Sanctified Oppression

How Jin Kim and Church of All Nations Weaponizes Justice Language While Enabling Abuse

A Necessary Preface

I write this account with reluctance but resolute purpose. For those who don't know me, I'm Maki Ashe Van Steenwyk—Executive Director of the Center for Prophetic Imagination. Before that, I served as a Mennonite pastor in Minneapolis. My work has centered on creating liberatory communities that challenge systems of oppression while nurturing authentic spiritual growth. For more than a decade, I collaborated with Church of All Nations on various projects, seeing it as a kindred community committed to decolonial Christianity and intersectional justice.

Recently, I've heard that Jin Kim and the leadership of Church of All Nations (CAN) may be planning fundraising efforts aimed at either purchasing their current building from the Presbytery of the Twin Cities Area or building on property elsewhere. While I cannot confirm these intentions with certainty, the possibility alone compels me to speak. I cannot in good conscience remain silent while people of faith and goodwill might be solicited for contributions without understanding the fuller context of what their generosity would enable.

I harbor no illusions about how this account may be received. There's a deeply ingrained cultural algorithm that processes testimonies like mine: respected Christian male leader versus trans woman speaking of harm—the math practically does itself in our collective unconscious. The trope of transgender instability runs so deep it's practically geological, stratified through decades of cultural messaging that positions us as unreliable narrators of our own experiences. I'm asking you to resist this algorithmic processing—to examine not just what I've written, but the reflexive dismissal you might feel rising within you as you read. That dismissal isn't your authentic discernment; it's the predictable output of social conditioning designed to protect institutional power. Real discernment requires the courage to sit with discomfort, to weigh evidence despite emotional attachments, and to recognize that sometimes the most destabilizing truth comes from those society has labeled "unstable."

This isn't about vengeance or personal vindication. The interpersonal harm I experienced, while painful, would hardly warrant such a public accounting. What does warrant it is the systematic pattern of spiritual, psychological, and financial abuse perpetrated against vulnerable congregants—a pattern I've witnessed and one that has been corroborated through multiple independent accounts. I’ve included a statement from the Presbytery of the Twin Cities Area (of the PCUSA) at the end of this essay. Potential donors deserve to know that their funds would not simply support a progressive multicultural ministry, but would further entrench a leadership structure that has repeatedly demonstrated its willingness to exploit the marginalized while evading accountability.

The irony isn't lost on me—a community that built its reputation on naming systems of oppression has masterfully constructed its own micro-empire of control, complete with all the familiar mechanisms: information management, financial entanglement, and the strategic deployment of guilt and shame. It's like watching someone build a scale model of capitalist exploitation while delivering passionate sermons against capitalism—technically impressive, if it weren't so devastating to those caught in its machinery.

For years, I watched from a distance, hoping that internal changes or denominational oversight might create meaningful transformation. Instead, I've witnessed the calculated dismantling of accountability structures, including Jin's strategic renunciation of ordination precisely when facing investigation. Now, as the possibility of external fundraising emerges, the circle of potential harm expands beyond current congregants to include well-meaning supporters who might unwittingly become financial enablers of continued abuse.

I share this analysis with a heavy heart but clear eyes. My hope is not to destroy but to protect—to ensure that decisions about supporting CAN's future are made with full awareness of its troubling past and present. Those considering donations deserve nothing less than this unvarnished truth, however uncomfortable it may be to confront.

And now, an Introduction

I remember sitting across from Jin Kim in a booth at Town Hall Brewery in Minneapolis, the warmth of our half-hearted handshake still lingering on my palm. His words congealed in the space between us, transmuting fifteen years of theological camaraderie into a masterclass in sanctified bigotry: "Your public coming out was like shitting with the bathroom door open." The comment stung not just for its crudeness, but for how effortlessly he had transformed my authentic self-expression into something vulgar and inappropriate. In that moment, I felt the ground shift beneath me—a colleague I'd respected for fifteen years had just revealed what lurked beneath his progressive veneer.

For over a decade, I had collaborated with Church of All Nations (CAN) on various projects. We'd co-hosted conferences, I'd preached from their pulpit, and I'd even directed friends and former community members their way. As someone who had dedicated my life to reimagining Christianity through a liberatory lens, I believed I'd found kindred spirits in their community. Their apparent commitment to addressing systemic racism and naming capitalist exploitation aligned with my own. Jin and I had shared not only theological conversations but personal connections—swapping stories about our favorite 80s bands and planning concert outings together in what I had believed was genuine friendship.

But my transition revealed the fragility of that alliance. What I experienced, and what I subsequently learned about others' experiences, exposed the profound disconnect between CAN's public commitments to justice and its private treatment of LGBTQ+ congregants. My journey from trusted collaborator to vilified outcast illuminates how even seemingly progressive Christian spaces can harbor deep-seated prejudices, particularly when those spaces operate under authoritarian leadership that weaponizes justice frameworks to justify harm while evading accountability.

What transpired at CAN reveals how power operates not just through obvious forms of control, but through determining which stories get believed and which bodies are considered legitimate. Trans bodies often become battlegrounds where competing ideas about gender, authority, and community clash for dominance. My experience shows how progressive Christian spaces can speak the language of liberation while using theology and cultural arguments to maintain control over people who challenge established hierarchies.

The Facade of Progressive Christianity

From the outside, Church of All Nations appears to embody the best of progressive Christianity. Its multicultural congregation pointed critiques of American imperialism, and commitment to de-colonizing Christian faith attracted those disillusioned with mainstream evangelicalism and mainline Protestantism alike. The church gained a reputation for addressing systemic racism and economic exploitation head-on, offering a compelling alternative to both conservative and tepidly liberal congregations.

My own work with CAN spanned multiple collaborative projects. We co-sponsored conferences examining the intersection of faith and social justice. I offered workshops on hospitality. I preached at CAN numerous times and Jin occasionally spoke at events I organized. These collaborations felt meaningful, rooted in shared commitments to reimagining Christianity beyond its imperial trappings.

What made CAN particularly appealing was its seeming willingness to engage with difficult questions that many churches avoid. Conversations about white supremacy, capitalism, and imperialism weren't relegated to the margins but appeared central to the church's identity. For those of us who had grown weary of Christianity's complicity in systems of oppression, CAN represented a beacon of hope—a community willing to wrestle with Christianity's troubled legacy while working toward something more liberatory.

In retrospect, I recognize how easily I overlooked the warning signs. The intense loyalty core members showed toward Jin, the hierarchical structure that grew more pronounced the closer one got to the inner circle, the way certain theological frameworks were deployed to silence dissent—these were not merely quirks but features of a system designed to concentrate and maintain power. But at the time, I saw only what I wanted to see: a community committed to the revolutionary potential of the gospel.

Coming Out and Its Aftermath

When I came out as transgender, I had no reason to expect anything but support from my friends at CAN. After all, the church had recently shifted toward a more affirming stance on LGBTQ+ issues. I knew that some tensions remained, particularly regarding official church statements, but I assumed that personal relationships would transcend institutional hesitancy. I assumed that Jin was practicing pastoral patience towards some of the older congregants.

The pandemic postponed our planned outing to a Hall & Oates concert, creating an unintentional gap in communication. When I reached out to Jin about rescheduling, his response was promising yet oddly formal. Time passed. In the year that followed, I heard nothing from Jin or the other leaders at CAN. When I commented on their Facebook posts, no responses.

A year into my transition, being ghosted by one-time friends and colleagues became commonplace. Still, I wanted to give Jin the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was simply busy. Maybe he had shifted his social media usage during the pandemic.

Our lunch began pleasantly enough with casual updates on our lives, but the conversation took a sharp turn when Jin addressed my transition directly. He hadn't ghosted me, he explained, but rather had chosen not to engage with what he considered "acting out." He elaborated on his discomfort through a biblical analogy, comparing himself to Noah's 'respectful' sons who averted their eyes from their father's nakedness. According to this framing, my transgender identity was something shameful that decent people should politely ignore rather than acknowledge. He characterized my public transition as an immature violation of social norms that reflected my cultural malformation.

When I gently disagreed, explaining the importance of public coming-out narratives in creating visibility and safety for other trans people, particularly vulnerable trans youth who often feel isolated and at risk of self-harm, Jin's response was swift and cutting. My disagreement itself, he claimed, proved my cultural malformation. According to him, directly stating "I disagree" demonstrated my Western lack of respect for authority. He then launched into a critique of my whiteness, suggesting that if I truly wanted to "transition," I should focus on transitioning out of whiteness.

The most revealing moment came when Jin gestured around the restaurant and noted, "I'm the only Asian here, and I feel perfectly comfortable. But you are anxious about whether or not folks will accept you as a trans woman." This comparison laid bare his fundamental misunderstanding—he was creating a false equivalence between racial and gender experiences while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge the specific vulnerabilities trans people face.

I found myself in the absurd position of agreeing wholeheartedly with his critique of whiteness—indeed, dismantling white supremacy remains essential work that I'm committed to deepening—while recognizing how he was weaponizing anti-racist discourse to delegitimize trans experience. The conversation revealed a dangerous binary where one could either work toward racial justice or gender justice, but not both simultaneously. This framing erases the existence of trans people of color and fractures solidarity between marginalized communities, serving only to maintain existing power structures.

Jin further complicated this racial framing by insisting that I needed to submit to "indigenous leadership"—which, included himself as an indigenous Korean person. He explicitly dismissed Black leadership as insufficient, claiming that Black Americans had been thoroughly uprooted by colonization, stripped of their indigeneity, and malformed within the toxicity of American culture. I would later learn that several Black core members—predominantly Black women—had been pushed out of the church for questioning Jin's patriarchal leadership style, revealing how his hierarchical framework of "indigenous authority" conveniently positioned his own voice at the top.

This tactical deployment of racial justice language to undermine trans experience exemplifies how justice commitments can become reputation management rather than genuine transformation. By positioning transness as inherently white and Western, Jin effectively erased the rich histories of gender diversity across non-Western cultures and the vibrant communities of trans people of color. This strategy, which has been used in places, such as African countries, to erase the long history of acceptance gender diversity, keeps marginalized groups separated when they might otherwise recognize their shared interest in dismantling interconnected systems of oppression.

I left that lunch with a profound sense of sadness but also clarity. Jin's comments were not simply the product of ignorance or discomfort; they reflected a coherent worldview in which authority—his authority—remained unquestioned, and where liberation from one form of oppression was deployed cynically to justify perpetuating another. Most disturbingly, this worldview was being promoted in a church that publicly positioned itself as a site of comprehensive liberation. Still, I tried to approach the situation with grace, initially viewing it as an unfortunate interpersonal conflict rather than evidence of systemic issues within the church.

A Broader Pattern of Control

What I initially experienced as a painful personal rejection soon revealed itself as part of a broader pattern of control and harm within CAN. The church operated much like an onion—layers of commitment increased as one moved closer to the core, with expectations of conformity growing alongside them. Those at the periphery experienced a welcoming, progressive community. Those drawn into the inner circles encountered something quite different: an authoritarian structure where dissent was labeled as malformation or immaturity.

This structure allowed CAN to maintain its progressive public image while enforcing rigid hierarchies internally. Jin frequently invoked cultural differences to justify this authoritarianism, suggesting that Western critiques of patriarchal leadership stemmed from colonial mindsets. This rhetorical move served a dual purpose: it insulated his leadership from criticism while positioning those who questioned him as culturally malformed.

The exploitation at CAN extended beyond the psychological to the material. Housing arrangements reflected the power imbalances within the community, with church members often renting from church leaders without formal agreements. What presented as "intentional community" functioned in practice as economic control. Individuals who fell out of favor could find themselves suddenly without housing, their community ties severed alongside their residential security.

The irony, of course, is exquisite—a community ostensibly committed to critiquing capitalism's exploitation of vulnerable populations was simultaneously replicating those very power dynamics within its own housing structure. Nothing says 'radical Christian alternative' quite like becoming your congregants' unaccountable landlord while preaching against systemic oppression. Jesus may have overturned the tables of the money-changers, but at CAN, they simply privatized them.

These concerns became increasingly concrete when reports of financial mismanagement and abuse began to emerge—exploitation of residents for personal gain, tax fraud, skirting a host of zoning laws. Such systemic issues rarely emerge in isolation; they typically accompany cultures where power concentrates in the hands of unaccountable leaders.

My own experience with Jin proved to be just the tip of the iceberg. As I began speaking more openly about what had happened to me, others reached out with their own stories—particularly transgender and nonbinary individuals who had encountered similar patterns of spiritual manipulation and abuse within CAN.

In order to protect the identities of those victimized, I will refrain from sharing specific stories. However, I can share about the troubling patterns that emerged. Multiple queer people reported experiences that mirrored aspects of my own interaction with Jin, but often with more severe consequences:

• Church leadership employed various tactics to control transgender members' gender journeys, including degrading commentary about appearance.

• The community enforced a rigid process of "discernment" that required queer members to submit their deeply personal experiences around sexuality or gender to leadership.

• Those who made autonomous decisions about their gender or sexuality without first securing leadership approval faced systematic consequences—from subtle social isolation to outright rejection.

• Perhaps most disturbingly, those who failed to conform to leadership expectations in these regards reported suddenly losing their church-affiliated housing, effectively rendering them homeless while simultaneously being cut off from their spiritual community.

The pattern of abuse extends beyond those in the queer community. For example:

• Multiple former members reported that after raising concerns about Jin's leadership, they discovered he had encouraged their teenage children to no longer respect their parents' authority and to view him as "their father now."

• One woman reported that after her husband left the church, Jin encouraged her to divorce her husband.

• Parents of children experiencing mental health challenges were told their children's struggles were the direct result of "bad parenting," with Jin suggesting the only solution was for parents to submit to his leadership.

• Several individuals described being discouraged from seeking mental health support outside the congregation.

• Several families reported being pressured to turn their financial decision-making over to Jin until he could sufficiently "re-parent" them.

• When core members left the congregation, they were systematically cut off—with other members instructed to avoid or ghost them—while leadership spread misinformation about their reasons for leaving.

• One lay leader who raised questions about accountability found herself being shadowed by an assigned church member when serving as a greeter, apparently to ensure she wouldn't say anything negative about Pastor Jin.

What made these accounts particularly heartbreaking was how frequently these individuals initially defended church leadership even while recounting clear mistreatment. This tendency to blame oneself rather than abusive systems is common among those who have experienced institutional harm—a hallmark of spiritual abuse that resembles patterns seen in cult dynamics. The cognitive dissonance created when trusted spiritual leaders inflict harm often results in victims questioning their own perceptions rather than the leaders' actions.

I must emphasize that these are not isolated incidents or personal conflicts, but evidence of systemic patterns. While I cannot share others' stories in detail, I can affirm that what happened to me was not exceptional but representative of how transgender identity was treated within CAN's power structure. However, it's important to distinguish between the interpersonal harm I experienced and the severe, life-altering abuse many congregants endured. My lunch with Jin—while revealing and painful—was merely the visible tip of a much darker iceberg of spiritual, psychological, and material abuse that had devastating consequences for vulnerable community members.

Exceptional Mission, Exceptional Leader

What allows harmful leadership to flourish in seemingly progressive spaces? The answer often lies in cult psychology—not in the sensationalized imagery of isolated compounds, but in the subtle psychological mechanisms that bind people to charismatic leaders and idealized missions.

At CAN, several classic cult-like dynamics are operative. First is the perception of an exceptional mission—the belief that CAN represents something uniquely revolutionary in Christian spaces. This isn’t entirely delusional; the church genuinely does address issues of racial justice, imperialism, and capitalism more directly than most congregations in a way that, if it weren’t tied to abusive practices, would make CAN worthy of emulation. This exceptional mission creates what psychologists call "sunk cost rationalization"—the more members sacrifice for this supposedly unique community, the more psychologically necessary it becomes to justify those sacrifices.

Second is the construction of Jin as an exceptional leader with cultural authority that transcends accountability structures. His authority is framed as both a corrective to white supremacy and as culturally authentic, creating a false binary where questioning his leadership means revealing one's own cultural malformation. This particular dynamic is especially insidious because it weaponizes genuine commitments to anti-racism to shield authoritarian behavior from scrutiny.

The third element is information control—core community members are discouraged from seeking outside support or mental health resources without leadership approval. They are discouraged from building any meaningful community apart from the church. This creates an echo chamber where dissenting perspectives can be labeled as spiritually immature or culturally compromised. When transgender congregants pursued medical transitions without leadership approval, the real issue wasn't the medical decision itself but the independence it represented—a crack in the community's ability to control members' bodies and choices.

Jin's consistent discouragement of members seeking outside mental health support served two strategic functions in maintaining his authority. First, it kept congregants emotionally dependent on him as their primary source of guidance and wellbeing, creating relationships of dependency rather than mutual growth. Second, it eliminated potential sources of counter-authority; professional therapists might validate members' concerns about church dynamics or provide frameworks for understanding manipulative behavior, thereby challenging Jin's monopoly on determining what constituted mental health versus spiritual immaturity. By framing external support as unnecessary or even harmful, he effectively closed off pathways that might have helped members recognize and name the abuse they were experiencing. This practice, common in high-control groups, ensured that all healing, growth, and validation flowed exclusively through leadership-approved channels.

The information control extended beyond the immediate community. Jin strategically positioned any criticism from denominational leadership as evidence of systemic racism rather than legitimate oversight. After facing a sexual misconduct trial years earlier, he consistently characterized Presbytery actions as racially motivated persecution, effectively inoculating his congregation against external accountability. This rhetorical shield meant that when subsequent allegations emerged, many congregants were already primed to dismiss them as racially biased attacks rather than recognizing genuine concerns requiring investigation.

I witnessed this dynamic directly when Jin positioned himself as uniquely qualified to judge my transition through an anti-colonial lens. The implicit message was clear: his perspective on my gender identity carried special authority due to his positionality, while my own lived experience as a transgender person carried less weight due to my whiteness. This false equivalence between racial and gender dynamics served to consolidate his authority and isolate community members from potential solidarity with marginalized people outside CAN's sphere of influence.

What makes these dynamics particularly difficult to recognize from within is their partial truth. Racial justice is critical. White people should examine their cultural assumptions. Progressive Christian spaces are rare and worth preserving. These valid observations become dangerous when wielded to establish a leadership immune from accountability or to justify harm toward vulnerable people.

When people remain in abusive systems despite evidence of harm, it's not due to stupidity or weakness—that’s a myth that contributes to the continued growth of authoritarian movements. Rather, it reflects how thoroughly their reality has been shaped by these cult-like mechanisms—where leaving feels like abandoning not just a community but an entire framework for understanding the world. This explains why many victims of spiritual abuse initially defend their abusers, and why my friends responded with such defensiveness to my warnings. To acknowledge the validity of my concerns would require unraveling an entire meaning-making system in which they were deeply invested.

Understanding these dynamics isn't merely academic—it's essential for creating genuinely liberatory communities that avoid replicating the same patterns under progressive guises. True accountability requires mechanisms that function independently of charismatic leadership, clear separation between valid cultural critique and authoritarian control, and communities where organizational loyalty never supersedes care for vulnerable individuals.

When Systems Corrupt Friendships

After learning the experiences of other transgender people at CAN and hearing rumors of other concerning patterns at CAN, I felt obligated to warn my friends who were involved with the church. Four people I considered chosen family—let’s call them Jeremy, Cecelia, Brandon, and Susan—either attended CAN or had mentoring relationships with Jin. These were not casual acquaintances but people with whom I had lived in intentional community for years, sharing meals, ministry, and milestones. They were among the first twenty people I had come out to, people who had initially expressed support for my transition.

I deliberated carefully about including these deeply personal relationships in this analysis. Yet their responses illustrate something profound about how institutional harm operates not just through direct abuse, but through concentric circles of enablement that protect abusive systems. What happened between us wasn't merely personal betrayal—it was the textbook functioning of a system that successfully inoculates even compassionate people against truths that might destabilize their worldview.

I approached this conversation with trepidation, aware that questioning a community important to my friends risked straining our relationships. I crafted my message carefully, sharing both my personal experience with Jin and what I had learned about how other transgender people had been treated at CAN. I acknowledged the risk I was taking in speaking out, noting that as a trans woman, I anticipated potentially not being believed—a fear grounded in how frequently trans people's accounts are dismissed as unstable or unreliable. A fear that, unfortunately, I had already experienced in the months since coming out.

Their responses left me bewildered and heartbroken. Rather than engaging with the substance of my concerns about abuse and transphobia, they focused almost exclusively on my method of communication. They characterized my warning as an "ultimatum" that forced them to choose between their relationship with me and their involvement with CAN. Susan suggested that Jin's criticism of my "public presence and current maturity for pastoral leadership" might have merit, while also attributing negative traits like "being self-involved" and "jealousy" to me. Cecelia suggested that I was still a good person, but a troubled one, that the experiences of transgender people at CAN were simply matters of "disgruntled congregants." Brandon accused me of manipulation, characterizing my fears of not being believed as a tactic to control their response. I never heard from Jeremy.

What makes their responses particularly instructive is how perfectly they mirrored Jin's own tactics—focusing on tone rather than content, pathologizing dissent, and inverting victim and perpetrator. It was as if I'd encountered Jin's voice through four different bodies, each unwittingly reproducing the very patterns they would vehemently critique in other contexts. This wasn't coincidence; it was the completion of a discipleship process none of them recognized they were undergoing.

Most tellingly, none of them engaged substantively with the allegations of abuse or transphobia. Instead, they questioned my motives, my mental stability, and my integrity. When I pressed for acknowledgment of the abuse experienced by congregants, the conversation devolved further, with Brandon ultimately suggesting that my concerns about transphobia reflected my own narcissism.

This pattern of responses revealed how even well-intentioned allies¹ can perpetuate harm when confronted with uncomfortable truths. Rather than examining the power dynamics at play within CAN or considering how their own cisgender privilege might be shaping their perspective, my friends defaulted to protecting the institutional status quo. They focused on tone policing my communication rather than addressing the substance of the harm and abuse I reported.

Understanding how otherwise compassionate people can become extensions of abusive authority isn't just academically interesting—it's essential for recognizing how thoroughly these systems infiltrate our most intimate connections. The transformation of my sincere concern into "manipulation," my vulnerability into "instability," and my ethical clarity into "narcissism" wasn't random; it was the predictable outcome of a system that had successfully programmed them to enforce boundaries they believed they'd freely chosen.

The dissolution of these relationships revealed something profound about conditional acceptance. When I presented as a cisgender man, I had been welcomed into these friendships with the unconscious expectation that I would remain legible within established categories. My transition didn't just change my gender presentation; it altered the terms of engagement in ways my friends weren't prepared to navigate. Their rejection masquerading as concern reflects a fundamental failure of love—an inability to see the other in their complexity rather than merely as a projection of one's own needs and expectations. The irony of losing relationships with people who prided themselves on radical inclusion wasn't lost on me—it simply hurt too much to appreciate at the time.

What made this experience particularly painful was how it mirrored broader social patterns of dismissing marginalized voices. When trans people speak about transphobia, we are often characterized as oversensitive, unstable, or manipulative. Our lived experiences are reframed as personal conflicts rather than manifestations of systemic issues. This dynamic played out with textbook precision in my friends' responses, revealing how deeply cisnormative assumptions can shape even progressive Christians' reactions to trans people's concerns.

Institutional Accountability

While my personal relationships fractured over these concerns, institutional processes slowly began to address broader issues at CAN. The catalyst for formal intervention came when allegations of sexual misconduct against Jin emerged—including one from years ago that had been buried, and a more recent accusation that ultimately prompted formal oversight.

What happened next reveals a calculated pattern of evading accountability. Rather than engaging with these serious allegations through established denominational processes, Jin took the extraordinary step of renouncing his ordination entirely. This wasn't a principled stand against an unjust system; it was a tactical maneuver to escape oversight—a fact made obvious by its timing. What kind of pastor abandons their ordination credentials precisely when facing accountability?

Even more telling was how Jin had systematically prepared for this moment. For years following a previous sexual misconduct trial, he had methodically sown distrust of the Presbytery among his congregation, repeatedly characterizing their oversight as racially motivated persecution. This strategic groundwork ensured that when new allegations emerged, many congregants would view denominational intervention as racially biased rather than legitimate accountability.

Only after Jin's calculated exit did the Presbytery of the Twin Cities Area initiate a broader investigation into reports that the church was "afflicted with disorder"—a term from the Book of Order that allows presbyteries to intervene when congregations face serious problems.

This wider investigation uncovered troubling patterns extending far beyond my personal experience (document downloadable below). Financial concerns included an unpaid loan totaling over $85,000 with interest. Allegations emerged about falsifying payroll to secure COVID relief funds through the Paycheck Protection Program, with those funds reportedly diverted to improve housing units owned by church leaders rather than for their intended purpose of maintaining staff salaries.

Housing issues proved particularly concerning. Reports suggested church officers improperly claimed homestead exemptions on properties they were renting, and tenants were denied rights under Minnesota law. These findings pointed to patterns of financial mismanagement and potential legal violations that extended well beyond occasional mistakes.

Let me be perfectly clear about something: as an anarchist (of sorts), I have no inherent reverence for state laws. When communities bend or break regulations to advance mutual aid, create accessible housing, or practice genuine solidarity, I'm generally all for it. The problem at CAN wasn't lawbreaking per se—it was the way these violations served to consolidate power, exploit vulnerable community members, and escape accountability. There's a profound difference between subverting unjust systems to create liberatory alternatives and manipulating those same systems to create hierarchical fiefdoms immune from oversight.

CAN's problems were systemic rather than isolated, and they reflected patterns of unaccountable leadership rather than simple misunderstandings. That these issues have been documented and are part of an ongoing denominational investigation demonstrates that institutional harm thrives when warning signs are ignored—and when leaders build systems specifically designed to deflect accountability.

Lessons Learned and Calls for Change

Those that have spoken out have experienced the loss of friends, myself included. Though I want to be very clear: what I experienced was harm; what many congregants of CAN have experienced is abuse. Friends I had considered family now view me with suspicion and distance. What began as concern for friends' wellbeing resulted in my own isolation—a common experience for those who speak hard truths in religious contexts.

This experience reveals how privilege operates even within supposedly justice-oriented communities. As a transgender woman challenging a respected male leader, I encountered a credibility deficit that no amount of evidence seemed capable of overcoming. My concerns were reframed as personal grievances, my warnings as manipulative tactics, my advocacy as self-importance. This dynamic reflects broader patterns where marginalized voices require extraordinary evidence to be believed, while privileged voices are granted the benefit of the doubt by default.

Perhaps most painful was watching from a distance as some friends remained involved with CAN despite mounting evidence of harm. Knowing that people I cared about continued to subject themselves and their families to potentially abusive dynamics left me with a profound sense of helplessness. Every new revelation that comes to light renews my grief over both the abuses occurring at CAN and my inability to protect those I loved from it.

What makes the CAN situation particularly instructive is how it exemplifies broader patterns of institutional capture of justice movements. Institutions often adopt the language of liberation while maintaining structures of dominance—a phenomenon we might call "co-opting justice." The ability to speak fluently about systemic oppression while simultaneously enacting it requires sophisticated ideological machinery, which progressive religious spaces have refined to an art form. CAN's use of decolonial language to justify authoritarian leadership offers a particularly transparent case study in how liberatory discourses can be weaponized against the very communities they were designed to protect.

This journey has taught me painful but necessary lessons about power, accountability, and genuine inclusion in Christian spaces. First and foremost, I've learned that progressive rhetoric can be used to conceal injustice just as easily as it can challenge it. Churches that speak eloquently about dismantling systems of oppression can simultaneously perpetuate harm through authoritarian leadership, unaccountable power structures, and selective application of justice principles.

I've also gained clarity about the particular challenges transgender people face when reporting abuse. Our accounts are often filtered through stereotypes about trans people as unstable, attention-seeking, or manipulative. This credibility deficit creates additional barriers to accountability, especially when abusers strategically deploy progressive language to deflect from transphobia.

For faith communities genuinely committed to inclusion, these lessons suggest several concrete steps:

1. Develop clear accountability structures: Churches must establish transparent processes for addressing concerns about leadership behavior, financial management, and treatment of marginalized members. These structures should operate independently from charismatic leaders or founding pastors.

2. Center the experiences of marginalized people: When members of marginalized groups report harm, their accounts deserve to be taken seriously rather than immediately questioned or dismissed. This doesn't mean uncritical acceptance of every allegation, but it does require suspending the instinct to protect institutional reputation or leadership authority.

3. Address intersectional harm: Communities committed to racial justice must recognize that cultural difference cannot justify harm toward LGBTQ+ individuals. Similarly, predominantly white LGBTQ+-affirming communities must address the unique challenges faced by queer people of color. True liberation requires dismantling all systems of oppression rather than prioritizing one over another or, even worse, pitting one form of oppression against another.

4. Create networks of support for whistleblowers: Those who speak out about institutional harm often face isolation and retaliation. Faith communities should develop support systems for whistleblowers, recognizing that their willingness to risk relationships for the sake of truth-telling reflects deep commitment to community wellbeing rather than divisiveness.

5. Practice humble allyship: Cisgender allies must recognize that their lived experience differs fundamentally from transgender people's. This recognition should lead not to paralysis but to humility—a willingness to listen, learn, and occasionally set aside one's own comfort to center trans people's experiences. This, of course, can be applied to other forms of solidarity.

Conclusion

My journey with Church of All Nations reveals the complex challenges faced by LGBTQ+ individuals in progressive Christian spaces. What began as a collaborative relationship based on apparent shared values transformed into a painful lesson about the gap between public commitments to justice and private perpetuation of harm.

The fracturing of my relationships with friends I considered family demonstrates how cisnormativity shapes even well-intentioned allies' responses to trans people's concerns. When faced with the choice between believing a trans woman's account of harm or maintaining comfortable relationships with powerful institutions, many default to the latter—often without recognizing the privilege that enables such a choice. And often without realizing that they are doing harm themselves.

Yet this story isn't just about institutional failure or personal pain. It also contains seeds of hope. The courage of multiple individuals in sharing their experiences with denominational oversight suggests that truth can eventually emerge, even when initially dismissed.

This account demands more than passive reading—it requires action. If you've made it this far, you now face a choice that will reveal much about your own relationship to power and truth. Will you retreat to the comfortable refuge of institutional credibility, dismissing these concerns as the hyperbolic complaints of a disgruntled transgender woman? Or will you engage the more difficult path of questioning a respected leader and the community that shields him? I'm not asking for blind acceptance of my perspective, but for rigorous engagement with the evidence presented here and elsewhere. Contact the Presbytery of the Twin Cities Area. Speak with former congregants. Ask uncomfortable questions about financial practices, housing arrangements, and leadership accountability. And most importantly—withhold financial support until genuine transformation occurs and transparent accountability structures are firmly in place. The truest indicator of CAN's potential for redemption will be its willingness to face these allegations directly rather than dismiss them as attacks from the spiritually malformed. How Jin and the community respond to critique will reveal far more about their commitment to justice than any sermon on systemic oppression ever could.

For those committed to more than simply holding one church accountable but, instead, to creating healthy faith communities, this journey offers both caution and invitation. The caution lies in recognizing how easily progressive rhetoric can mask abusive dynamics. And how myopic commitment to idealized community can justify silencing voices of dissent. The invitation lies in imagining and building communities where accountability, transparency, and genuine mutuality replace authoritarian control and selective inclusion.

True liberation requires not just changing the content of our theology but transforming the structures through which we embody it. It demands communities where power circulates rather than concentrates, where marginalized voices shape practice rather than simply being referenced in sermons, and where accountability extends to even the most respected leaders. Only then can we bridge the gap between our stated commitments to justice and the lived reality of our faith communities.

As I continue my ministry in the aftermath of these experiences, I carry both scars and wisdom. The scars remind me of the very real costs of speaking truth to power, particularly as a transgender woman in Christian spaces. The wisdom guides me toward nurturing communities where such costs are not required—where accountability emerges naturally from mutual care rather than whistleblowing, and where inclusion extends beyond welcoming statements to transformative practice.

In the space between truth and power lies the ongoing work of liberation—a journey that requires courage, commitment, and transparency. Despite everything, I remain convinced that this journey is worth taking, not just for transgender people but for all who seek authentic community rooted in justice and love.

Ptca Letter To Can

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1. I use the term "ally" throughout this essay with significant reservations. The concept has problematic implications: it often functions as an identity marker rather than describing concrete solidarity actions; it can center the experiences of privileged individuals rather than the needs of those facing oppression; and it sometimes reinforces power differentials by positioning marginalized people as perpetually requiring support rather than as agents of their own liberation.

Terms like "accomplice," "co-conspirator," or simply "comrade" might better capture what meaningful solidarity requires: concrete action, accountability, and a willingness to follow rather than lead in struggles not primarily one's own. The experiences described in this essay illustrate precisely why the "ally" framework often fails: when confronted with challenging truths, many self-described allies prioritize their comfort over tangible solidarity.