Lessons in Perfection and Grace

Joseph Taff was a Pentecostal preacher who worked six days a week building farm machinery and four nights and Sundays at church. It didn’t matter that the church couldn’t give him a salary; he knew God had called him to preach.

"Back then the understanding was that everything else was sacrificed for the work of Christ," said his son Russ, a Grammy Award-winning gospel singer. "That’s all he knew."

So Joseph sacrificed himself and his family for the work of God and his church, East Side Tabernacle in Farmersville, Calif. Years into his ministry, however, Joseph succumbed to the seductive power of alcohol, a problem he’d had before he knew Christ.

Though Joseph led his church more than 30 years ago, many pastors today have similar struggles or feel alone in their service for God. Some churches never show their clergy any appreciation. Some other congregations esteem their pastors so highly that when they fall, they find themselves at the bottom alone.

"My dad preached a gospel of perfection that was very hard to live up to, and he worked himself to the bone trying to do it, then faced bouts of depression," Russ said. After a severe welding accident at work, Joseph turned to drink.

"He was the pastor," Russ said, "so he felt like he had to carry himself above and apart and that there was no one he could go to to say, ‘I’m having a problem here.’ So he hid it as long as he could."

His family didn’t talk about it either. But when the church discovered the drinking, out went Joseph and his family.

And Russ learned to keep his life private. Don’t let anyone know you have a problem or they’ll turn on you. For a time following his father’s dismissal, Russ still had a key to the church and ran there for sanctuary. "I would go down to the church at 10 at night and just talk to God," he said. "Night after night, I would talk to Him about how I was hurt and scared—because I knew He wouldn’t tell anybody."

Russ and his four brothers had sung in church services and at their dad’s summer revivals. In 1977, at 23, Russ made his public entrance as lead vocalist for The Imperials. Russ remembers people saying, "Look what Russ is doing for God."

But that was only a small part of it; he had picked up the mantle his father had thrown off, trying to bring honor back to his family name. "I tried to live that gospel that he couldn’t," Russ said.

Yet like his father, Russ couldn’t stand under the pressure. By his late 30s he had worn himself out. "I thought, This gospel is too hard. Things just started falling apart. It was like riding a horse until it died and then still trying to ride it."

Tori, Russ’ wife of 23 years, was the only one close enough to see him going down. "Observing it was like watching someone fade from color to black and white," Tori said. Things that had formerly brought him joy, he was flat-lining on." Tori told Russ they had to talk to somebody, but Russ kept saying God would see him through his struggle, without the help of other people.

"My idea wasn’t that we would pray so he would snap out of it," Tori said. "I wanted to pray for the right person to walk us through and give us some tools. I knew this was something I couldn’t love him out of or talk him through."

Russ’ anguish reached the point where he got scared. Finally, he started seeing a professional counselor. And he found freedom—to speak, to be honest, to dig through the layers of his life—and an understanding of grace.

"[The counselor] loved me and saw me as a guy who loved God very much. I was able to talk about the hurts, the shame of growing up with an alcoholic father," Russ said. "And it was all right to say, ‘I am really mad at God for letting all those things happen.’ "

Open freedom

Today, you wouldn’t guess that Russ ever had a hard time being open with others. His eyes are honest, and so is his smile. He’s part of an accountability group of four to five friends in which they can be open with one another.

Becoming a parent gave Russ a greater perspective on the gospel of grace. Because his travel schedule was full for many years, he and Tori didn’t have children until 15 years into their marriage. Maddie Rose is now 8, and Charlotte is 4.

"There was a little bit of healing in looking at those wide open faces," Tori said. "It helped him give himself a little more slack."

Since attending counseling and receiving treatment for clinical depression, Russ’ joy has returned to his singing, to his relationships. "These days he’s not as results-driven," Tori said. "It’s more about the experience. He’s connecting and reaching out to people because it feels good, not because it’s a duty."

Before his father passed away three years ago, Russ was able to pass on to his father some of the lessons he had learned. On one visit while Russ’ dad was in rehabilitation, Joseph had asked, "Son, who’s going to listen to me now?"

"Dad," Russ said, "give me someone who’s been to hell and back, somebody who’s been forgiven a tremendous debt—when he stands in the pulpit, he has a whole lot to say about the grace of God."