‘Let Us Prey’ Exposes ‘Training Ground for Pedophiles’

The Independent Fundamentalist Baptist (IFB) church is an insular Christian “cult” that resembles a real-world version of the old-timey religion preached by John Lithgow’s minister in Footloose, complete with denouncements of dancing, rock ‘n’ roll, and immodesty. Far from simply a stuffy conservative faith, however, the IFB is guided by a doctrine—based on strict adherence to the King James Bible—that men rule and women serve. No surprise, then, that this severe and sexist system is apparently a breeding ground for rampant abuse and rape of minors.

Dubbing it “a training ground for pedophiles and serial rapists”—as one voice does in the opening minutes of the show’s first episode—seemingly couldn’t be more accurate. And the only thing more shocking than its male members’ offenses is the fact that, according to ID’s new four-part docuseries, it’s made little effort to conceal them.

Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals (Nov. 24 on ID) rakes the IFB over the coals via both testimonials from a handful of women who’ve spoken out against (and stood up to) the organization, as well as footage of its preachers spewing noxious rhetoric on the pulpit. Of that latter material, perhaps nothing is more stunning than the brazenness of Jack Schaap, chancellor of Hyles-Anderson College, stroking a blade in an explicitly masturbatory fashion while explaining how women should accept their spouse’s punishment: “I hurt, you say, ‘Thank you!’”

It’s a handy encapsulation of the disgusting ethos of the IFB, which was turned into a powerhouse movement by Schaap’s father-in-law Jack Hyles. A fire-and-brimstone fanatic, Hyles is seen in multiple scenes smashing TVs, decrying critics, and blaming women for enticing men with their short skirts and skimpy bathing suits, the latter of which were expressly forbidden.

The IFB’s appeal to a certain type of man is clear: As the heads of society and their households, they have license to behave as they please and to beat any female (wife, daughter, relative) who dares question their authority or, for that matter, says or does anything they dislike. Women, on the other hand, are slaves who live under constant threat of violence and violation (not to mention eternal damnation), and their entire lives are spent being indoctrinated to accept their status as second-class servants.

Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals is a scathing exposé of the movement as a de facto cult that demanded subservience in every way imaginable, including sexually, with pastors—looked upon as unassailable due to their standing as the right hand of God—habitually taking advantage of their positions by molesting and raping young girls and then eliciting their silence with threats of further brutality and exile.

It’s plain to see from Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals that the IFB was created to exploit and mistreat for the gratification of men, yet that perspective isn’t shared by many of the women who are born and raised in its round-the-clock Christian culture.

ID’s docuseries focuses on a collection of such sheltered individuals, beginning with Ruthy Heiler, who at the age of 12 enrolled at Grace Baptist Christian School in Gaylord, Michigan. There, she met teacher and volleyball coach Aaron Willand, who befriended Ruthy’s single mom and enlisted the girl to babysit his children. Inappropriate sexual relations ensued, and though Aaron was subsequently shipped off to Washington state for a different covert infraction with a minor, Ruthy’s clueless mom sent her to visit him to help care for his kids, during which time, at the age of 14, she was repeatedly raped by Willand.

Kathy Durbin’s tale boasts different particulars but the same basic template. Having relocated with her hateful mother and second stepfather to Wildomar, California, she began attending Faith Baptist Church, where she met—and found a surrogate father figure in—assistant pastor Paul Fox. What started as the paternalistic relationship she always craved, however, became a nightmare for the 15-year-old girl, who was soon being constantly raped in Fox’s van. Kathy’s story about how Fox simultaneously earned her trust with a teddy bear and violated it by gifting her lingerie panties is a case study in groomer tactics. Its ugliness is equaled by the additional narratives featured in Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals, be it Amanda Householder’s unthinkable upbringing with parents who ran an IFB academy like a house of horrors, or the separate repugnant ordeals suffered by April Avila and Rachel Peach at the hands of Victor Monteiro—the very pastor hired to replace Fox.

The IFB grants men total power and, when those figures overstep their boundaries by abusing kids, it partakes in what one talking head dubs “the pedophile shuffle,” surreptitiously moving them to other outposts à la the Catholic Church. With intense compassion, Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals lets its speakers (including Nanette Miles) detail this religion’s monstrous beliefs and practices, name its most vile cretins, and point a finger at church superiors—such as Grace Baptist Church’s Jon Jenkins and Faith Baptist Church’s Bruce Goddard—for shielding these criminals and their conduct from children, parents and law enforcement. That those pastors continue to ply their despicable trade speaks to the immense influence they command in their communities and with their flock. And that, in turn, underlines why so few victims during the past half-century have publicly tried to hold the church accountable for its countless wrongs.

Courtesy of its heartrending first-person testimonials and contextual commentary from podcaster Eric Skwarczynski and Fort Worth Star-Telegram investigative reporter Sarah Smith, Let Us Prey: A Ministry of Scandals proves a descent into a very real sort of hell. Nonetheless, it refuses to merely wallow in despair. Depicting Ruthy and her compatriots’ use of social media to band together and spread the word about the IFB, as well as their tireless efforts to pursue legal avenues in order to put their abusers behind bars—endeavors that ultimately pay considerable, if still insufficient, dividends—the docuseries is a moving celebration of courage, camaraderie and the hope and progress that comes from taking a stand.

Their brave actions are nothing short of inspirational, and in fact are so moving that even the proceedings’ overwrought heartstring-tugging (shots of people posing for the camera, slow-motion, swelling music) ultimately feel earned.