Questioning religious authority isn't blasphemy—it's a moral imperative

Yesterday morning, 1 Samuel 2 came up in my daily lectionary reading, and I couldn't shake how eerily contemporary this ancient text feels. Every time I encounter the story of Eli's sons, I'm struck by how little has changed in the dynamics of religious power and corruption. It's like reading today's headlines in yesterday's scripture.

Let me paint you a picture. You're in ancient Israel, and you've saved up for months to bring a sacrifice to the temple at Shiloh, a deeply personal, tangible expression of your devotion. But when you arrive, you encounter Hophni and Phinehas, the sons of Eli, who've turned God's house into their personal racket.

Here's how their scam works: When someone brings a sacrifice, these priests show up with a three-pronged fork - like they're at some medieval BBQ - and just stab into the pot, taking whatever they want. The religious law was specific about this process: burn the fat for God first, then the priests get their designated portion of boiled meat. But these guys? They demand raw meat, they want it immediately, and they want the best cuts. Try to follow the actual rules, and they literally threaten violence.

Imagine showing up to church with your tithe and having the pastor say, "Nice offering envelope. Be a shame if something happened to your kneecaps."

The passage tells us that "the sin of the young men was very great in the sight of the Lord, for they treated the offerings of the Lord with contempt." But contempt doesn't quite capture it—they're running a protection racket in God's name, using their spiritual authority to shake down worshippers.

I'm reminded of a pastor I knew who would use the pulpit to solicit personal favors. "Anyone here sell cars? The Lord's servant needs a good deal." Or during a sermon on generosity: "I'm going be doing some work on my house soon. Any contractors in the house feeling led by the Spirit?" The congregation would shift uncomfortably, knowing that refusing the "request" meant potentially being seen as unspiritual or uncommitted to supporting their leader.

Now I do think pastors absolutely deserve fair compensation for their work. Pastoral ministry is emotionally demanding, requires extensive education, and involves being on-call for crises at all hours. But there's a massive difference between appropriate compensation and leveraging spiritual authority to extract personal perks from your flock.

The corruption of Eli's sons extends beyond the offering table. The text tells us they were sleeping with the women who served at the entrance to the tent of meeting. These women came to worship and serve, and these priests exploited that vulnerability for sexual gratification. It's predatory behavior wrapped in religious authority, a pattern we've seen repeated in countless contemporary scandals.

What strikes me at this moment is the institutional failure that enables this corruption. Eli knows exactly what his sons are doing. His response? A weak rebuke that amounts to "Now boys, people are talking." No removal from office, no real consequences, just disappointment and hand-wringing while the abuse continues. He even acknowledges that they're sinning against God himself, yet he fails to use his authority to stop them.

This institutional protection of bad actors is devastatingly common. How many times have we watched religious organizations shuffle predators between congregations? How many boards of elders have prioritized protecting the institution's reputation over protecting victims? How many congregations have been told to "forgive and forget" while their leaders face zero accountability?

The contrast in this passage is little Samuel, ministering before the Lord in his homemade linen ephod. His mother Hannah makes him a new "little robe" each year—such a tender detail in the midst of this corruption narrative. Here's this child, serving faithfully in simplicity, while the official priests exploit their position. No power plays, no manipulation, just genuine service. It's as if the text is saying: this is what religious leadership should look like.

The real tragedy isn't just individual corruption; it's the spiritual damage inflicted on entire communities. The text emphasizes that Hophni and Phinehas made people "despise" bringing offerings to the Lord. They poisoned people's relationship with worship itself. When you can't trust the very people who are supposed to guide your spiritual life, it creates a crisis of faith that extends far beyond individual bad actors.

This same dynamic plays out today. Someone discovers their trusted pastor has been embezzling funds, or pressuring vulnerable members for sexual favors, or using their position to build a personal empire. The betrayal doesn't just damage their relationship with that leader, it shakes their entire faith foundation. They start wondering: Was any of it real? Can I trust any religious authority? Is the whole system corrupt?

This is why I believe questioning religious authority isn't just acceptable—it's essential. The moment we declare any human leader above accountability, we create the conditions for abuse. When we're told that questioning the pastor is "touching God's anointed" or that expressing doubt is evidence of weak faith, we should see red flags waving.

The story of Eli's sons reminds us that corruption in religious leadership isn't new. What's also not new is God's anger at those who exploit their spiritual authority. The passage makes clear that their judgment is coming, and it will be severe. The privilege of spiritual leadership comes with profound responsibility, and abusing that position for personal gain is, according to this text, one of the gravest sins imaginable.

So where does this leave us? First, I think we need to normalize healthy skepticism of religious authority. Questions aren't threats - they're necessary for accountability.

Second, we need to create systems that prevent the concentration of unchecked power in religious institutions. Multiple leaders, transparent finances, clear policies about conflicts of interest, and robust protections for whistleblowers should be standard, not exceptional.

Most importantly, we need to remember what genuine spiritual leadership looks like. It's not about what you can extract from your position, it's about how you can serve. It's Samuel in his simple robe, not Hophni and Phinehas with their threatening forks. It's transparency, not secrecy. It's building others up, not building your own empire.

Your faith community should draw you closer to the divine, not make you feel like you're being shaken down for favors. When religious leaders start acting more like mob bosses than servants, it's not blasphemous to call it out—it's biblical.

The next time someone uses their religious authority to manipulate, exploit, or abuse, remember the sons of Eli. Remember that even in ancient times, God stood with the exploited against their exploiters. And remember that questioning corrupt authority isn't a lack of faith, it's what faithfulness looks like in the face of abuse.