Today I’m joined by Ashley Darling, a former member of both Mars Hill Church and Trinity Church in Scottsdale, Arizona—two congregations shaped by the distinct theology and culture of New Calvinism under Pastor Mark Driscoll. This movement fused rigid doctrine with a stylized vision of masculinity, casting male dominance as both the spiritual mandate and an evangelistic strategy.

In our conversation, Darling examines the gender politics and cultural dynamics of New Calvinism, interrogating how Driscoll’s rebranding of “biblical manhood” sanctified control, authority, and aggression as divine virtues. She speaks candidly about the systemic harm to women—ranging from normalized abuse and enforced silence to lasting psychological trauma. Darling also details how Driscoll leveraged public relations and theological rhetoric to rehabilitate his image in Arizona, sustaining a model of leadership cloaked in repentance but resistant to accountability.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Ashley, can you help unpack those two ideas for us—what is New Calvinism, and how was masculinity used in its missionary efforts?

Ashley Darling: Yes. These are connected but distinct ideas. New Calvinism was a movement that emerged in the early 2000s, characterized by a resurgence of Reformed theology among younger evangelicals. It was deeply influenced by thinkers like John Piper, Tim Keller, and later, Mark Driscoll and Matt Chandler. At its core, it affirmed traditional Calvinist doctrines like predestination, total depravity, and the sovereignty of God. Still, it presented them in a modern, culturally engaged, and often emotionally restrained way.

Although New Calvinism didn’t outright ban women from theological discussions, it was rooted in a complementarian framework that assigned distinct roles to men and women. Leadership, especially in the church and home, was reserved for men. That theology, over time, shaped the culture of churches associated with the movement.

One thing that attracted many men to New Calvinism was its emphasis on structure, clarity, and what some saw as a more rational, no-nonsense theology. It avoided the emotionalism or ecstatic spirituality often found in charismatic churches. Instead, it offered something more intellectual and systematized. For many men, particularly those who felt alienated by more emotive expressions of Christianity, that was compelling.

Mark Driscoll, in particular, combined intellectual Reformed theology with a hyper-masculine, confrontational style. He was one of the few high-profile pastors to openly challenge the “feminization” of the church. He encouraged MMA-style aggression and rugged manhood and positioned male headship as essential to both spiritual and cultural renewal. In doing so, he created a platform that attracted young men seeking purpose, authority, and a sense of identity.

Jacobsen: And when we talk about masculinity being used as a kind of missionary tool, or even as branding—how did that function in his church, and why was it so effective, especially in contrast to churches with predominantly female congregations?

Darling: That’s a great question. At its core, it was marketing, and Mark Driscoll knew it. His background in communications played a role. He understood that he had to speak their language to build a church that attracted young, unchurched men. He framed Jesus not as gentle or meek but as a fighter, a carpenter, a man’s man. He used masculine imagery to frame spiritual leadership, fatherhood, and theology.

In evangelical churches, it’s common for women to outnumber men. Driscoll flipped that by appealing directly to male identity. And here’s the strategic part: if you get the men, statistically, the family often follows. So, it was also a pragmatic approach to church growth.

But we have to be honest—there was also a financial incentive. If you follow biblical tithing, converts tithe ten percent of their income, supporting the institution. So, targeting men wasn’t just theological but structural and economic. Driscoll’s model was successful, but it came with a cost.

At Mars Hill and Trinity Church, the desire for strong leadership sometimes evolved into authoritarianism. When power becomes a defining theological virtue rather than humility or service, it can open the door to abuse.

Jacobsen: And so, if you could expand on the role of power and how it was framed within these churches, there were men who already felt they had power and seemed to be reinforcing it among their peers or even over their wives. But there were also others, as you’ve noted before, who carried deep emotional wounds. How did Driscoll’s approach speak to both groups?

Darling: Yes. For the men who already felt they had power—those who were always trying to assert it in front of their guy friends or over their wives—Driscoll’s message validated them. It confirmed, “Yes, I am doing this right by lording my power over those I see beneath me.”

But it also spoke powerfully to another group—men who carried deep, unprocessed father wounds: emotional neglect, constant criticism, or the sense that they were never good enough. For them, Driscoll’s framework offered an emotional escape. Instead of confronting that pain, they could trade emotional vulnerability for power. That’s a compelling exchange, especially for men in the church who were taught to suppress emotion.

Mark Driscoll brought “authenticity” and “honesty” to this equation. He would say things like, “You men are weak. You’re effeminate. You’re failing in your God-given duty to lead your family.” It was deliberately confrontational. And in marketing terms, he was hitting the pain point. The classic strategy: “You don’t have X because you’re not Y.”

Whether it’s fitness or finances, that’s a familiar technique—aggravate the pain, then offer a solution. Driscoll applied that same model to masculinity and spirituality. He would shame men; even at its best, that system was still driven by shame.

But it worked because many men responded, “Yes, I need to stand up. I need to be a man of God.” And Mark Driscoll came in offering “truth,” no sugarcoating. That was compelling for many guys, especially in contrast to what I would call the Hillsong movement.

Hillsong churches were deeply emotional at the time. You’d walk in and be enveloped in lights, music, tears, and speaking in tongues. Every service felt like a spiritual spectacle. Mark Driscoll stood in violent contrast to that. He rejected it outright.

He said, “F*** that.” That kind of emotional display? That’s effeminate. That’s for the women. Let them have it at their conferences. But we—we’re men. We come into church to be strong. He painted Jesus as a badass, sword-carrying man and called other men to embody that same energy.

It was, honestly, considerable big dick energy—aggressively so. And it appealed to the broadest base of men in the church then. Even those outside the church found a sense of safety in it. They could come to church and not feel like it was a weakness or like they were caving to their wife’s demands. They could go and feel better about themselves.

However, it was ultimately a self-serving model. You weren’t going to church to worship. You would get your ego stroked to feel like you were the big man on campus, at home, and in public.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by Pastor Mark Driscoll (@markdriscoll)

Jacobsen: Critics of this, to give them their due, have called this a form of “performative masculinity.” Would you agree? And how would you unpack that critique?

Darling: Yes, I would agree. It has to be performative.

Because underneath all that posturing, there’s pain that’s never addressed. The model doesn’t leave space for vulnerability. So the performance becomes the substitute for authenticity. You put on the role of the strong man, the leader, the protector—but you’re never really invited to be known for your weakness. That’s not biblical masculinity. That’s branding.

Jacobsen: Because for men, especially married men, the highest standard of manhood in the church, regardless of denomination, often remains marriage. That remains the pinnacle of masculine identity. So when these men come into church with their wives and begin lording their manhood over them, it gives them a clear sense of identity, power, and self-worth. But that dynamic doesn’t function without women participating in it. The other side of the equation must also be emphasized for it to be effective.

Darling: For that model to function, women had to be taught to “fall in line.” So Mark Driscoll would either say directly or have his wife, Grace Driscoll, say things to women like, “Submission is beautiful. It’s not less than; it’s just different.” That message was a significant theme.

One of the most dangerous teachings, particularly for married couples, was the idea that women owed sex to their husbands. That was emphasized repeatedly. And it was incredibly harmful, especially for women who were already in abusive relationships with their “good Christian husbands.” Women who were already enduring physical or emotional violence were now being told that God obligated them to offer their bodies, regardless of consent or safety.

And that’s the core issue. It wasn’t just a pastor’s opinion—it was positioned as divine truth, framed as if God Himself was saying it. To that point, one of the key indicators that Mars Hill had cult-like characteristics was how closely Driscoll’s words were placed alongside, or even equated with, the voice of God. That stems from the New Calvinist framework. Within that structure, if you were the pastor, you weren’t simply someone who interpreted or explained Scripture. You were seen as a mouthpiece for God. That was the role.

So when Driscoll stood at the pulpit and said, “You’re not a man if you’re not leading your wife in this way,” or “If she thinks she’s in charge, something’s wrong,” or “If your wife isn’t happily and enthusiastically giving you sex at every opportunity, you’re failing as a husband”—you believed that was coming from God. Because he was the pastor, and in that environment, the pastor’s voice carried a sense of divine authority. That’s where it became hazardous.

Jacobsen: Let’s dig into that last point a bit. What happened when someone started to question these ideas? Do you not necessarily question the pastor directly, or even the junior pastors, but within the community setting or your own home, say, to your husband?

Darling: You would be ostracized. The response was: Why would you question that? And this is where Calvinism gets cold, rigid, and binary. It’s all black and white.

Ironically, many people in New Calvinist circles consider themselves scholars, deep theological thinkers. For example, my ex-husband had his master’s degree in theology from Liberty University, which is well-known in the United States for its religious studies programs. He was drawn to that intellectual framework.

So, if you tried to raise a concern or disagree, you weren’t met with openness. If they acknowledged your point, it would come as “I can see how you would think that. If I were in your position, I might think that too.” But it always ended with, “Let me introduce you to higher thinking.”

That was the default response. It wasn’t a dialogue but a subtle form of dismissal wrapped in intellectual superiority.

You learn to go along with it because they would talk to you in circles. Ultimately, dissent was framed as dissent against God. Mark Driscoll elevated himself to the voice of God within his community and implicitly empowered that same mindset in the men under his teaching.

These men were commanded to be the spiritual leaders of their homes. That meant they were expected to teach their wives and children about theology, interpret Scripture, and set the tone for the household’s spiritual life. It positioned them as the final authority, not just regarding leadership but regarding access to spiritual knowledge.

So, if you, as a woman, wanted to explore something outside the narrow teachings of New Calvinism—maybe a different theological perspective or a more inclusive spiritual framework—and you brought that up to your husband, it was framed as rebellion. Because those men had been taught that they were God’s designated mouthpiece in the home, disagreeing with them was often treated as disagreeing with God Himself.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by Pastor Mark Driscoll (@markdriscoll)

Jacobsen: What about something you mentioned earlier—charismatic continuationism? That’s a phrase people may not be familiar with.

Darling: Yes, so charismatic continuationism is the belief that the spiritual gifts described in the New Testament—like speaking in tongues, prophecy, and healing—continue to this day. That’s in contrast to “cessationism,” which holds that those gifts were given in the early church to authenticate the gospel and were later withdrawn.

There is considerable debate within Christian circles about this. Most Calvinists, including traditional Reformed churches, are cessationists. They believe those gifts ended with the apostolic age. However, the charismatic and Pentecostal traditions affirm that those gifts are still active and accessible.

Mark Driscoll pivoted on this. Toward the end of his tenure at Mars Hill, and especially during his relaunch at Trinity Church in Arizona, he began embracing more charismatic elements. He partnered with Charisma Media and released Spirit-Filled Jesus, emphasizing prophetic impressions and phrases like “God told me…” So, he transitioned from a hardline Reformed stance to something more hybrid—part Calvinist, part charismatic.

Jacobsen: Let’s place this in context. Most people today know Driscoll as the pastor of Trinity Church in Scottsdale, Arizona. But before that, he was the founder and public face of Mars Hill Church in Seattle. Can you walk us through the timeline of Mars Hill’s rise and fall and its rebirth, so to speak, in Arizona?

Darling: Sure. So Mars Hill Church was founded in 1996 in Seattle and gained momentum in the early 2000s. By 2010–2012, it was one of the fastest-growing churches in the U.S. Mark Driscoll had become a national voice in the New Calvinist movement. This was before the advent of short-form content like TikTok or Instagram Reels, so the primary way to access his teachings was through YouTube sermons or podcast downloads from the Mars Hill website.

He wasn’t charismatic in the Pentecostal sense—not initially. His sermons were aggressive, bold, and highly structured, drawing in a large number of men with the appeal of strong, unapologetic leadership.

That said, many women also found his message compelling—but for different reasons. To put it bluntly, if you were a “pick-me girl,” you probably loved Mark Driscoll. Because if you played by the rules—if you submitted, stayed sexually available, and supported your husband without question—you were praised. You were worthy of being “picked.” And I say that with self-awareness. That was me.

Jacobsen: So Mars Hill collapses, but Driscoll reemerges in Arizona. After his resignation in 2014 following multiple allegations of spiritual abuse, authoritarian leadership, and financial misconduct, Mars Hill dissolved. A few years later, Driscoll resurfaced in Scottsdale, Arizona, founding Trinity Church. Why Arizona?

Darling: I can only speculate, but it’s a red state with many transplanted evangelicals, a high rate of churchgoing households, and very little institutional memory of what happened in Seattle. It was a fresh start for him, but not necessarily a fresh approach.

Jacobsen: Quick clip point of clarification here, Ashley. “Pick me” is an American colloquial term. It is sharp and evocative—but for those outside the U.S. context, can you define it? What exactly is a “pick-me girl”?

Darling: Sure. A “pick-me girl” is someone who craves male attention so much that she’ll say or do whatever she thinks will appeal to men. She’ll agree with anything they say and laugh at all their jokes—her whole vibe is, “Pick me! Pick me!” It’s a kind of performative femininity centred entirely around male approval. And within the church context, that identity can easily align with specific teachings on submission, modesty, and obedience to male authority.

Jacobsen: Now, moving from that to a broader theological frame—let’s talk about the link between doctrine and praxis, specifically around the concept of “father hunger” and what, from an external perspective, might look like hypermasculinity. Internally, it’s often framed as “authentic manhood” or “biblical masculinity.” Is that a fair characterization? And what’s the relationship between those ideas and the gender constructs taught in this theology?

Darling: Yes, that’s a fair framing. So, stepping back, in the 1990s, culturally, we were starting to see a lot more visibility and public acceptance of LGBTQ individuals, especially in the wake of the AIDS crisis in the ’80s. That decade had pushed many queer people into hiding. However, by the 1990s, a shift had occurred through television, film, and legal protections toward greater social inclusion.

And the church, especially evangelical Christianity, tends to be reactive to culture rather than proactive. As this shift was occurring in society, the church responded defensively. This was also the rise of the so-called “apologist era,” and debates began to center around what were perceived as the two most significant threats to Christian morality: abortion and homosexuality.

At the same time, churches began realizing that closeted gay people were already part of their congregations. So, new questions emerged: Does your church affirm LGBTQ individuals? That divide became very public very fast.

Now, a lot of the cultural stereotypes—especially in America—frame gay men as “effeminate.” In conservative evangelical circles, any perceived proximity to that stereotype, even among straight men, being soft-spoken, gentle, artistic, and emotionally expressive was utterly unacceptable. It wasn’t just about sexuality. It was about masculine identity.

So when Mark Driscoll came on the scene, what he offered was a kind of aggressive, exaggerated masculinity that repackaged the most toxic aspects of male behaviour as holy. He said: “This is what it means to be a man of God.” He took this idea of “father hunger”—men’s deep, unresolved pain from emotionally absent or abusive fathers—and filled that void not with healing but with dominance.

He told men that the church didn’t have to be emotional or “feminine.” It could be tough, loud, and gritty. For many men who had felt alienated from the church due to its emotional tone or were afraid of being perceived as soft or effeminate, this was a revelation. They were being told: “You belong here. You can be strong. You can be in control.” So in a way, it was a rebranding of the church—away from its emotional, nurturing associations and toward something hard-edged and “manly.”

There was even a joke in Christian circles back then: “Church is for women.” It was a place where people cried, hugged, and became emotional. That was seen as feminine. Driscoll blew that apart and said, “No, church is for warriors. Church is for fighters.” Many men bought into that vision, not necessarily because it was spiritually true, but because it permitted them to express power, anger, and dominance under the guise of godliness.

Mark Driscoll says, “This is what a real man looks like.” He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t emotional—except when it came to anger. And that made many men sit up and go, “Oh. So, the worst parts of toxic masculinity are the best parts of being a holy man? Cool.”

It was this unspoken permission: “I don’t have to change anything about myself. I can take all these traits I already have—anger, control, dominance—and amplify them. Not only does that make me more masculine, it makes me more holy.”

For many men, that was deeply affirming. Because we’re all human, we want to feel in control. That’s a primal need. We want to avoid death and feel like we have some agency in the world.

This brand of Christianity—Driscoll’s version—offered both. Eternal security: “You don’t have to worry about dying because you know what the afterlife holds.” And immediate control: “Here’s how to take charge of your life and household.” That combination? It was brilliant marketing. And that’s how he got them.

Jacobsen: Let’s talk more about “head of household” or household headship—this idea that men are meant to provide, protect, and lead. These aren’t unique ideas to Mars Hill or even to Driscoll. Figures like Steve Harvey, who blend Christian themes with cultural commentary, promote the same beliefs, especially in communities where traditional gender roles are emphasized. Women in those settings are highly motivated to adopt the model because the church exerts such a significant social influence. But if we narrow it down—let’s say, within the Anglo-American evangelical framework—what does household headship mean in practice? What does it look like today?

Darling: Yes, “head of household” is aurally loaded. It has deep traditional roots. Historically, it referred to the man as the provider, the protector, the one who sets the moral and financial direction of the home. It was always paternalistic, but Mars Hill stripped away any nurturing aspect and repackaged it as more about dominance and control.

This wasn’t about care or stewardship—it was about power. And that’s important. The phrase had existed for a long time, but Mars Hill and Trinity Church reframed it in a way that felt like reclaiming something “lost.”

Historically, yes, men were the hunters and providers, while women stayed home to tend to domestic responsibilities. However, as society changed, women entered the workforce, gained independence, and made financial decisions—these shifts were perceived as a threat to traditional Christian gender roles.

In response, a cultural and theological backlash ensued. The message became: “Men, step up. Take back the leadership of your homes. Reclaim your role.” Simultaneously, you had second-wave and third-wave feminism rising, and women were saying, “Actually, no. I’m the one leading this home. I make the money. I make the decisions.”

There was this deep tension—this ideological clash. What emerged from that was a surge of Christian literature, sermons, and workshops all focused on gender roles: what they “should” be, how to “restore” them, and how to “discipline” the home into biblical order.

The result was a kind of spiritual cold war happening in households. Women were increasingly independent, but men were being told that their very godliness depended on asserting control. That dynamic is still playing out today in churches across America.

Jacobsen: So there’s this kind of back-and-forth—men saying, “I want to be in charge,” and women responding, “The hell you are.” It created tension, right? A kind of ideological tug-of-war.

Darling: What we saw in the early 2000s—through figures like Mark Driscoll, Matt Chandler, Francis Chan, and others—was a collective attempt to reassert control within that gender dynamic. These were the intellectual pastors, the theological heavyweights of the New Calvinist movement. They asked: “How do we make this compelling for men to step up and lead again?”

The answer was to incentivize them. The message became, “If you take charge, you’ll be rewarded with power and sex.” So they went to women and preached, “Relinquishing your power is the most godly thing you can do. Give up your autonomy. Give up your consent.” That was the transactional framework: men lead, women submit.

They preached both sides of that coin. Women were already craving love and affirmation from their husbands. And when you sat in a Driscoll sermon and heard him gush about his wife, it was easy to get pulled in.

Jacobsen: There’s a whole TikTok trend mocking that, right? Pastors are standing at the pulpit saying, “My wife is so hot,” over and over again. It’s performative.

Darling: Yes, 100 percent. There is a specific genre on TikTok where people parody this. Mark Driscoll would get up and say, “My wife—she’s so hot. I love her. God, she’s beautiful. My wife is hotter than yours.” And he meant it. There was even a moment where women in the congregation echoed that, like a weird sort of competition.

And women bought into that narrative. Because here was this pastor—moderately attractive, sure—but married way out of his league, and worshiping the ground his wife walked on in public. Women saw that and thought, “God, if my husband listens to this guy, maybe he’ll talk about me that way too.”

That’s how they got the women. That’s why I say if you were a “pick me” girl, you were highly susceptible to that theology. You were already willing to trade some autonomy for perceived love and admiration.

Jacobsen: The way I’m hearing it, from the social and theological trends of that brand of evangelicalism and the feminist responses, there’s no balance, no mutuality, no conversation. “I’m in charge.” “No, I’m in charge.”

Darling: It’s this classically American pendulum swing—from one extreme to another. There’s no room for nuance—the more complex the framing on one side, the more extreme the reaction on the other. You had hardline feminism developing in response to hardline patriarchy. Then, even more reactionary masculinity is being built to defend that patriarchy.

Jacobsen: And then Mars Hill collapses. And Trinity Church rises.

Darling: Yes, the whole dynamic was—and still is—deeply unhealthy. What’s fascinating and disturbing is how forgiveness was used to justify Driscoll’s return. He had built something enormous, then burned it down. Yet, within a few years, he re-emerged in Arizona, planting Trinity Church as if nothing had happened.

Jacobsen: So the question becomes: what’s the social mechanism by which someone can crash a movement of that scale and then be accepted again—by a new congregation—as if the past doesn’t matter?

Darling: That’s exactly it. There’s a deeply embedded notion in evangelical circles of “grace” that, when weaponized, allows spiritual leaders, especially male ones, to escape accountability. They’ll say, “He’s repented. We’ve forgiven him. Let’s move on.” But the people harmed by his leadership? They’re often still reeling. Still silenced. Still dismissed.

So you see, it’s not actual repentance or restitution—it’s rebranding. He’s back with a name change, a location shift, a few new catchphrases, and boom. The theology remains unchanged, as does the model. Only the platform has.

Pastors are excellent at crisis PR. They know how to slip out of almost any situation. And that’s precisely what Mark Driscoll did—he victimized himself throughout the entire collapse of Mars Hill.

Instead of taking responsibility, he spun the story and said, “This is spiritual warfare.” That’s a classic Christian playbook move: when accountability surfaces, blame Satan. Say that the backlash is demonic opposition. That tactic works every time—it deflects criticism and repositions the leader as the one under attack.

We were trying to hold him accountable. We were saying: “You can’t treat your staff like this. You can’t treat your wife like this. You can’t scream at people and call it leadership.” But he refused to accept responsibility. Many of us were sending emails, trying to speak out and create some form of collective accountability within Mars Hill, because we knew what was happening wasn’t right.

Still, some people remained die-hard defenders. And here’s where it gets alarming: some people will sit in church, and if a pastor gets up and says, “I had sexual relations with a 15-year-old, but I repented,” they’ll applaud. They’ll say, “Yes, thank you for your honesty. We forgive you.” The amount of blanket, uncritical forgiveness in the church can be toxic.

That’s what happened with Driscoll. He launched a massive PR campaign, framing himself as a spiritual warrior under attack. He claimed that those of us trying to hold him accountable were tools of the enemy. That is textbook cult leadership. It follows the same trajectory as almost every other cult: the inner circle gets wise to what’s happening, toxic behaviours come to light, and when they’re exposed, the leader deflects everything.

They say, “I didn’t know,” or “None of this is true. Could you believe it? This is an attack on our mission.” They paint themselves as martyrs, and that’s precisely what Driscoll did.

Jacobsen: It wasn’t just a collapse—it was a rebrand. And he needed time to plan that.

Darling: Yes. It took him a minute to start a new church because he had to do market research. He had to ask, “Where do I still have support? Where will people still come and listen to me preach?”

The answer was Republican states, places with a strong evangelical base and some cultural insulation. Arizona was a strategic choice. It’s a red state with conservative values, but it’s still on the West Coast and has a veneer of progressiveness in certain pockets. For Driscoll, that was the perfect happy medium.

And yes, some people from his Mars Hill days—including myself—lived in Arizona. He knew that. He likely counted on people coming out of curiosity, or even offering him grace and a second chance.

So, his reemergence wasn’t just accidental. It was a well-orchestrated crisis public relations campaign, and it worked. He rebuilt. He rebranded. And he still has a substantial following, especially among men who continue to buy into the same rigid, patriarchal model he’s been selling for years.

Jacobsen: I don’t think it came up directly in our earlier conversations, but I’ve been writing about Trinity Western University—a kind of Canadian counterpart to Liberty University. That finance-based, fundamentalist institutional world—that’s the environment I grew up around.

Darling: That makes sense. It’s a parallel path. The structures are similar—the theological rigidity, the emphasis on hierarchy, the idealized gender roles, and the blending of religious power with institutional branding. Whether in Canada or the United States, these conservative evangelical subcultures unfold similarly.

Jacobsen: I recently wrote an article based on Reddit commentary and mainstream articulation. In one thread, someone mentioned a disturbing account of sexual assault on a Christian campus. One commenter said, “I know at least five women who have been raped on campus, but they’re afraid to say anything—so they don’t.”

For women in that kind of community, especially those who are married and are being told that submission is a divine command, how many would you say are dealing with PTSD from sexual assault but are either hiding it or feeling unsafe talking about it?

Darling: A lot. There are many women in that position. Dr. Jessica Johnson conducted extensive ethnographic research on Mars Hill Church, focusing on the experiences of women within the congregation. Dr. Rose Madrid-Swetman was a pastor and adjunct faculty member at The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology who provided pastoral care to individuals who left Mars Hill Church.

She interviewed women who had been in those marriages—women who had internalized the Mars Hill theology and were dealing with severe emotional trauma. Some of them were still married. Others were divorced. But the core theme was the same: these women were conditioned to stay silent.

Even now, on social media, you’ll see waves—every so often, the “hate train” for Mark Driscoll comes back around, and more women come forward with their stories. They talk about being married to men who fully bought into that theology—hook, line, and sinker. Some of these men were emotionally or sexually abusive. And their wives were told to stay, to submit, to serve.

And yes, some women are still in that environment, still saying, “My pastor will protect me.” But many have left, and they’re just beginning to process what they’ve experienced.

Jacobsen: That’s horrifying.

Darling: Yes. It is. It’s important. It needs to be heard.

Jacobsen: Thank you so much. This conversation—it’s been a long time coming. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for, I don’t know, probably seven years.