the powerful. The church is meant to be a place of safety, of truth, of light. Not a place where sin hides behind silence and hierarchy.
We are not called to protect a reputation.
We are called to reflect Christ.
And Christ doesn’t cover up sin.
He exposes it – so that it can be healed.
When things are hidden – when questions are silenced, when image is prioritised over integrity – the fruit that is produced may look good from a distance, but underneath, something is rotting.
At first, I didn’t want to believe there was anything seriously wrong. I reasoned that discomfort was part of the refining process, that confusion was just a test of faith. I assumed the issue was with me – that I wasn’t spiritual enough, or that I just needed to try harder. So I did. I stayed. I kept showing up. I ignored the quiet tension in my spirit. I tried to contort myself into trust. I wanted to believe it was just a few bad apples. Just isolated misunderstandings. But when I looked more closely, I saw that the rot wasn’t random – it was systemic. It wasn’t just the fruit. It was the branches. The roots. The damage wasn’t just coming from a few individuals – it was being perpetuated by the structure itself. The entire system that taught us to prune and protect and preserve, no matter the cost.
It’s a system that has left many emotionally and spiritually dry, burdened by a kind of hollow obedience that has more to do with keeping up appearances than living in relationship with Jesus. And still, I wanted to believe it could change. That the harmful parts could be pruned away and the good preserved. But when the rot is in the roots – when it comes from the way the whole tree was planted – you can’t just trim the edges.
That realisation was devastating. Because for all its flaws, I loved the tree. I still do. I grew up in its shade. I carved my name into its bark. I met God there, or at least I thought I did. And I know that in sharing my heart, I am losing a family, a history, a home.
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As I think about the future, especially as a mother now, I am deeply concerned for the spiritual wellbeing of my little girl. Having a little one, means I can no longer in good conscience remain silent about the things God has laid on my heart. It affects her being, soul, every aspect of life. When it was just me, I felt to some degree I could pick my way through the weeds – sifting out the false doctrine, and just appreciate community, friendship and fellowship. I didn’t want to have children because I knew I would be forced to confront these issues head-on, not just for myself but for her. I would have to wrestle openly with questions and fears that I had previously tucked away, hoping they might resolve on their own.
Now, with her life in my hands, silence is no longer an option.
Children are deeply impressionable and incredibly perceptive. Being raised in a system that centres on outward conformity and unspoken rules can quietly shape a child to carry shame, fear, anxiety. The world outside begins to feel unsafe, unfamiliar, even wrong. A child raised under legalism and exclusivity may grow up emotionally stifled, socially isolated, and spiritually burdened – cut off from the very freedom and fullness Jesus came to bring.
I want my little one to know that God’s love and grace brings freedom, not bondage. I want her to know that God’s love is greater than any system or rule, and that faith is about relationship – not performance. I want her to know the real Jesus – not just a form or shadow of Him, but His heart. I want her to grow in a faith that is alive and rooted in grace, not fear. I want her to feel safe to ask questions, wrestle with truth, and bring her whole self – doubts and all – into the presence of God, knowing she is deeply loved.
It has taken me a very, very long time to sift through my findings, unlearn, study my bible in context, and lay things out in some sort of order. Through it all my heart has never changed, I’ve felt this way for almost 20 years – only my convictions have deepened. I just haven’t had the courage or capacity to articulate these complicated thoughts clearly. Maybe I still haven’t done a good job of that. I feel there is so much more I could write, but this letter is turning into quite a novel as it is.
Please know that my writing is not in attempt to change your beliefs. I just wanted to share what has been such a heavy burden. I know that the cost of sharing is great. I know that I will be misunderstood. This breaks my heart more than anything, because I’ve only ever wanted to be understood.
I haven’t lost my faith, it’s stronger than it’s ever been. It’s centred on Jesus alone. I’m not bitter, hardhearted and I haven’t taken offence.
One of the things that bothers me so much about our church is the dismissive attitude we have as a collective towards those who have been unable to drag their lead-filled boots over the threshold into another mission or fellowship meeting – for whatever reason.
It is deeply unfair – and often profoundly inaccurate – to just dismiss people as spiritually lost or deceived. Most often, these decisions don’t just come out of rebellion or a lack of faith. On the contrary, many people that have been wrestling with these things develop a deep, Spirit-filled relationship with God, one that is marked by a greater understanding of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus than they had ever experienced before.
They are not just “taking the easy way out”. These painful decisions to step away, or to make a stand for righteousness’ sake come after sincere truth-seeking, and the conviction that what they were being taught didn’t align with the heart of the Gospel. Stepping away from family, lifelong friends – an entire support network, is one of the hardest and most agonising decisions one can make. Truly the greatest step of faith and one of complete trust in God.
If we look at the life of Jesus, He spent much of His time reaching out to those whom society and religious institutions had cast aside – those who were deemed “lost” or “deceived.” He ate with sinners, He healed the sick, and He never once silenced someone because they were struggling or questioning. In fact, He invited questions, welcomed doubts, and offered love to those who were on the fringes. Jesus never dismissed people as “lost” or “deceived” simply because they didn’t fit a certain mould or because they didn’t agree with religious leaders. Instead, He gently led them toward truth and understanding with love and compassion.
I know for myself, these are the hardest words that I’ve ever written. They come after months and years of careful and prayerful consideration. After seasons of torment, and quiet, persistent conviction.
I know that in sharing my heart, I won’t be welcome or wanted at the meeting any longer. This is the bitter pill I swallow as I speak my truth – not in defiance, but with sorrow, honesty, and love. I wish it didn’t cost so much to be honest, but I know that it does. And even so, I can no longer choose silence over peace.
I can only hope that our relationship will be unchanged. Please know there is no change on my end – as I said, my heart has held these swirling thoughts and truths for many years. There is absolutely no bitterness, my heart is open and I value truth, honesty, and integrity above anything.
I understand that we have all been doing the best we can, given our circumstances and the information available to us at the time. I hold no judgment – only love, and a deep hope that we each come to know the real Jesus more deeply: the Jesus of grace, of compassion, of freedom; the Jesus who sees us, walks with us, and calls us into rest.
By: Anonymous #9
2026
*Preserving the Truth: The Church without a Name and Its Founder, William Irvine by Cherie Kropp-Ehrig
Author website: https://cheriekroppehrig.com/
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3NSLFY0