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What do you do when the place that taught you to love God becomes the place that wounds you most? This is the story of losing my ministry—and keeping my belief.
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Sitting in sacred silence—wrestling with grief, faith, and the aftermath of church hurt.Some wounds don’t come from enemies—they come from people who call you “brother.”
This isn’t a story I planned to tell.
It’s just the one that kept pressing on my chest, waiting to be named.
A few months ago, I was asked to resign from a church where I served as a priest for five years.
No scandal. No theology war.
Just a breakdown in trust between me and the senior leader—and a mediation process that couldn’t repair it.
It ended quietly. The loss was deafening.
And somehow—after all that—I still believe.
The exit was quiet. The grief was loud.
There was no dramatic blow-up. Just structured meetings with mediators.
I showed up with hope. I wanted healing.
But after those efforts fell apart, I was asked to resign.
Not because I stopped loving the church.
Not because I gave up on the people.
But because, in that moment, there was no other way forward.
Book that helped: A Church Called Tov gave me language I didn’t have at the time—about systems that quietly protect power and sacrifice people in the name of peace.
What helped: Telling the truth. Not publicly. Just honestly—to myself, my wife, and to God.
What didn’t: Acting like everything was mutual. It wasn’t. And it’s okay to say that.
It wasn’t a resignation. It was a rupture.
Not every ending is clean. Some tear straight through your calling.For five years, I poured myself into the role—preaching, shepherding, initiating new efforts that hadn’t existed before.
I wasn’t building a platform. I was doing the work. Showing up.
Until one day, I wasn’t.
Now, on Sundays, my wife and I are at home.
Not out of spite. Not in protest. Just… aching. Missing the people. Missing the rhythm.
There’s no script for this kind of loss.
Books like The Critical Journey gave me a frame for what I was feeling: this wasn’t abandonment. It was transition. Painful, slow, necessary transition.
What helped: Giving the loss its full weight. Letting it be as big as it felt.
What didn’t: Letting others decide how fast I should be “over it.”
Faith stayed. The form changed.
I haven’t lost faith in God.
I haven’t lost faith in the Church as the body of Christ.
But I’ve lost trust in certain expressions of church leadership—and that trust doesn’t come back overnight.
Right now, my Sundays are quiet. My prayers are less polished.
But the connection is still real. If anything, it’s more honest than it’s ever been.
Out of Sorts by Sarah Bessey helped me here. Not with answers—but with permission. Permission to keep showing up without pretending I’m fine.
What helped: Holding onto God without rushing to define what “normal” looks like again.
What didn’t: Replacing spiritual rhythm with performance. Grief doesn’t need to be productive.
Still bleeding. Still believing. Still here.
Still wounded. Still worshiping. Still refusing to let go.I’m not healed. I’m not restored.
Some people in the church are still advocating for my return.
I don’t know where that will go. But I’m still praying. Still writing. Still trying to hear what comes next.
If you’ve been through church hurt—if your exit was quiet and your pain was loud—you’re not alone.
You’re not faithless for stepping away.
You’re not broken beyond use.
You’re still part of the body, even if you’re not in the building.
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If you’re somewhere between burnout and belief, I write for you.
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No formulas. No fake resolution. Just presence and persistence.
You don’t have to be okay to keep going.
You just have to stay honest.
