I hate what happens when you genuinely care for people.
Because when you care, you give. You pray, labor, sacrifice, and remain present even when your body says rest and your heart says retreat. But when you care, you open yourself to the inevitable: the heartbreak. The disappointment. The silence after the investment. The betrayal after the trust.
And deep down, you know it’s coming. You can sense it before it arrives. You try to brace for it. You even entertain the idea of becoming calloused enough to not feel it so deeply. But no matter how much you prepare, pain still finds its way in. That’s the strange paradox of pastoring: you are asked to be fully present, wholly available, spiritually discerning, and emotionally intelligent—while also guarding your heart from being shattered repeatedly.
I’ve often heard, “Don’t take it personally,” when people walk away from the congregation, speak poorly of a ministry effort, or misrepresent what pastoral leadership really entails. And while the advice is often well-meaning, I struggle with it. Because I am a person. I do take it personally. My humanity is not a separate compartment from my calling—it’s intertwined with it.
Someone once told me, “You’ll have to learn how to lead while bleeding.” I’ve never forgotten those words. But as I’ve grown, I’ve also come to believe this: ministry doesn’t require sepsis to prove your dedication. You don’t have to die inside to stay faithful to your post. You don’t need to sacrifice your wholeness to prove your worth.
Instead, I’ve found something more meaningful: the sacred space of holding humanity and holiness together. The pastoral role is not to bleed out, but to feel deeply without infecting others. I don’t want to become numb. I want to be authentic. And authenticity means admitting: some days, this is hard. Not because I don’t love God. But because I love people—and loving people means risking heartbreak.
Is there an answer to how we navigate the personal from the prophetic? Can a pastor bring their full self—heart, mind, spirit, and scars—into the pulpit and still walk in power?
I believe we can. I believe authenticity is not only possible—it’s necessary.
But we have to take our cues from Jesus. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus was fully divine, but also fully human. He didn’t pretend that the weight of the cross was light. He questioned. He lamented. He asked for another way. And then… He accepted the assignment.
That garden moment gives me permission to be honest with God. To weep. To feel. To ask. To hope. And still to lead.
Maybe we’re all in some kind of garden right now—struggling with obedience and honesty at the same time. Hoping to arrive at peace while still reeling from pain. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said strength is made perfect in weakness. Maybe the hard places don’t disqualify us—they disciple us.
I don’t have all the answers. I just know some days, I wish it didn’t hurt so much.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s the step of faith.
Prayer of Reflection:
God of Gethsemane and Calvary,
Teach us to lead with tender strength.
Give us space to feel,
Permission to question,
And courage to continue.
Guard our hearts,
But don’t let them grow cold.
Let our humanity remain a gift,
Not a liability.
And when we’re in our garden moments—
Bleeding, bargaining, or broken—
Remind us:
You were there too.
And You stayed.
Amen.
Dr. Charles W. Ferguson 