There’s an old boxing gym in my neighborhood. The windows are grimy, the signage rusted and broken. But through the glass, you can glimpse something profound happening inside. Old trainers with cauliflower ears guide young fighters through their paces. Heavy bags swing. The ring bears scuff marks from countless rounds, countless falls, countless moments when staying down would have been easier than getting back up.
What strikes me isn’t the violence, it’s the reverence. These aren’t thugs throwing wild punches. They’re craftsmen, learning their form in the hardest classroom imaginable. A trainer doesn’t measure a fighter by how many punches he avoids but by how many he takes and keeps going. The scars tell the story. The bruises mark the curriculum.
C.S. Lewis understood this when he wrote from wartime London:
“Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in.”
I think about that boxing gym every time I hear the statistics that haunt pastors’ conferences—67% have wrestled with pornography; 59% battle depression; and 40% have faced serious conflict in their churches. We whisper these numbers like confessions, ashamed of the failure they represent. But maybe they mean something else. Maybe they’re evidence that we’ve stepped into the ring.
Formed by the fight
I know pastors who’ve learned their theology in the ring.
Michael has wrestled with sexual addiction for 18 years. He’s not acting out or crossing lines, but he’s fighting a daily battle that most couldn’t imagine. He preaches on purity with an authority that comes from the trenches. When a young man confesses similar struggles, Michael doesn’t offer platitudes. He offers partnership from someone who knows the weight of the gloves.
Then there’s David, whose anger could incinerate relationships if he allowed it. But he’s learned to turn that fire into compassion. His gentleness with difficult parishioners comes not from natural temperament but was forged through daily victories of restraint.
And there’s Rebecca, a pastor’s wife and lay leader, who battles depression while helping her husband lead a church through its own grief. She serves every Sunday with her own sorrow in tow. When she speaks about joy, it’s not from a place of constant sunshine. It’s from the ash heap, where she gained hard-won knowledge that joy is possible in the darkest of places.
What they share is this: They’re all still fighting. Still getting up. Still showing up to the ring day after day, knowing they’ll take hits but showing up anyway and refusing to throw in the towel.
Lewis wasn’t just talking about temptation. He was talking about the whole curriculum of spiritual warfare. You don’t discover the enemy’s strength by avoiding the fight. You learn it by resisting—by staying in the fight long enough to understand what you’re up against.
Pastors who limp
Consider Jacob, who wrestled all night with a divine opponent who could have ended the match instantly. He walked away limping, his hip permanently displaced. But he also emerged blessed, carrying a new name that means “he wrestles with God.” The limp, like his new name, was his badge of honor, proof that he was strong enough to stay in the ring when everything in him wanted to quit.
Our churches need that story. Often, the most mature believers are the ones who limp. They bear the most scars. The pastors who understand grace best are the ones who’ve needed it most desperately, most consistently, most recently.
The same principle applies to pastoral couples. When both husband and wife bear those scars—when both have fought and gotten back up—their partnership in ministry becomes something forged in the fires of mutual dependence on grace. Not polished. Forged.
Reading the wrong scorecard
We’ve confused the boxing ring with a ballroom. We reward pastors for avoiding hits rather than for staying in the fight after taking the hits. We elevate those who have never felt the enemy’s strength and dismiss those who have fought hard and refused to surrender.
Fifty-five percent of pastors who acknowledge wrestling with pornography live in constant fear of being discovered. Not because they’ve surrendered to sin, but because they’ve been wounded in battle, convinced their struggle disqualifies them from ministry rather than qualifies them for deeper effectiveness.
But what if we’ve been reading the scorecard wrong? What if the pastor still fighting temptation after 20 years isn’t a liability but a guide? What if the leader who shepherds others while battling depression isn’t weak but faithful?
When to draw the boundary line
Let me address the elephant in the room: Boundaries matter. There’s a crucial difference between fighting temptation and yielding to it, between struggling with sin and being enslaved by it, between wrestling with weakness and being defeated by it.
A pastor who is tempted by sexual sin but seeks help, sets boundaries, and protects others is fundamentally different from one who crosses ethical lines. The leader walking through inner storms yet still caring for the flock stands apart from one whose mental health compromises his ability to provide pastoral care. The minister channeling anger into righteous passion differs dramatically from one whose rage wounds the sheep.
Clear disqualification markers include:
- Ongoing, unrepentant sin (sexual misconduct, financial impropriety, substance abuse)
- Inability to provide essential pastoral care due to mental health crises
- Compromised judgment that repeatedly harms others
- Surrender to temptation rather than active resistance
Denominations draw these lines differently. But what remains consistent across traditions is the need to walk in the light, not hide. Honest struggle, not passive defeat.
The question isn’t whether pastors struggle. They all do. The question is whether they’re still in the ring.
Creating corner support
Every fighter needs someone in his corner—someone who sees the bruises, knows when to push and when to comfort, can tend to wounds, and help strategize for the next round. But many pastors fight alone, afraid that admitting to struggle will lead to removal from the ring.
The key to effective corner support lies in understanding the unique roles that different relationships play in a pastor’s life. A spouse is often the closest witness to the battle but cannot be the only one in the corner. The weight is too much for one person to carry.
I meet monthly with a group of five pastors. When one confessed his struggle with pride and growing hunger for a platform, the group didn’t even flinch. Instead of shame, he received strategy from others who’d fought similar battles. “Your awareness makes you safer in leadership, not more dangerous,” someone told him. “You’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”
Let’s call it corner support. A good corner offers three things: First, they maintain strict confidentiality, understanding that vulnerability shared carelessly becomes gossip that destroys. Second, they distinguish between struggle and surrender, recognizing that ongoing battle is different from capitulation. Third, they provide practical accountability without becoming amateur therapy sessions. And when the fight calls for it, they know when to tag in professional help—whether that’s a counselor who understands ministry pressures, spiritual directors who focus on soul care, or medical professionals who recognize that some battles have physiological components. That’s not defeat. That’s wisdom. Different rounds need different gear.
The beauty of Christ in our brokenness
Here’s what we must never forget: We are not fighting alone, and we don’t fight on our own strength. The same Spirit who raised Christ from the dead dwells in us, empowering us for battles we could never win through willpower alone. Jesus—who conquered sin and death—walks with us through every dark valley, every round our strength fails.
When Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, he knew they’d eventually betray, deny, and abandon him within hours. Peter would curse his name. Thomas would doubt his resurrection. Still, he knelt. The Son of God served those who would fail him most spectacularly.
That moment wasn’t just about humility—it was about relationship. Even leaders need someone to tend to the parts that get dirty along the way. To speak gospel truth when shame whispers lies.
This is why isolation kills pastors. We were never meant to wash our own feet. We need others who see the mud and mire to gently clean away what ministry has caked on, who remind us that we belong to the one who calls us beloved (Rom. 9:25 CSB).
Paul understood this when he wrote about “treasure in jars of clay”—ordinary, fragile vessels that chip and crack with use. But the cracks don’t diminish the treasure; they reveal it. When light shines through, people see not our weakness but God’s strength made perfect in that weakness.
The gospel doesn’t dim because the jar is battered. The pastor who is still struggling carries it. The one limping still preaches it. The jar may be worn, but the treasure still remains.
What if we stopped pretending to be made of marble and embraced the reality that we’re jars of clay?
When you’re battling the same temptation for the hundredth time, remember: The crack doesn’t disqualify you; it makes the light visible. You are a jar of clay carrying the treasure of Christ.
When you feel overwhelmed and wonder if you have anything left to give, remember: The treasure isn’t your strength, it’s his. Clay jars don’t generate light; they simply house it.
When criticism cuts deep and you question your calling, remember: Jesus himself was misunderstood, rejected, and criticized by religious leaders who should have recognized him. Your worth isn’t determined by human approval but by divine adoption.
Find someone who can wash your feet in the gospel, someone safe who sees where ministry has left you wounded or dirtied and responds not with disgust, but with grace. Let that person speak truth over the lies that shame whispers. Allow him to remind you whose you are.
Gather with other clay jars—not to compare cracks but to celebrate the light breaking through them. Share your struggles not as confessions of failure but as testimonies to grace.
The same Christ who knelt to serve still kneels beside us in our weakness. The same Spirit who empowered the early church empowers us for today’s battles. The same Father who has called us beloved since before the world’s creation still sings over us when we feel most unworthy.
Your struggles are not the end of your story; they’re the places where God’s story gets told through cracked clay.
Keep fighting, not because you’re strong enough, but because he is.
Keep serving, not because you’re perfect, but because his perfect love covers a multitude of sins.
The treasure remains. The light still shines. And you—cracked, tired, still fighting—are still his.
Thomas Anderson is the pastor of disciple making at Grace Community Church in Fulton, Maryland.
