When Churches Hide What Should Be Exposed

EDITORIAL: Mike Bain

The story is simple and brutal. God declared Jericho’s plunder devoted to the Lord; it was not for private keeping, not for personal gain, not for hiding beneath a tent.

Achan saw, coveted, took, and buried the evidence. His private theft became public catastrophe: Israel stumbled at Ai, the camp suffered, and the hidden sin had to be dragged into the light before the community could be restored.

The ancient narrative is not merely about one man’s greed; it is a moral parable about stewardship, secrecy, and communal consequence. When what is set apart for God is diverted into private hands, the whole people pay the price.

That biblical pattern should make us uneasy when we see echoes of it in modern religious life. Across the world and here in New Zealand, well‑publicised failures in faith communities show a recurring dynamic: wrongdoing occurs, leaders respond by containing the story, and institutional reputation is protected at the expense of truth and of those harmed.

The mechanisms vary — confidentiality clauses, legally binding non‑disclosure agreements, hush money, internal settlements — but the effect is the same. The wound is hidden, not healed. The institution is shielded, not purified. The people who gave, prayed, and trusted are left in the dark about how their gifts were used.

We must be blunt. Tithes and offerings are not fungible slush funds for reputation management. People give believing their money supports worship, mission, care for the vulnerable, and the proclamation of the gospel.

When those funds are redirected to pay for silence — to buy legal protection for institutions rather than justice and care for survivors — that is a betrayal of trust and of the sacred purpose of giving.

Malachi’s blunt question — “Will a man rob God?” — is not antiquated moralizing; it is a theological lens for seeing what happens when the resources entrusted to the church are misapplied. Giving is an act of worship; diverting those gifts to conceal wrongdoing is a form of theft from God and from the congregation.

The methods of concealment are familiar. NDAs and confidentiality clauses are sold as tools of pastoral care, as ways to protect privacy, to spare victims further trauma, or to shield children and innocents from public detail.

But too often they are used as instruments of institutional self‑preservation. Survivors are asked to sign silence in exchange for settlements; the public never learns the truth; leaders claim they are “protecting the church.”

The question that must be asked — and asked loudly — is: protecting whom? Protecting reputation or protecting people? Protecting power or protecting the vulnerable?

There are concrete, local examples that make this more than theoretical.

The Catholic Church’s global and national reckonings over abuse have shown how institutional secrecy and internal handling can compound harm.

In New Zealand, controversies around the treatment of unpaid interns at Arise Church in Wellington, and the long‑running investigations into Gloriavale, have exposed patterns of exploitation, control, and concealment that demand public scrutiny.

These are not abstract scandals; they are real people, real suffering, and real questions about how leadership exercised authority and how communities responded.

Trauma specialist David Ruybalid has put the moral outrage plainly: most people give believing they are supporting ministry, mission, and good work.

But in some churches, that same money is used to protect reputations instead of people. NDAs. Silence. Legal protection for institutions, not healing for survivors. And the people in the pews are never told. This is not transparency. This is not accountability. This is not the way of Jesus. If the Church is going to be a safe place, this has to be exposed. People deserve to know where their giving goes.

Survivors deserve to be heard, not silenced.

If we accept the biblical principle that leaders are held to a higher account, then the stakes are even greater. Scripture repeatedly warns that those who teach and shepherd will face stricter judgment. “To whom much is given, much will be required.” Leaders are stewards of other people’s souls and of communal resources; they are not free agents to act in secrecy.

When leadership chooses concealment over confession, protection over justice, they not only violate civil trust but also breach the moral covenant that binds them to their congregations and to God.

That raises urgent legal and ethical questions.

If leaders knowingly conceal criminal wrongdoing, if they arrange settlements designed to prevent reporting to civil authorities, if they use congregational funds to buy silence, should they not be investigated under the law? Could they be treated as accessories to the original wrongdoing?

These are not rhetorical flourishes; they are questions of public safety and of legal responsibility. Civil law in many jurisdictions recognises offences for concealing crimes, for obstructing justice, and for being an accessory after the fact.

Churches and religious leaders are not above the law; nor should they be treated as moral exceptions. Where concealment enables further harm, where it prevents accountability, where it substitutes legal protection for pastoral care, the state has a legitimate interest in investigation.

Some leaders will respond that confidentiality is sometimes necessary to protect innocents, to shield children, or to preserve privacy while investigations proceed.

That is a reasonable claim in narrow circumstances. But reasonable exceptions become indefensible when they become the default, when secrecy is the first response rather than transparency, when legal agreements are used to silence rather than to safeguard. There is a difference between protecting privacy and protecting power. The former is pastoral; the latter is political.

Congregations must reclaim stewardship. Giving is not a blank cheque to be spent without accountability. Donors have a right to know how their tithes and offerings are used.

Churches must adopt transparent financial reporting, independent oversight of settlements, survivor‑centred processes that prioritise healing and truth, and governance structures that prevent unilateral decisions by a few leaders.

Independent audits, external investigations when allegations arise, and clear policies that require reporting criminal allegations to civil authorities are not anti‑church measures; they are measures that protect the church’s integrity.

The biblical example of Achan is a moral mirror. Hidden sin corrupted the camp; the remedy was exposure, confession, and communal purification. The modern parallel is stark: when institutions hide wrongdoing, the community is harmed, trust is eroded, and the mission is compromised.

The remedy must be similar in spirit: truth, accountability, and restoration. That will be painful. It will require leaders to relinquish control, to submit to independent scrutiny, and to prioritise the vulnerable over the institution. But pain without truth is merely a postponement of judgment.

To those who lead: remember that you will give an account. To those who give: ask where your money goes and demand transparency. To survivors: you deserve to be heard, believed, and supported without strings attached. To the wider public: do not let institutions hide behind pious language while they use legal instruments to silence and obscure.

The church’s first loyalty must be to justice and to the God who sees what is hidden. Anything less is a betrayal of the gospel and of the people entrusted to its care.

If the church is to be a safe place, if it is to be a faithful witness in the world, it must stop treating reputation as the highest good.

Reputation built on silence is a brittle thing; it shatters when the truth comes out. Let us choose instead a reputation built on transparency, on accountability, and on the costly work of justice.

Only then will giving truly be worship, and only then will the community be free of the hidden spoil that corrupts from within.