Dear Pastor,
I wish I did not have to write this letter. I wish your story were an anomaly, a rare and isolated incident in the life of the church. Unfortunately, your experience is one of many, a tragic reminder of the pain that can arise from the very place meant to bring healing and hope.
Over the years, I have walked alongside many pastors. I’ve listened as they recounted the betrayal, confusion, and heartache they endured. These stories emerge from a common pattern, a series of events that many unjustly fired pastors seem to experience. Maybe your story is fresh; the shock is still settling. Maybe your story is in the past, but the memories ring hard like glass shattering on a hard floor. What happened?
It often begins innocently enough. Perhaps you made a decision that seemed prudent to you. Possibly it was a set of decisions. But something triggered a chain reaction with an individual or group in the church. You didn’t intend to raise their ire, but that’s what happened. You may not even know now exactly what it was then that ignited the whole situation.
While you were praying, leading, and serving, someone began sowing seeds of discontent. Power brokers talked behind the scenes. The elders or personnel committee started having secret meetings without you. While you continued shepherding, a quiet rebellion was brewing. Your selfless focus on ministry gave others a window of opportunity to leverage their energy against you.
Then came the accusations—seemingly out of nowhere. You were blindsided by things you knew weren’t true. The most sinister of these allegations began with the phrase, “People are saying.” You found yourself defending against vague and anonymous complaints, each more hurtful than the last.
You got called into an urgent meeting with almost no notice. Everyone there seemed prepared, but you had no idea what was happening. When you walked into the room, the cold expressions and closed body language hinted at a dark turn. The room was tense. These people claimed to be your friends yet couldn’t look you in the eye.
The moment of truth was anything but that. The power players repeated the vague and anonymous complaints. Perhaps you tried to defend yourself. Or maybe, in that moment, you knew. It was over. They demanded you resign because they didn’t have the courage to fire you. Cowards. A small severance and non-disclosure agreement was placed in front of you. The fight response kicked in, and you wanted to expose the lies. But you took what they offered, even as it felt like you were selling your silence to them. You faced the awful dilemma of choosing to feed your family or defend your reputation.
While a brief statement mentioned you didn’t have a moral failure, the rumor mill still churned out its own explanations, and none of them were kind. Your church family was left confused and hurt. Maybe a few people demanded answers, but they abandoned their efforts after the stonewalling produced nothing satisfactory. The most shocking part was how quickly most moved on while asking no questions. The silence of the majority cut deeper than any of the false accusations.
Your heart was heavy then, and, to some degree, it still is. The feelings of abandonment and betrayal remain. If this is your story, please know you are not alone. The pain is real, but so is your purpose. Maybe you’ve stepped away from ministry for a season. The trauma was just too much. Or maybe you’re plodding through a new assignment, the albatross of regret hanging heavy and weighing down your progress. Please know you are loved. You are valued. And there is hope ahead. I know. I’ve been there. Many years ago. And now I’m exactly where God wants me to be. You will get there too.
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