A Letter to the Spent and Stubborn
Because presence is still faith
In 2017, our family was walking through deep pain.
Growing up, I’d heard people say that serving Jesus was one of the most rewarding things you could do. But there we were—on food stamps, living below the poverty line, pouring every resource we had into a church plant. At the same time, my parents were teetering on the edge of divorce, and our church community was reeling after one of our staff members split the congregation in two.
And I remember praying—or maybe accusing:
“Is this how you reward those who serve you?”
I fell into a pit of despair. After several months of trying to hold it in, I finally told Todd I wasn’t sure if I believed in God anymore. This God I had given everything to - my money, my time, my life - felt like a figment of my imagination. I’ll never forget the look on Todd’s face. He was quietly wrestling with the possibility that he might be married to someone who no longer shared his beliefs or aspirations. And then what? I knew what that could mean for our marriage, but I needed him to know that my doubts were real.
They weren’t superficial questions. I was genuinely unraveling.
The truth was, I had poured it all out. I wasn’t just burned out, I was spent. Empty. Tired. Hopeless.
Maybe you’ve never been there. Maybe your resolve is unshaken, your faith unwavering in the face of trial. If so, I respect that deeply.
But maybe, just maybe, some of you know what I’m talking about. Perhaps the burden of ministry has felt crushing. Maybe walking alone has started to feel like breathing underwater, each step a slow drift downward, toward the floor of a metaphorical ocean called hopelessness.
I didn’t have a plan for coming back. There was no roadmap. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. Doubt and pain had dimmed every glimmer of light. There was only darkness and silence. And yet, in that silence, something unexpected began to stir. Not clarity. Not courage. Just a faint, stubborn awareness: I couldn’t fully walk away without giving God one last chance to disappoint me.
So, I made a demand – maybe even a threat.
"I’m going to walk into my office every morning at 6 a.m. If you’re not there, then you’re not real."
No eloquent prayers. No dreams or fire, just breath, and stubbornness. I’d brush my teeth, grab my coffee, and step into that little office like I was entering a courtroom ready to prosecute. Every morning. Same time. Same place. And strangely, the quiet didn’t echo back with emptiness.
It was heavy. Thick. Like someone was waiting for me. I didn’t weep - I yelled. If Jesus was there, he could take my complaints. And he did. It was in those unguarded, unfiltered mornings, the ones where Jesus didn’t correct me, didn’t lecture me, he gently sat with me, that I began to understand something the high-octane world of Western ministry had never taught me:
Presence is its own kind of faith.
Not flashy. Not strategic. But faithful and real. Practicing faithful presence wasn’t about rising to the occasion, it was about refusing to run from it. I read writings from Thomas Merton, Martin Luther, and St. Teresa of Ávila and I saw it: I wasn’t the first one to feel this way. Even the giants of faith, mystics, reformers, saints, had cried out, questioned, wrestled. Their faith wasn’t always on fire. It was held not in tension with their doubts but alongside them.
Some of you may not resonate with such a severe collapse of fortitude of faith. But maybe some of you can.
You get up and preach on Sunday… but cry into your pillow Sunday night. You sit across from someone in crisis, holding their hand, counseling with compassion, assuring them of God’s faithfulness, but go home wondering if all you offered was a spiritual placebo. Or worse, you drown your fears in something that disassociates you from the reality you’re in.
If that’s you, you’re not alone.
The demands that the Western church has placed on its pastors has become unbearable in many ways. The burden to “grow”, the weight to preach better than the week before, the pressure to perform crushes those who bend their will to please the machine. To not name it and to pretend it’s just a “season,” or a “leadership stretch” is to do violence to the yoke Jesus promised us – one that is easy and light.
If you’re tired, you’re not weak. You’re human.
And if you’re here, still whispering prayers you’re not sure anyone hears—you’re not crazy. That, my friend, is what stubborn pursuit looks like.
A recent Barna study found that 59% of pastors have experienced depression.[1] 1 in 5 pastors have seriously considered self-harm or suicide in the past year[2] and according to the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission 8 out of 10 pastors have abandoned their well-being over the course of their ministry.[3]
These aren’t just stats. They’re soul cries. And it matters because you matter.
The mental, emotional, and spiritual toll of ministry is real. The unspoken expectations. The constant crisis management. The deep loneliness. Again, I say:
To not name this pain is to do violence to the very yoke Jesus promised would be easy and light.
If you’re here, you’re not done. Even if it feels like all you can offer is presence.
That is enough.
You don’t need to be brilliant or brave. You don’t need to be unshakable. You just need to breathe. And aggressively, brokenly, and desperately pursue presence. Because pursuing, when you have every reason to fade, is a sacred act of resistance.
One of my pastors when I was a teenager and said, “Tara, my prayer for you is that you remain stubborn. Be so stubborn for Jesus. Be so stubborn in Jesus.”
In the dark night of my soul back in 2017, I can assure you, not everything worked out. My parents still divorced. We merged our church with another. We didn’t miraculously come into wealth or ease. But I came to know Jesus in a different way. Not as a distant Savior perched in victory, but as a God who sat with me in the ashes. Who held my pain in his hands and whispered, “I know. It hurts.” He didn’t fix everything, but He never left. And for me, that’s the miracle that rebuilt my deconstructed faith on solid ground.
I’m reminded of that night Jacob wrestled with God. Not in a temple. Not at an altar. But in the darkness. Alone. He didn’t win. He didn’t even walk away whole, but he didn’t let go.
And the limp he took on from that dark night became the sign - not of his strength, but of his stubborn pursuit. The limp he carried after that night wasn’t shame. It was proof he had been in the presence of God. Proof that blessing can come through bruising.
Your limp might just be your sign, too. A holy scar. A reminder that you pursued. That you didn’t let go in the dark. That God met you there, not in triumph, but in tenderness.
So, if you find yourself walking with a limp these days, don’t hide it.
[1] https://apnews.com/article/christian-clergy-burnout-pandemic-survey-24ee46327438ff46b074d234ffe2f58c
[2] https://www.barna.com/research/pastors-thoughts-suicide-self-harm
[3] https://erlc.com/resource/my-struggle-with-clinical-depression-prioritizing-mental-health-for-the-good-of-the-church