Early in my ministry, an older priest told me that, for a season of her own ministry, she had taken a break from church. I thought this was odd for a priest—maybe even wrong. She didn’t defend herself to me. She only explained that she and her family had been so damaged by parish ministry that they had needed a season to heal before they could resume public ministry in good faith.
What struck me as odd in my early years of ministry today seems unsurprising. When I count the pastors I’ve watched closely over the past decade—from various denominations and generations—a significant majority of them have experienced gut-wrenching pain at the hands of people in their churches.
Ministry is never easy, but it’s always personal. Those of us who serve and lead the church are on the frontlines of dealing with human brokenness—and we often have scars to prove it.
The call to pastor is a call to love. We give more to our work than a set of skills or techniques—we give ourselves. Pastors experience a deep sense of betrayal when the people we love attack, disparage, or turn against us. The pain of betrayal seems to be an immutable part of the pastoral vocation.
The art of vulnerability
Pain caused by betrayal is one reason why pastors, though constantly involved with people, can feel extremely lonely. This is a job that requires becoming vulnerable over and over again, without any guarantee of security, longevity, or safety in relationships. The degree of relational risk can feel very high. So pastors—and their families—often carry relational wounds alone, without many true confidants with whom they can safely share. Without adequate support from trusted friends and mentors, these ministry wounds can fester and eventually devour us.
But there is good news: Avoiding vulnerability—and its inherent risks—isn’t the goal.
It might be tempting to insulate ourselves from the pain of rejection or betrayal by learning to simply care less. We clock in, preach our sermons, take a paycheck, and keep our expectations low. This kind of emotional numbness might feel safer, but it robs us of hope and becomes a recipe for apathy and jadedness in ministry.
In my own ministry, I feel this temptation most often in my relationships with fellow leaders in the church. Maybe I bring unrealistic expectations of other pastors. Maybe the growing number of abuse scandals and cover-ups and the ugly reality of denominational wars have diminished my trust in the integrity of church leaders. I have committed my life to the church; leaving isn’t an option. But at times, I recognize in myself a tendency toward indifference and cynicism that resemble self-protection more than anything else.
In a church full of broken shepherds and sheep, self-protection is understandable. But it is not very Christlike.
Jesus, the perfect pastor, did not insulate himself against vulnerability. Instead, he allowed himself to be disappointed and even hurt by his disciples. When they dozed off at his greatest time of need, he asked them, “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” (Matt. 26:40). And he washed the feet of the one who would betray him.
Jesus knows what it’s like to be abandoned by his people—even by his fellow leaders. And he knows what it is like to die for them anyway: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end” (John 13:1).
In the darkness of Gethsemane, on the eve of his crucifixion, Jesus modeled a kind of resoluteness that could never be confused with stoicism. He remained faithful to his call despite his disciples’ failure to support him, but he also honestly acknowledged his pain before the Father and received the ministry of an angel to strengthen him (Luke 22:43). This invites us to embrace a kind of strength that isn’t cowed by others’ criticism or isolation but that also doesn’t retreat into indifference. It’s the kind of strength that empowers us to lay down our lives.
Our personal ministries will never measure up to Jesus’. He is the Good Shepherd; we are first and foremost recipients of his grace and rescue. But as those whom he has called to serve as undershepherds of his flock (1 Pet. 5:2), we can and should expect our ministries to be cross-shaped.
The fellowship of His sufferings
When we feel betrayed by our people, it is easy to ask, “Where did I go wrong?” But these painful experiences are not a sign of failure in ministry. They are an aspect of our participation in Christ. To share in Christ’s ministry is to share in his sufferings. When we embrace the costly work of self-giving, seeking to faithfully love God’s faithless people, we uniquely live into our vocation as pastors. We’ve been appointed to shepherd and care for people even though they might hurt us.
This call is cruciform, but it is also formative. In a world that champions celebrity and equates success with popularity, our experiences of isolation and betrayal remind us that we apprentice a crucified Lord. We can hope for—and even seek, when appropriate—reconciliation for broken relationships because ours is also the God of resurrection. Restored fellowship is our future in him. But when reconciliation remains impossible on this side of eternity, we can still find meaning in the pain. To have even a small share in his ministry means to be counted worthy to suffer dishonor for his name (Acts 5:41). The heartache of betrayal invites us into deeper union with Jesus, turning isolation into intimacy.
In my Anglican tradition, when priests are ordained, they are invited to lie prostrate with arms extended, forming the shape of a cross. This liturgical embodiment of our vows reminds us that priestly ministry is, in many ways, a ministry of death—a life poured out as an offering to God on behalf of his people (Phil. 2:17). During an especially painful season in her ministry, a priest friend of mine assumed this posture again in a moment of private prayer and lament. As she rested her cheek on the floor of her prayer chapel, she sensed Jesus lying beside her, arms outstretched, his fingertips touching her own. There on the floor, in the humility of prostration, she imagined Jesus saying, “Don’t worry. I do this all the time.”
On the painful and sometimes bewildering path of ministry, Jesus is our guide. He has shown us what cruciform love looks like. He is still faithfully loving his treacherous bride. And he will sustain us as we seek to do the same.
Hannah King is a priest and writer in the Anglican Church of North America. She serves as an associate pastor at Village Church in Greenville, South Carolina.
This article is a part of our fall CT Pastors issue. You can find the full issue here.
