If You’re Gonna Talk About Mark Driscoll, You Must Consider Doug Wilson

There’s been much chatter about revelations that as disgusting and wrong Mars Hill Pastor Mark Driscoll is when he’s playing bad-boy megachurch pastor Mark Driscoll, he’s even worse when he’s online, writing vile and misogynistic things under a pseudonym.  Sane people ought to readily agree that this man ought never to have been a pastor in anything even remotely connected the Gospel, but too many leave it at that — Driscoll is an undisciplined jerk, and sometimes you get one like that. But the Driscolls of the world don’t emerge from a vacuum, and they’re never alone in their commitment to offense. And as someone who has engaged with another “bad boy” of evangelicalism, Doug Wilson, I can say that the same foul, bitter, twisted tree of patriarchy has given us both men.

Of course, Mark Driscoll shouldn’t have been ever considered a minister of the Gospel, ever, under any circumstances, and yet for the past decade he’s been celebrated as a welcome breath of masculine fresh air. Note: Masculine fresh air has never brought anything good. But those of us in Moscow, where Driscoll has spoken at the invitation of Premier Patriarch Douglas Wilson, know that Wilson has been a blight on the Body of Christ for much longer than Driscoll has. Wilson, in fact, has been an encouragement to Driscoll; it would not be too far out to suggest that Wilson has provided a lot of the fuel the wreck known as Driscoll has run on. That Driscoll’s star is falling, as it ought to, simply means that Wilson will disavow any particular affection or connection to him.

So why mention, in an article about one disgraceful “minister,” another one? Because most of you don’t know about Douglas Wilson and thus don’t know why I write about him as much as I do. But for every pseudonymical comment Driscoll makes as William Wallace II, below, Wilson has an equal — and under his own name. Male homosexuals are, in Wilson’s twisted, warped world, not only an obsession, but favored with words like “sodomite,” “catamite,” “fudge-packers,” “gaytards,” and those who “do anal honors.” (Notably, during his debate with gay activist Andrew Sullivan last year, he chickened out when I challenged him, in front of 800 people, to show some integrity and call the man standing next to him one of those names). Wilson has called liberal women ugly because our men don’t love us; female pastors are nothing more to him than either the smartest lesbian in seminary, or hermaphroditic amoeba-types. While pretending to defend the hard work of Mexican laborers, he laments “the halcyon days when we could just say ‘wetbacks.’” He wrote a book, Southern Slavery As It Was, that defended slavery in the antebellum South as a positive experience for the slaves, who were provided “excellent health care,” “paid” extra on holidays, and were experiencing, through the benign example of their Christian owners, the “most harmonious” multi-racial society the world has ever seen — and who were generally better off than Black families are now. I’ll give you a moment to run to the bathroom and vomit, and if you want to read this piece of shit, I’ll happily provide a copy of it. Wisely, perhaps, his vanity press has discontinued it.

Oh, and it was just over three years ago that he performed the lavish wedding of a pitiful young woman who just wanted to “have it” — courtship, engagement, and wedding — to a serial, convicted pedophile, Steven Sitler of Moscow, and who did it knowing that the court had deemed Sitler to be at high risk of reoffending and that he would be sent to prison for the rest of his wretched life if ever left alone for even a few minutes with his own children, should he be able to father any, or any others. Katie, who pleaded with one of Wilson’s elders to help her find someone, was swept off her feet by the dashing pedophile and agreed to marry him after their second date. Search “Sitler” on my blog, www.keelyprevailingwinds.com, for my five-part rebuke of Wilson.

So while I would place myself in front of anyone who wanted to visit Driscoll’s church, I’ve got a far worse example here in Moscow. Just this week, I’ve been called a stubborn, bitter old donkey for taking him on, I’ve been called on to produce “the fruit of my life” to a Wilson supporter, and told that I’m obsessed. I’ve got the biggest church organization in my life convinced that I’m a deranged, apostate, sodomite-loving, ugly, unloved, unhinged man-hating sentimental, feminist, loon, and the field of nanotechnology cannot even measure how little I care.

My life is a witness for Jesus Christ. I’ll fight to the death those who in His name say and commit atrocities. If that surprises any of you, I guess you haven’t been paying attention. But if you live in Moscow, you’d better wake up. There’s a snake in our midst, a wolf roaming the streets, and the Jesus he represents and imitates isn’t anyone you want to know.

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