Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Home
General Christian
Family, Parenting and Religion
A Word to Fallen Leaders and Pastors

A Word to Fallen Leaders and Pastors

Last updated on: October 4, 2026 at 8:49 am by Kurt W. Bubna

0 Comments

A Word to Fallen Leaders and Pastors 2026-10-04T08:49:34-07:00 Kurt W. Bubna

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

I never thought I’d be here.

I pictured a different finish. After decades in ministry, I figured I’d become one of those older pastors younger leaders called when they needed wisdom. I’d sit across the table, listen to their struggles, and hopefully offer something useful.

Some mentoring. Maybe consulting. An occasional invitation to speak.

I wasn’t expecting a parade, just a chance to grow old doing what I’d done for most of my adult life. But my choices led somewhere else.

It’s been about four years since I left ministry and my former wife. Even now, that sentence is hard to write. Those few words carry a lot of pain, and some of it belongs to people I love who never asked for any of this.

I know that.

I also know I’m still grieving.

The grief isn’t as sharp as it once was. God has brought healing, and I’m so grateful for Katherine, for meaningful work, and for a life I couldn’t imagine when everything first fell apart. There is good in my life. A lot of it.

And sometimes something ordinary brings the losses right back.

Several months ago, while Katherine and I were preparing to move, I started sorting through boxes from my ministry years filled with books and three-ring binders. Hundreds of them.

If you’ve been a pastor, you probably understand how that happens. Apparently, we believe the answer to nearly every ministry problem is hiding in one more book.

There were commentaries, leadership books, theology texts, and sermon resources. Books by people I’d admired and quoted. Books I’d recommended to other pastors. I stood there looking at them longer than I expected. They reminded me of sermon series, staff meetings, counseling appointments, weddings, and funerals. Difficult conversations. People I’d loved. Work that mattered to me.

I wasn’t just deciding what to pack. I was sorting through reminders of a life I no longer had.

That hurt.

As I looked at the names on those shelves, I thought about the authors’ lives, too. Some had served faithfully for decades. Others had experienced public failures. I’d learned from them before their names became attached to scandal.

Now I understood something about being on that side of the story.

I wish I didn’t.

Nobody enters ministry hoping to become a cautionary tale. I certainly didn’t. But good intentions at the beginning don’t protect us from destructive choices later.

I made choices that hurt people and changed my life. Calling those choices sin doesn’t erase the consequences. Neither does being sorry.

Still, there is grief to deal with, and I don’t think we always know what to do with it.

We talk about a fallen leader losing a position, an income, a reputation, or an opportunity. Those losses are real. But there’s another loss that’s harder to explain. You lose the future you thought you’d have. I expected to grow older in ministry. I expected certain relationships to still be there. I expected to look back on those years with a kind of settled gratitude.

Instead, there have been mornings when I’ve wondered, “How in the world did I get here?”

I know the answer.

I’m not confused about my choices or trying to dodge responsibility. But understanding what happened and grieving what happened are two different things. You can know exactly why a relationship with an old friend ended and still ache because it did.

For some of you, the story is different. You stepped away from ministry because of burnout, depression, illness, or a family crisis. Being exhausted or depressed is not a moral failure, and I don’t want to lump your suffering in with my sin. But you may recognize the grief.

You may also be looking at a life you didn’t expect, wondering where you fit now. Leaders aren’t always good at admitting that. We’re used to having something useful to say. We make plans, solve problems, and help other people take their next steps. It’s uncomfortable to discover that we can’t talk ourselves out of our own pain.

I’ve preached plenty of sermons about moving forward. That doesn’t mean I can hold an old commentary in my hands and make the sadness disappear.

Maybe you’ve had a moment like that. An old photograph. A sermon manuscript. A note from someone you once helped. Something small that leaves you missing a whole season of your life. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

And if your choices caused the loss, admitting your grief doesn’t automatically mean you’re avoiding responsibility. You can be sorry for what you did and sad about what you’ve lost. Both can be true.

What you can’t do is make your pain the only pain that matters.

The people we hurt have their own grief. Their healing doesn’t run on our schedule, and our desire to be useful again doesn’t entitle us to their trust.

That’s a hard truth. It’s still true. But here’s another truth I need, and perhaps you do, too: your failure hasn’t made you useless to God.

I think about Peter. His denial mattered. Jesus didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. Yet when they met again beside a charcoal fire, Jesus had more to say to him than, “Look what you’ve done.”

He asked Peter about his love and gave him work to do.

There was a future beyond Pete’s failure.

That doesn’t settle every question about a pastor returning to leadership. Those questions deserve time, honesty, accountability, and careful discernment. But it does give me reason to hope that God still has something for repentant people to do. (Here is another great article to read.)

I’m learning to be available for what’s in front of me.

My work looks different now. I coach authors. I write. I have conversations with people who are trying to find words for their own stories. I still get opportunities to encourage someone, listen, and offer what I’ve learned.

So, if you’re wondering what comes next, perhaps start small. Encourage someone. Find a place to serve. Keep doing the quiet work of repentance and healing. Let trustworthy people speak honestly into your life, even when you don’t like what they say. And pay attention to the opportunities you already have.

Some doors may stay closed. Some relationships may remain broken despite your prayers and efforts. I don’t have an easy sentence that makes any of that okay. But I do believe God can meet you here.

You can take responsibility for what you’ve done without becoming what you’ve done. (Please reread that last line one more time.)

I’m still learning how to live that way. Some days I do better than others. But I have a wife to love, work to do, and people to care for today.

So do you.

The life you expected may have changed, but the life you have still matters. Give yourself time to grieve. Then, as you’re able, take the next faithful step.

This article draws from themes in my upcoming book, Unshamed, about failure, divorce, shame, healing, and the sometimes messy journey of learning to live as someone fully known, forgiven, and free.