Honest to God

By David de Vos

History is filled with stories of men and women used by God. Heroes I look up to. Sometimes they seem almost inhuman, as if they’ve reached superhero status.

Until I again hear about someone else falling. Every time, the news hits hard, as if the Bible isn’t already full of such stories. Once cast aside, some never truly recover. Every leader who falls is a mirror for me. Am I next? Am I not radical enough? Still susceptible to the lusts of this world? When will I be stoned?

Deep down, I know I am no better than the leaders who seem to fall. Deeply insecure, with a big ego and a drive that I must admit is sometimes more about seeking recognition than being led by God’s Spirit.

So, there it is. I said it: I am far from perfect.

IT IS UNSAFE TO BE HONEST

For leaders, it’s often unsafe to come forward with their imperfections. The reactions of Christians are sometimes harsh, judgmental and unforgiving. And yet we are the ones who should be known for God’s love, the possibility of starting anew and the gift of a second chance.

I vividly remember seeing an interview with former Hillsong NYC pastor Carl Lentz. His scandal was so public that no one thought he’d ever recover. In my opinion he shares his story in a raw and honest way. Some might see it as another attempt at attention, but I believe him.

In that interview, he said something that stuck with me: “Leaders who live a secret life will want to keep that life hidden—especially when they see how I was treated the moment everything came out.” His words struck me. To avoid the same cancel culture Carl experienced, many stay in the shadows. That is until one day it’s too late for them as well.

I’ve made a decision: I want to tell my honest story. Not another superhero tale, but the story of a baker who became an evangelist. Who then discovered that behind the scenes of their oh-so-beautiful worlds are just regular people. Beautiful, but also wounded people, with human needs and habits. People who sometimes do incomprehensible things in God’s name—things I don’t recognize in Jesus. Mine is the story of an evangelist who didn’t have it all together for a while.

BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN

I wanted to do it differently. Brother Andrew, founder of Open Doors, once gave me advice over coffee: “David! If you ever want to tell your story, don’t be so foolish as to write it yourself. Let a good writer do it.” If anyone had the right to say that, it was Brother Andrew. He sold millions of copies of God’s Smuggler. He was a butcher, I a baker. “The butcher and the baker,” he joked. “Who would’ve thought God would want to use us?”

Andrew’s story was about smuggling Bibles behind the Iron Curtain. That curtain is gone now. So, what was my story? I preached the ABCs of the gospel and had the absolute honor of meeting evangelist Reinhard Bonnke, preaching for him and even standing in similar venues before thousands of people. In the Netherlands, I became one of the most sought-after speakers. But there are thousands like me.

And yet . . . wait. There still is an “iron curtain.” The curtain of the shadow side of my own heart and soul. The place I’d rather not visit. The place where I sometimes doubt God—or rather the way organized religion portrays Him.

That place is barren and dry, a place with a shadow of death. My depressive feelings were hidden there, and I didn’t know why. It was there that my fantasies and most sinful desires lingered. No, not that journey . . .

THE INNER JOURNEY

Jesus invited me to take an inner journey—to the parts of myself I didn’t want to face. Parts I suppressed or drowned out with one of my radical sermons. It became a long, grueling seven-year journey. It was unpredictable, scary and uncertain.

I learned about human needs—needs we all have. The only question is: how do you fulfill them? Divinely, neutrally or destructively? Why did I do what I did? Why did I crave attention so much? I cried countless tears seeking healing. If the Bible says God collects your tears in a bottle, then He must have a whole warehouse full of bottles from me.

I discovered this journey was far from simple. It wasn’t something like, “Come forward, we’ll pray, and tomorrow everything will be different.” The message I had preached for years—and so desperately wanted to believe—was something I had to confront. This inner journey couldn’t be captured in a quick prayer.

During my recovery, I realized I needed much more than just a “spiritual” solution. If humans are holistic beings composed of spirit, soul and body, then I had to work on all those elements. And man, was I afraid to do that. I had been taught that anything offering an alternative to the simple prayer—which I had been taught was the solution to everything—was by definition of the devil.

For many of you, this might not be new, but in many evangelical and charismatic circles, this is still believed and preached. I painfully discovered that some secular personal coaches and therapists seemed to live and teach the gospel better than I had ever seen it.

In the midst of one of my deepest depressive episodes, I flew to Tulsa. There, I met with a friend and mentor who was also an evangelist. The coffee was good, the breakfast even better but the conversations were the best. I found that when you approach people vulnerably and honestly, they often respond with gentleness and understanding—so did my friend.

Just before we said goodbye, he caught my attention with this remark: “David, the church has always experienced different waves of the Spirit. There was a wave of healing, a wave of faith and a wave of the revelation of grace. But the next wave will be the therapeutic church.” I’m not even sure if he was enthusiastic about this himself, but I found truth in his words.

THERAPY IN A NUTSHELL

My first experience with therapy felt uncomfortable. I climbed two flights of stairs to an office space that looked more like a cozy living room. “Would you like tea or water?” the therapist asked kindly. “No, thank you,” I replied curtly. Once inside, I noticed the box of tissues was already in place. I sank into a couch surrounded by fluffy cushions, clearly well-worn by previous tears.

I immediately felt resistance. What am I doing here? Am I broken? Do I need help? Aren’t I more than a conqueror? But I also knew I had to confront the voices I had been suppressing for years.

We all have a beautiful personality. Some call it your true self; I sometimes think of it as the reborn part of us. That divine voice whispering, “It’s going to be OK. You are loved.” But we also have other inner parts: the ambitious career chaser, the rescuer, the know-it-all. And then there’s the inner critic, who can be unbelievably harsh on us. If you spoke to others the way you sometimes speak to yourself, you’d likely have no friends left.

Then there are the parts that live in the shadows: the inner wounded child, the adolescent frozen in time and the parts that try to protect these vulnerable sides—often through fantasies of success, power or even sexual desire. All I had been taught was this: This is sin. Repent. Stop it. But no one ever discussed why these parts existed. What do they want? Why do they keep showing up?

I learned that they’re all protectors—parts of your inner world that once helped you survive difficult times. But these protectors don’t realize that your true, reborn self can now—with God’s help—take over.

And then there is generational trauma—unexplained pains often dismissed as demonic influences. But the only path to complete healing is deep love and grace for every part of yourself. It requires understanding, listening and cultivating new, empowering habits to meet the needs of these parts in a healthy, healing way.

Therapy taught me to look at every side of myself with compassion—even the parts I once condemned or suppressed. This isn’t weakness; it’s a step toward wholeness and freedom.

If I had a shadow, an iron curtain I didn’t want to face, then I’m sure all those fallen preachers had one too. They tried to manage it in the dark until the mess became so large it exploded in their faces. The result? Scandals that led to their public cancellation, leaving them and their families in ruins.

THE JUNK DRAWER OF THE SOUL

It’s like a junk drawer or a closet—the place where you quickly shove everything before guests arrive. Or that garage, which slowly fills with items that have no other place to go. But eventually, the drawer, closet or garage becomes so full that the clutter starts spilling out. The drawer won’t close anymore. The garage door refuses to shut. At that moment, you have no choice but to clean it up, whether you want to or not.

Even my audience had to relate to this—there was no way they couldn’t. Once your eyes are open, you can’t unsee the mess. I began to feel less and less at home in the political world behind the scenes of the church.

So, I decided to go all in: to be raw, to be real and to hold no secrets. I wanted to tell the most honest and raw story possible—not another heroic tale. To do that, I knew I needed someone to help me articulate this with full authenticity.

I remembered that coffee meeting with Brother Andrew: “Don’t do this alone, David. Don’t be foolish!” His words stuck with me. I decided to seek out a secular writer—someone who didn’t believe, someone who could look at this from the outside in. That person turned out to be Marcel Langedijk. He had written several bestsellers about celebrities and even a book about his brother’s euthanasia. That alone made him refreshingly different.

SHEDDING LIGHT ON MY SHADOW

By shining a light on my own shadow, my Christian colleagues were suddenly in the spotlight as well—and they didn’t thank me for it. While Christians may not burn people at the stake anymore, they certainly do so online. My book created a bigger stir than I could have imagined. An article in a national newspaper labeled me the “evangelical whistleblower.”

See? people thought, that world is full of lies and hypocrisy. My book hadn’t even been released yet; it was only announced by a journalist who’d read an advance copy. The world went wild: my phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and within no time every major newspaper was writing about me. My videos went viral, and I was sitting at the table on the country’s biggest talk show.

Because people recognized themselves in my story. I received hundreds of messages from former churchgoers, trans people, LGBTQ+ individuals and others who had been sidelined because they were “different” or “living in sin.” In my view, these were the people Jesus came for—or at least, that’s how I read the Bible. Unintentionally, I became a voice for this group.

I was excited because that Easter weekend we had planned our Simply Jesus conference. Wow, I thought, all these hundreds of forgotten people will come back to the church.

Then I got a call from the senior pastor of the megachurch we were partnering with for the conference. I’ll spare you the details, but it was an unpleasant conversation. According to him, I had tarnished the bride of Christ. How could I speak about believers like that? He felt a responsibility for the church and went to the media, declaring I was unfit and that the leaders I referenced—those who might struggle with pornography or ego—certainly didn’t exist in his world.

When I pleaded not to cancel the conference, arguing that these church-leavers were coming back, his cold response was: Those people are just bitter and disappointed anyway.

CANCELED BY THE CHURCH

It happened right before my eyes: I was canceled, and now it became national news. It even made it onto Wikipedia. Then again, Jesus was also thrown out of the synagogue. When He cleared the temple, there must have been voices saying, “He has a point, but does it have to be this way?”

My raw honesty wasn’t appreciated by everyone. I’ve noticed it’s often those who haven’t yet faced their own iron curtain who cling tightly to their ideal Christian values, refusing to embrace their humanity. And that, I believe, is the essence of the gospel.

Never did I imagine my message would have such a ripple effect. But it speaks volumes about this time, this generation. They crave real stories. In a world where you must ask, “Is this man-made or AI-generated?” people hunger for authenticity and genuine examples.

When the church closed its doors to me, I decided to take my message to the theaters. Rauw (Raw) found a platform across the country. Thousands came to watch and listen—former church members, LGBTQ+ individuals and even Muslims.

My journey has softened me. Some might see me as a pushover, no longer radical enough. There are people concerned about my path, but I know my heart is now navigating a freer course. “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him” (John 3:17).

Have you made this journey yet? Are you open to hearing an unexpected voice from an unexpected place? We often pray for new things, but when they come, we close the doors.

The essence of following the Way has nothing to do with how great your faith is or how perfectly you’ve fabricated your image. It’s about whether you’ve learned to love—even when you can’t fully understand where someone else is coming from. With, by some counts, 46,000 denominations around the world, we face the challenge of becoming one. Thankfully, being united doesn’t mean being in agreement. Can you love, even when you don’t understand?

I believe that’s the gospel!