When Listening Isn't Enough: How Firefly's Investigation Failed Survivors

When the Firefly investigation into the International House of Prayer in Kansas City was first announced in September 2024, many survivors found themselves holding a measured hope. What the investigation lacked in resources, it seemed to make up for in credibility, independence, and experience. Yes, it was going to have limitations, but it still felt like a worthy effort—one that had the potential to expose the scope of abuse at IHOPKC.

Survivors took the risk. They trusted that their stories would be treated with care and that professional standards were in place to ensure their experiences were reflected accurately. They placed their pain—and their hope—into Firefly’s hands.

But hope is fragile—and without careful follow-through, even sincere efforts can end in betrayal. Many survivors who had trusted the process were left feeling devalued, ignored, or worse, erased.

Jim Holler had spent hours listening to their stories—so why did so many survivors feel unheard?

Survivors took the risk—and paid the price.

Holler’s willingness to listen was a hallmark of the process—one that initially seemed to signal safety. With 238 interviews averaging two hours each, that’s nearly three months of full-time work, assuming he spent every hour of his workday in back-to-back conversation. Holler absolutely gathered enough to write a damning report in what little time he had—but listening is not the same as honoring, and damnation isn’t justice.

Survivors weren’t just trusting Holler to hear them; they were trusting him to represent their voices and hold their perpetrators accountable. When the final report came four short months later—imperfect, rushed, and with real depth only in Mike Bickle’s section—it was still a devastating indictment of both him and the environment of systemic abuse he created, and it was widely heralded as a success. But survivors of unnamed abusers in the second half were left asking, “Success at what? For whom?”

That question isn’t just about this report—it’s about the foundation of justice in systemic abuse cases. If the goal was only to take down one high-profile abuser, survivors should have been told upfront. But if the goal was to hold all perpetrators accountable and restore power to survivors, something clearly went wrong. And from my conversations with Firefly, survivors, witnesses, and advocates, I believe at least part of the answer lies in how this process was structured. Listening is only the first step. The real question is: What happens after survivors tell their stories?

For many survivors and witnesses I spoke with, reporting to Firefly was marked by ambiguity and miscommunication. There was no roadmap, no clear criteria for which details would be included, whether perpetrators would be contacted, or even how those decisions were made. The lack of transparency forced many survivors into an impossible choice—participate blindly, or walk away from what might be their only shot at vindication.

When the report was published, non-Bickle survivors were dismayed to find their abusers unnamed, their accounts muddled, and some stories omitted entirely. Where Bickle’s victims were rightly afforded pages, the rest were left with sentences so spare that some struggled to identify which stories were theirs.

Adding insult to injury, anonymity was handled inconsistently—some survivors were named, but their perpetrators remained anonymous. How would there be accountability? What was the point? Were their stories just raw material to shore up allegations against IHOPKC and Mike Bickle?

Intended or not, the dynamic left many survivors feeling exhausted, powerless, and retraumatized. It mirrored what they experienced at IHOPKC: power imbalances, lack of agency, and institutional betrayal.

But most devastatingly, they were once again reduced to nameless, faceless figures in service of a larger mission—expected to sacrifice their own healing for the sake of the cause. And perhaps most painfully, it didn’t have to be this way.

A Report That Left Survivors Behind

Throughout all of this, the response has been to point to constraints—but some of those were needlessly imposed, while others should have been established.

If Holler had set clearer criteria or placed limits on phone interviews outside the scope, he might have had more time to ensure sexual abuse survivors were centered and their stories represented well. If I understand correctly, Holler fielded more than 140 calls with non-survivors who were not direct witnesses. Weeks of background interviews that never saw the light of day!

I want to know—what time was spent on those interviews relative to writing victim stories? Was the problem really constraints? Or was it a failure to center survivors within those constraints?

And why such a tight timeline to begin with? Most smaller investigations I’ve followed take a year—not four months. Some survivors told me they were waiting for more information, but by the time they had clarity, the window had already closed. It was impossible to work up the strength in the time left. And with such a rushed process, of course corners were cut. Victims paid the price—especially those who weren’t Bickle’s survivors.

There are rumors that IHOPKC will attempt restoration in the spring. Was the timeline set in service of the Bickle mission too?

It didn’t have to be this way.

A Suvivor-Centered Process Was Possible

Survivors could have had a clear roadmap—timelines, defined phases, and examples of how their testimonies would be structured. They should have had transparent options for anonymity and a direct answer on whether their perpetrators would be contacted or named. That kind of clarity provides security, agency, and the power of informed consent—things survivors both deserve and deeply need.

Survivors also could—and should—have had the opportunity to review their own testimonies before publication. In most investigations, that’s standard. They had the right to verify that their stories were told accurately.

Instead, they were left to find out after the fact. Then, they were forced to rely on public outcry to push for corrections—all while fearing that speaking up might undermine the report itself. It was demoralizing.

Again, I’m not an expert, but it seems the failures in this report could have been avoided with the kinds of practices that experienced, trauma-informed organizations like GRACE, Zero Abuse Project, and Guidepost Solutions employ to minimize harm—some of whom Holler has worked with and could have consulted.

Part of caring for survivors and enacting justice is understanding that exposure and accountability alone are not enough. Justice requires working in ways that restore power, agency, and dignity in the very areas where they were taken—and in cases of abuse, it means prioritizing survivors’ needs above everything else.

That is what success should look like—not just the production of a damning report, but a process that truly honors those who risked telling their stories.

By that standard, Firefly failed.

It wasn’t just inefficient; it was harmful, and it deepened an already grievous wound. If future investigations are to claim they are victim-centered, they must learn from this one—not just by listening, but by creating processes that ensure survivors—all of them—are the priority, not just the raw material.

Exposing Bickle was important—his victims deserved truth and accountability. But when we devalue the wounded in pursuit of a greater mission, we’re no different than the systems we claim to stand against.

There’s no perfect investigation—and justice is never guaranteed, I know that. I just want to believe there’s a better way—one where those without connections had a seat at the table, where old power structures aren’t resurrected, where we give honor to the dishonored, voices to the silenced, faces to the erased.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s this: It never mattered what was in that damn report. Not by itself. What mattered was how we valued people along the way.