Worn out, burned out, anxious, restless, wounded, disappointed, done. I’ve been there. I will be there again. And likely, so will you. Whether you’re the lead pastor, an associate or assistant pastor, or planting a new church, things often unfold in ways we don’t anticipate. The minister’s journey is often a painful one. Plans fail. Dreams drift out of reach. We find ourselves grieving at the broken altar of unmet ministry expectations.
Here’s an example: In 2015, I planted a church in the heart of Seattle with my good friend Ryan. Armed with clear vision, big dreams, and decades of ministry experience to back it up, we spent time mapping out our ambitious one-, three-, and five-year plans. Each plan was well intentioned, thoughtful and bathed in prayer, and yet things did not turn out as we envisioned.
Over the next few years, we faced unexpected trials. Those we thought would remain decided to leave. Their departures struck deeply. Trusted allies turned away, shaking our confidence. We made leadership mistakes and felt regret. Leaders we had invested much time in developing walked away from the faith all together, adding to our sorrows.
The church grew deep and wide in many beautiful ways; yet beneath this flourishing there was an undercurrent of grief. And while I’d certainly affirm all the good theological answers about God’s sovereignty, I privately wrestled with a disquieting question: Is this the calling I signed up for?
The Grief We Don’t Name
As pastors we are always striving—striving to grow, develop, and disciple. Yet in this outward pursuit, there’s a question we often overlook: Do we apply the same passion and intention to care for the state of our own souls? Why not? Maybe it’s the discomfort of such introspection, or perhaps it’s that “pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make it happen” philosophy woven into the very fabric of ministry culture.
This is what I was fed at 28 years old stepping into my first lead role. The job felt robotic, cold, and even harmful. But it was all for the sake of “mission.” And so, instead of naming the grief of our unmet expectations, we bury it—convinced that acknowledgement equates to weakness—and remain silent. For years I bought into this pattern. Instead of appropriately grieving, I would self-soothe, often drinking my feelings away to disconnect and find reprieve. My moods swung wildly between sadness, joy, disappointment, persistence, and anxiety, all terribly masked behind, “everything’s fine, this is just part of ministry, I need to just put my head down and keep going.”
Here’s the truth: This doesn’t work out well. We are not mere cogs in a ministry machine. You are not a worker God has hired; you are a child he’s adopted. Recognizing and processing this grief is not weakness; it’s strength, it’s honesty, and it’s vital for endurance in ministry. I firmly believe that processing grief is key to ministry longevity. It’s vital not just for your sake but for those you lead and will lead.
If we needed permission to grieve honestly, the Psalms handed us a microphone centuries ago. “How long, O Lord?” isn’t a lack of faith—it’s what faith says when it’s out of answers. David, a man after God’s own heart, also asked God if he had forgotten him (Ps. 13). Jeremiah accused God of deceiving him. Jesus, the very Son of God, cried, “Why have you forsaken me?”
If lament lives in the mouth of Jesus, then it can live in ours, too.
Grace Holds Grief
Grace doesn’t skip over disappointment. It sits in it. It doesn’t say, “Get over it and get back to work.” It says, “I see your ache, and I’ll meet you there.”
Our unmet expectations may leave us feeling lost and uncertain, but our God is unphased by them. Picture the moment he walked with grieving disciples on the Emmaus road. They lamented, “We had hoped…” (Luke 24:21), revealing their shattered visions of what might have been. Those words echo in pastoral hearts today, revealing our own wrestling with dashed hopes.
We had hoped they would stay.
We had hoped revival would come.
We had hoped it wouldn’t end like this.
Jesus didn’t scold them. He joined them. And he’ll join you, too.
That church we planted in 2015 still matters. The stories are still beautiful. There was new life, baptism, and sacred moments I will never forget. The church is still alive and well, thriving under a dear friend’s leadership. But even now, years later, I carry a quiet ache for what never came to pass.
For those who didn’t stay.
For Sundays that felt hollow.
For the vision that never fully took shape.
Yet, in every moment, God was there. In the joy and the heartache, the baptisms and the board meetings, the first Sunday mornings and all the sleepless nights. Grace doesn’t just meet us at the finish line; it walks with us in the fog of every uncertain step.
Manmade or God-Given?
Not all expectations deserve our grieving. Some must be put to death. Perhaps they were never God-given but were manmade. Pastoral ministry and church planting are often romanticized into something God never intended. It’s tempting to scroll social media and see what others are doing and think, “I need to do that… that needs to be me.”
Instead, take time in thoughtful reflection. Discern if what you’re grieving is God-given or man-made. Should it be grieved or should it be put to death? And be brutally honest with yourself. If your expectation is based on numbers or title, chances are it needs to be put to death, for your good and for God’s glory.
How to Grieve Practically, Pastorally, Honestly
So how do we grieve the pain of unmet expectations in holy and healthy ways?
Name the loss without shame. Don’t rush to spiritualize it. Admit plainly: “This dream didn’t happen, and that hurts.” You’re not less faithful because you’re disappointed. You’re just telling the truth.
Invite Jesus into the heartache. Jesus doesn’t wait for us to get our joy back before he draws near. He is “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isa. 53:3, KJV). He knows the weight you carry. You don’t need to carry it alone.
Be honest and open with others. Some wounds won’t heal in isolation. Pastors need pastoring. Shepherds need shepherding. Find someone who doesn’t need you to impress them—what I call “gutter-buddies”—a few faithful friends who will sit with you in the story without trying to fix it too fast. Isolation will only keep the wounds open, but a community’s compassion can yield scars that tell a story of healing.
Let go of the idol of “more.” Somewhere along the way, we confused fruitfulness with followers. We started believing that “more” was the measure of blessing. But the kingdom of God often grows in quiet, hidden, mustard-seed places. Maybe your calling isn’t to go viral—but to go deep.
Remember the heart of the gospel. The good news of Jesus was never “Do this and you’ll get that.” It assures us with “It is finished.” You are not saved by the fruit you produce, the sermons you preach, or the size of your ministry. You are saved by grace. And grace does not tally outcomes. It welcomes the weary.
Hope for the Middle
I don’t know where your story sits today. Maybe you’re planting, rebuilding, or re-assessing. Maybe you’re remaining faithful but on the verge of burnout. Maybe you’ve quietly stepped away from ministry and wonder if you’re allowed to miss it.
Wherever you are, hear this: your grief doesn’t disqualify you. It just means you loved deeply. And that love—however wounded—is still holy.
God hasn’t left the building. Even if the building you once met in got sold or shut down. He’s not done with you. He’s not done with the call he whispered into your heart all those years ago.
Perhaps today, you just need permission to breathe.
To weep.
To not have a five-year plan.
To remember that the weight of the church or your ministry never rested on your shoulders, even when it felt like it did. You are not first and foremost a pastor; you are first and foremost a child of God. This is your truest identity.
The pain of unmet expectations is real. But so is the One who called you. And he doesn’t deal with you according to your fruitfulness, but according to his faithfulness.
So grieve the loss of what you thought would be. Let it hurt. Let it soften you. Let it draw you back to the Shepherd who never asked you to be the Savior—only to follow him, even when the road looks nothing like you planned.
He’s still with you in this. Even now. Especially now.
Drew Hensley is a pastor at ONE Fellowship in Charleston, SC and a former Seattle church planter. He writes regularly for Keylife on grief and leadership.
