The last batch somehow got me thinking about innocence, grace, time and what we hold onto when everything else gives way.

This batch is a little different.

Religion, hypocrisy, brainwashing, churches building their own little kingdoms… Apparently these are the things I’ve been watching!

Anyway, spoilers ahead, obviously.

1. Wicked Little Letters

Wicked Little Letters is set in an English seaside town in the 1920s, where people begin receiving anonymous letters filled with rather creative obscenities. Suspicion quickly falls on Rose, the loud, foul-mouthed Irish woman living next door to the very proper and religious Edith.

Rose looks exactly like the sort of person who might write them. Which, of course, is part of the point.

The person you least expect

The person you least expect to have written those letters is the one who did: Edith.

And I suppose anyone who knows something about the depths of the human heart shouldn’t actually be that surprised.

What’s underneath the surface is unknown. A facade is really that—a facade. Whether in looks or words.

Rose is vulgar. She swears, she’s loud and improper. You don’t have to spend very long with her before you have a reasonable idea of what you’re dealing with.

Meanwhile Edith is different. She has spent years under a domineering father who uses Christian language and teaching to control her. She has learned to speak the same way. She sounds pious, appears respectable, and she knows how a good Christian woman is supposed to look.

But underneath it is something quite ugly.

A pious shell

Of course, what Edith’s father has done to her explains something, but it doesn’t excuse everything. Perhaps one of the sadder things is that after years of being flooded with a misuse of Christian teaching, what seems to have formed in her is not godliness but hypocrisy much like his.

She has learnt the shell very well, but a heart unchanged is a heart unchanged.

And perhaps it becomes even uglier when covered by a pious shell, because now it can fool other people—and perhaps yourself.

Rose, by contrast, says at one point, “I’m not evil, you know.”

She isn’t exactly a model of virtue either. But her faults are sitting there in the open. There is something almost safer about a person whose ugliness you can see. The more dangerous character is often the hidden one.

“I never knew you”

What I found disturbing was Edith at the end. Once everything is revealed, there doesn’t seem to be some great awakening. No sudden horror at what she has become. Funnily, it’s her father who trusted in her innocence, saying he knows she didn’t do it. She nodded like a happy donkey while affirming, ‘Yes, father, it’s me! I did it!’

And before the door was closed on her in the police car, she hurled vulgarity in anger to her still confounded father. She burst out in laughter. Edith finally exposed, and strangely almost liberated by it (even as she’s on her way to prison).

That’s scary.

Not because I think people are ever beyond God’s ability to change them. But because sin practised long enough can harden a person. And religious appearance is certainly no protection against that.

Jesus’ words come to mind:

I never knew you.

Surely that is one of the most terrifying things a religious person could ever hear. That all along, underneath everything, you did not belong to Him.

It is very easy to watch Edith and think, what a hypocrite. The more useful question is what remains hidden in me.

2. Apostasy

Apostasy follows a Jehovah’s Witness mother and her two daughters, all deeply committed to their faith and congregation. Their beliefs govern everything from family relationships to medical decisions, and when one daughter is disfellowshipped, their loyalty to the organisation requires them to cut her off.

It is a bleak movie. And perhaps what made it more uncomfortable for me is that I could understand some of the mindset.

From the outside

Watching Jehovah’s Witnesses from the outside, some things look ridiculous.

You watch people completely convinced of something that appears obviously wrong to you. They sacrifice relationships, opportunities, time, freedom—even risk life itself—because they genuinely believe that obedience requires it.

And because we are watching from a third-person point of view, we think: How can you not see this?

How could anyone give themselves so wholeheartedly to that?

I heard a podcast about cults recently and had much the same reaction. How does someone dedicate their time, effort, money, relationships, perhaps their entire life, to an organisation (or a leader) like that?

Willingly!

But I suppose that’s the thing about being brainwashed. You don’t feel brainwashed because you’re already convinced. So you don’t need someone continually forcing you to comply because the belief has already moved inside you. Happily living in a prison within.

And what about us❔

And then comes the uncomfortable question.

Is Christianity the same sort of thing?

There are honestly times I wonder.

It is easy enough for me to say, Of course not. Christianity is true and these other things aren’t. And I do believe Christianity is true. But simply saying I have the truth doesn’t answer the more searching question because presumably people in cults think exactly the same thing. They are convinced too.

Perhaps this question becomes more pointed when people disappoint you. A pastor you respected. Or a ministry leader, a Christian organisation.

Someone you trusted because you believed they cared about truth and godliness, and the kingdom of God as foremost, and then you discover weaknesses, failures or things you didn’t expect.

What exactly was your faith resting on?

I don’t think the answer is therefore to become suspicious of every church, every pastor or every authority. Nor does strong conviction automatically equal brainwashing. But perhaps it is good to be unsettled enough to ask the questions.

Do I follow Christ, or have I merely learnt the culture, language and convictions of my particular Christian world? Am I just following a charismatic leader? Could I disagree with these people and still have my faithfulness anchored in Christ?

Would my Christianity survive serious disappointment in the Christians I most respect?

I was thinking recently, perhaps disappointment sometimes does us a service. It reveals where our faith had quietly attached itself.

I don’t have a neat conclusion to this one. But I do sometimes wonder.

3. Sound of Hope: The Story of Possum Trot

This one is based on the true story of a small church community in Possum Trot, East Texas, where families began taking in children from the foster system, including children considered particularly difficult to place. Eventually 22 families from that little church adopted 77 children.

Which already puts some of my important problems into perspective.

Real religion

There is a scene where the pastor says that he has searched Scripture but can’t find where God promised that their lives would be easy.

What he does find is in the book of James where it says: Real religion is care for the orphans and widows in their distress.

James, of course, isn’t saying that caring for vulnerable people is the whole of Christianity. But it is striking that Scripture regards what we do with the vulnerable as one test of whether our religion has substance.

Not merely what we preach. Certainly not how impressive the church looks, or even how theologically sound we think we are.

What does faith actually produce?

“I just ain’t seen the part about the big stages”

One scene in particular made me laugh a little, and then think.

The Possum Trot pastor approaches another much wealthier church because the families taking in these children are struggling. There are practical needs everywhere.

Meanwhile, the other church is in the middle of thinking about its new projector, screens, the colour on the wall, a building campaign, a conference and various other things.

Eventually the Possum Trot pastor says about the same bible they both hold:

I just ain’t seen the part about the big stages.

Now, to be fair, churches do need buildings, insurance, compliance, equipments and all sorts of things that nobody gets particularly excited about paying for. And when you get close enough to church finances, you realise some of those necessary expenses are frankly insane. Sometimes there simply isn’t a cheaper alternative.

So I don’t think the lesson is that every large expense is wasteful, or that the church should only ever spend money directly on the poor.

But being close enough to see how money is actually spent does make you think.

Sometimes it is in very small things—the amount of effort put into finding a better deal, comparing quotes, questioning whether we’re getting reasonable value for what we pay, or being as careful with reimbursement as we might be if it were coming out of our own pocket.

And then there are the grey areas.

Ministry expenses are not always easy to define. Training, travel, hospitality, wellbeing and other things can genuinely support ministry, while also carrying some personal benefit. The overlap is real, and reasonable people will sometimes draw the line in different places.

I have occasionally looked at something classified as ministry-related and thought: I would have drawn the line somewhere else.

That doesn’t necessarily mean anyone is acting dishonestly. It can simply be a different judgment about stewardship.

But when the amounts aren’t small, those judgments still matter.

I’ve seen the same thing in Christian organisations too. Sometimes convenience wins over properly comparing quotes. Sometimes the amount paid doesn’t seem to match the value received. Sometimes reimbursements make you think we could all exercise a little more care when spending money that isn’t personally ours.

That is partly why I understand people who say, I think I could use this money better myself (than giving it to the church).

Because sometimes, when you know where at least some of the money goes, you honestly think you could.

And yet that thought needs examining too. It can also be a wonderfully convenient explanation for simply not wanting to give. And those are not the same thing.

So perhaps the question isn’t merely whether churches spend perfectly. They won’t. It is whether churches and Christian organisations are handling God’s money with care, transparency and good judgment—and whether I am willing to examine my own heart with the same seriousness.

Which ones?

At one point the pastor of the wealthy church says that they care about the kids.

To which the Possum Trot pastor replies:

Which ones?

Exactly. It is easy to care about things in principle. We care for children, for missions, for the poor. Evangelism, the kingdom of God.

It’s when the thing becomes inconvenient, expensive and close enough to disturb your plans that you discover what you actually care about.

And I think the same applies to our little church kingdoms.

Whose kingdom? 🏰

I’ve noticed over the years how easily people become tribal about churches and ministries.

Sometimes you hear it most clearly in little comments about other churches, other conferences, other ministries, or other leaders (sometimes even within the same church).

And sometimes people closely identified with a ministry, including the families of those leading it, can become particularly invested in its success.

Which is understandable. But it is worth testing.

Would I be equally excited about gospel work if my name wasn’t attached to it in any way? Would I be as eager to attend the training or conference if it wasn’t connected to my spouse, my church, my friends or my particular camp?

Would I rejoice as much if people went to another faithful church instead of mine?

If not, perhaps I should be a little slower to call my enthusiasm the zeal for the kingdom of God.

Because maybe some of it is zeal for my kingdom. It is where I already attach my identity to. It’s my turf I care about. And Christ can very easily become the building block we use while the thing we are really building is ours.

That’s uncomfortable too.

Brothers, sisters and sales numbers

I think over time I have become less interested in the idea of simply making a church bigger, or popular or the place to be.

Not because numbers don’t matter. Every number is a person, and gospel growth is something to rejoice in.

But crowds by themselves don’t necessarily tell you very much.

I am also aware that I will never belong to a perfect church. So increasingly I try to remember that I work for the Lord, not ultimately for a church brand, a ministry or a particular tribe. We are part of the universal church, even when we operate in our own little corners of it.

I think remembering that slowly erodes some of the elitist pride we can have about our own church.

Christians who arrive are not customers we have successfully acquired. They are brothers and sisters. And non-Christians aren’t sales numbers to win. They are souls to be reached with the love and truth of God.

That changes something about how you see people.

Eyes out there

Like in the movie, there are people who spend enormous portions of their lives with their eyes turned outward.

Children who aren’t theirs. Problems they didn’t create. Needs they could quite reasonably have walked past.

And then there are those of us who can spend astonishing amounts of energy thinking about our own little things. Our workload. Our inconveniences and preferences. And in the same spirit as the weathly church in the movie, whether the projector colour looks right.

I don’t think the lesson is that everyone should adopt five children. Nor that looking after ordinary responsibilities somehow matters less.

But sometimes it is useful to see people living at great cost for others. It changes the scale of things.

And perhaps that’s one thing these three rather different movies left me thinking about.

What’s underneath the respectable surface?

What or who am I actually trusting?

Whose kingdom am I building..?

And when faith costs something, what does mine produce?