When a Bishop Gets Exonerated in Secret: The Trial Nobody Got to See

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The Verdict That Raised More Questions Than It Answered

Bishop Stewart Ruch III was exonerated. The church court found him not guilty of the charges against him. His supporters celebrated. The diocese issued statements about moving forward. Everyone was supposed to accept the outcome and get back to normal church business.

Except there was one small problem: the trial was secret.

Not “private” in the sense of protecting sensitive information. Not “confidential” with limited public access but documented proceedings. Actually secret. Conducted behind closed doors with no public observation, no transparency about evidence or testimony, no way for congregants to know what actually happened.

The bishop was accused of conduct unbecoming his office, violations of his ordination vows, actions that caused scandal. These are serious allegations that affect everyone in the diocese—every parishioner who looks to the bishop for spiritual leadership, every clergy member under his authority, every person whose faith is shaped by their trust in church leadership.

And they were adjudicated in a process nobody got to see.

The exoneration came down, and everyone was just supposed to trust that justice was served, that the process was fair, that the right outcome was reached. Trust the system. Trust the church court. Trust that leaders investigated their own and came to an honest conclusion.

Except… why would anyone trust that?

Welcome to the world of ecclesiastical justice, where the people most affected by decisions have the least access to information, where accountability happens in darkness, where “trust us” substitutes for transparency.

The bishop was exonerated. Great! Of what, exactly? Based on what evidence? After what process? Against what standard of proof?

Nobody knows. And we’re all supposed to be fine with that.

Who Is Bishop Ruch (And Why Does This Matter)?

Stewart Ruch III isn’t some obscure bishop in a tiny diocese. He leads the Diocese of the Upper Midwest in the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA)—a significant position in a growing denomination.

Before facing these charges, Ruch had a solid reputation. Dynamic leader, collaborative approach, commitment to community engagement and spiritual growth. He emphasized inclusivity, encouraged dialogue, fostered ecumenical relationships. Under his leadership, the diocese grew—more congregants, more impact, more presence.

By all accounts, he was doing well. Which makes the allegations more shocking and the secret trial more troubling.

Because when a respected leader faces serious charges, there are really only two possibilities:

Option One: The allegations are false or exaggerated, motivated by politics or personal grudges. In which case, a public trial would vindicate him completely and expose his accusers.

Option Two: The allegations have merit, and there’s real misconduct to address. In which case, transparency is essential for accountability and healing.

Either way, secrecy serves nobody except institutional reputation management.

A public process protects everyone. Transparency ensures fairness, demonstrates justice, allows the community to understand what happened and why. It’s uncomfortable and messy, but that’s the cost of actual accountability.

Secrecy protects only one thing: the institution’s ability to control the narrative.

The Charges Nobody Got to Examine

Here’s what we know about the allegations against Bishop Ruch: not much.

The charges involved violations of ordination vows and conduct unbecoming a bishop. Specifically, actions that “gave just cause for scandal”—meaning behavior that damaged the church’s reputation or undermined trust in leadership.

What specific actions? What actually happened? What evidence supported the allegations?

We don’t know. The proceedings were secret. The evidence wasn’t public. The testimony wasn’t accessible.

We do know the charges weren’t about sexual misconduct—important to clarify since that’s what people often assume in church scandal cases. This was about governance, decision-making, interpersonal dynamics, leadership conduct.

But the specifics? The context? The actual facts of what the bishop allegedly did?

Locked away behind ecclesiastical confidentiality.

This creates an impossible situation for everyone involved:

For the bishop: He can’t fully clear his name because nobody knows what he was specifically accused of. “Exonerated of secret charges” isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.

For accusers: If there was genuine misconduct, the secrecy prevents accountability and allows the behavior to continue. If accusations were false, the public has no way to judge their credibility.

For the congregation: They’re supposed to trust their bishop’s leadership without knowing what he was accused of or how the court reached its verdict. That’s asking a lot.

For the wider church: Other dioceses and leaders can’t learn from this case because they don’t know what actually happened or how it was adjudicated.

Secrecy serves nobody’s interests except institutional damage control.

The Trial That Wasn’t (Really)

Ecclesiastical courts aren’t like civil courts. They operate under different rules, different standards, different purposes.

In theory, they’re supposed to combine legal fairness with pastoral concern—addressing misconduct while promoting healing and restoration. In practice, they often fail at both.

The secret trial of Bishop Ruch exemplifies these failures:

No public accountability. When proceedings happen behind closed doors, there’s no way to verify fairness, no external scrutiny, no check on institutional bias.

No transparency about standards. What exactly constitutes “conduct unbecoming a bishop”? What’s the burden of proof? What evidence is admissible? Without public proceedings, these crucial questions remain unanswered.

No voice for affected parties. If people were harmed by the bishop’s alleged conduct, do they get to speak? Are their perspectives considered? Or is this entirely about whether the bishop broke technical rules?

No learning opportunity. A public trial, however painful, teaches the community about expectations, consequences, and how the church handles misconduct. A secret trial teaches nothing except that leadership operates without oversight.

The stated justification for secrecy is usually protecting sensitive information and preserving reputations. But whose reputations are being protected? And from what?

If the bishop is innocent, transparency vindicates him. If he’s guilty, transparency ensures accountability. The only scenario where secrecy helps is if the goal is avoiding public scrutiny of how the church handles (or mishandles) serious allegations.

The Exoneration Nobody Can Evaluate

So Bishop Ruch was exonerated. The court found the charges lacked merit—inconsistent witness statements, insufficient evidence, allegations that couldn’t be proven.

Great! Justice served, right?

Except… we can’t actually evaluate that conclusion because we don’t know what evidence was presented, what witnesses said, what standards were applied, or how the court reached its decision.

We’re just supposed to trust it.

And trust is exactly what secret proceedings undermine. When you can’t see the process, when you can’t examine the evidence, when you can’t understand the reasoning—trust becomes impossible.

The bishop’s supporters are thrilled. They always believed in his innocence, and the verdict confirms it. They want everyone to move on, stop dwelling on unpleasant allegations, get back to the important work of ministry.

The bishop’s critics remain skeptical. A secret trial conducted by church insiders judging one of their own? How is that credible? The lack of transparency suggests institutional protection, not actual justice.

The confused middle doesn’t know what to think. Maybe the bishop is completely innocent. Maybe there was serious misconduct that the court chose to overlook. Maybe the truth is somewhere in between. Without access to information, there’s no way to judge.

This is what secrecy produces: fractured communities where different groups have completely incompatible understandings of reality, and no shared factual basis for reconciliation.

The Culture of Secrecy

Here’s what’s particularly troubling: secret trials aren’t aberrations in church governance—they’re standard operating procedure.

Ecclesiastical courts routinely conduct proceedings behind closed doors. Allegations against clergy are investigated internally with minimal transparency. Decisions are announced with little explanation. Congregants are expected to trust that justice was served without being able to evaluate that claim.

This creates a culture where:

Accusers are silenced. If you report misconduct, your allegations disappear into a black box. You don’t know if they’re taken seriously. You don’t know what evidence is considered. You don’t know how decisions are made. You just wait for a verdict and hope for the best.

Perpetrators are protected. Even when misconduct is proven, secrecy allows church leadership to handle things quietly—reassignments, private reprimands, confidential settlements. Public accountability is avoided.

Congregations are infantilized. The message is clear: you don’t need to know what’s happening. Leadership will handle it. Trust the process. Don’t ask questions.

Institutions prioritize reputation over justice. Secret proceedings allow churches to minimize scandal, control narratives, and protect their public image. Actual accountability becomes secondary.

This culture doesn’t serve anyone except institutional self-interest. And it’s directly contradictory to the transparency and accountability that healthy organizations require.

The Aftermath Nobody’s Prepared For

So Bishop Ruch is exonerated. Now what?

In theory, everyone moves forward. The bishop returns to full duties. The diocese heals. Trust is restored. Life continues.

In reality, that’s not how this works.

The bishop’s authority is permanently compromised. No matter the verdict, some portion of the diocese will always question his leadership. Every decision will be scrutinized. Every interaction will be filtered through awareness of the allegations. His effectiveness is diminished.

The diocese remains fractured. Supporters and critics aren’t reconciled—they’re just forced to coexist within the same institutional structure. The tension persists, manifesting in passive-aggressive conflicts and institutional dysfunction.

Trust in church governance erodes. Secret trials don’t build confidence—they destroy it. People learn that the institution operates without transparency, that leadership isn’t accountable to the congregation, that serious allegations can disappear into confidential proceedings.

Future accusations become less likely. Why would anyone report misconduct if the process is secret, the outcome uncertain, and the personal cost enormous? The message received: better to stay quiet.

Systemic problems remain unaddressed. Whatever circumstances enabled the allegations—unclear boundaries, poor governance, inadequate oversight—those structural issues persist. The next crisis is already brewing.

None of this is fixed by exoneration. In fact, the secret trial makes everything worse by adding opacity and distrust to the existing problems.

What Should Have Happened (But Didn’t)

Let’s imagine an alternative approach:

Transparent proceedings. Conduct the trial publicly (to the extent legally permissible while protecting victims). Let congregants observe. Document decisions. Explain reasoning.

Clear standards. Define exactly what constitutes violations of ordination vows and conduct unbecoming a bishop. Apply those standards consistently. Make the criteria known beforehand.

Independent oversight. Don’t have church insiders judge their own. Bring in external adjudicators without institutional loyalty or bias. Ensure actual independence.

Victim-centered process. If people were harmed, prioritize their voices, their healing, their needs. Don’t let institutional concerns override pastoral care for those allegedly wronged.

Public accountability. If exoneration occurs, explain why—what evidence was insufficient, what standards weren’t met, what led to the verdict. Let the community evaluate the decision.

Systemic examination. Use the case as opportunity to identify and fix structural problems. Don’t just adjudicate the individual situation—address root causes.

None of this happened. Instead: secret trial, opaque process, verdict without explanation, expectation that everyone just accept the outcome and move on.

It’s institutional self-protection masquerading as justice.

The Bigger Pattern

Bishop Ruch’s case isn’t unique—it’s typical of how religious institutions handle allegations against leaders.

Catholic Church: Decades of secret investigations, confidential proceedings, priests quietly transferred rather than publicly held accountable. Institutional protection trumping transparency.

Various Protestant denominations: Internal investigations that clear accused leaders, with minimal explanation and no public access to proceedings. Congregants told to trust the process.

Every major religious tradition: Has versions of this pattern. Secret proceedings. Opaque decisions. Institutional self-interest prioritized over transparency.

Why does this keep happening? Because institutions instinctively protect themselves. Because transparency is risky—it exposes decision-making to scrutiny, invites criticism, makes damage control harder.

Secret proceedings are easier. Cleaner. More controllable. Better for institutional reputation management.

They’re just terrible for actual justice, accountability, and trust.

The Question Nobody’s Asking

Here’s what I keep coming back to: If the proceedings truly exonerated Bishop Ruch, if the evidence clearly showed the allegations were false, if the process was fair and the verdict just—why the secrecy?

What’s gained by keeping it confidential? The bishop’s reputation? It’s already damaged by the mere existence of allegations. Transparency would actually help by showing specifically why the charges didn’t hold up.

The institution’s reputation? Secrecy creates suspicion of cover-up. Transparency demonstrates commitment to accountability.

The accusers’ reputations? If they made false allegations, wouldn’t exposing that protect future potential victims from similar unfounded claims?

The only thing secrecy genuinely protects is the institution’s ability to avoid scrutiny. To control the narrative. To prevent awkward questions about how allegations arose, how they were investigated, and whether the process was truly fair.

And that should concern everyone—supporters and critics alike.

Because if the goal is justice, transparency helps. If the goal is truth, openness helps. If the goal is accountability, public proceedings help.

The only goal served by secrecy is avoiding uncomfortable examination of institutional practices.

Moving Forward (Into What, Exactly?)

So what happens next for Bishop Ruch and his diocese?

Officially: business as usual. The trial is over. The verdict is in. Time to move forward with ministry and mission.

Realistically: ongoing dysfunction. The fractures remain. The questions persist. The trust is still broken.

Some will leave—unable to remain in a diocese led by someone they believe got away with misconduct, or unwilling to be part of a church that conducts secret trials.

Others will stay but disengage—going through the motions without deep investment, maintaining formal affiliation without genuine community connection.

Still others will actively work for reform—pushing for transparency policies, accountability mechanisms, governance changes that prevent future secret proceedings.

And the diocese will limp forward, damaged and divided, hoping time heals wounds that structural secrecy keeps re-opening.

Meanwhile, the ACNA and broader Anglican community face their own reckoning. If this is how allegations against bishops are handled—secret trials, opaque processes, verdicts without explanation—what does that say about the denomination’s commitment to accountability?

Other dioceses watch and learn: this is what happens when you report misconduct against leadership. Secrecy. Institutional protection. Expectation of blind trust.

Is that the lesson the church wants to teach?

The Lesson We Should Learn (But Probably Won’t)

Here’s what Bishop Ruch’s secret trial should teach religious institutions:

Secrecy breeds suspicion. Even when verdicts are correct, secret proceedings undermine trust. Transparency is the only way to demonstrate fairness.

Institutional self-investigation is inherently problematic. Church insiders judging their own creates unavoidable conflicts of interest. External oversight is essential for credibility.

Justice requires visibility. For proceedings to be just, they must be observable. Secret justice is an oxymoron.

Congregations deserve information. These are their spiritual communities, their leaders, their churches. They have a right to know how allegations are handled and why decisions are made.

Reform requires acknowledging problems. Secret trials are symptoms of deeper governance failures. Addressing them requires institutional humility and willingness to change.

Will religious institutions learn these lessons? History suggests not.

Because learning would require surrendering control. Accepting external oversight. Prioritizing transparency over reputation management. Empowering congregations over protecting hierarchies.

Most institutions aren’t willing to make those changes. So the pattern continues—secret proceedings, opaque decisions, erosion of trust, repeat.

The Ending That Isn’t One

Bishop Stewart Ruch III was exonerated in a secret trial. The church court found the allegations lacked merit. His supporters are relieved. His critics are skeptical. The congregation is divided.

And nobody—literally nobody—except the participants knows what actually happened in that trial.

We don’t know what evidence was presented. We don’t know what witnesses said. We don’t know what standards were applied. We don’t know how the court reached its decision.

We just know the verdict: not guilty.

And we’re supposed to accept it. Trust it. Move on from it.

But trust isn’t built through secrecy. It’s built through transparency. Through openness. Through willingness to subject decisions to scrutiny and criticism.

Secret trials don’t produce trust—they destroy it. Even when verdicts are correct, the process itself damages the institution’s credibility.

So here we are: a bishop exonerated, a diocese fractured, a denomination facing questions about its commitment to accountability, and a congregation told to trust a process they couldn’t see.

Maybe Bishop Ruch is completely innocent. Maybe the allegations were baseless, motivated by politics or personal grudges. Maybe the secret trial reached exactly the right conclusion.

Or maybe there was genuine misconduct that the institution chose to overlook. Maybe the secrecy protected the bishop rather than pursuing justice. Maybe the verdict prioritized institutional stability over accountability.

We’ll never know. That’s what secret trials ensure—permanent uncertainty, unresolvable division, erosion of trust.

The bishop walks free. The institution declares the matter closed. Everyone’s supposed to move forward.

But you can’t move forward from something you never got to understand. You can’t heal from wounds you’re not allowed to examine. You can’t rebuild trust that was broken in darkness.

The trial is over. The verdict is in. The secrecy remains.

And that’s the real scandal—not what the bishop may or may not have done, but the system that adjudicated it in darkness and expected everyone to accept the outcome on faith alone.

Faith in institutions requires reasons. Transparency provides those reasons. Secrecy destroys them.

Bishop Ruch was exonerated.

In secret.

And we’re all supposed to be fine with that.

Are you?