The Weight and the Wonder of This Calling

I often lie awake in the quiet hours of the night, the rest of the house asleep, and yet my mind is racing. I’m thinking of the faces in the seats of Ignite. I’m thinking of the ones who didn’t come. I’m thinking of the ones who did come, yet seemed distant. I’m thinking of the ones I haven’t met yet, and the ones I may never reach. I’m thinking about attendance, about service, about souls, about salvation. I’m thinking about what the church could be, and frankly, what I believe it should be, versus what it sometimes is. I’m thinking about my role as pastor.

If you told me ten or twenty years ago that pastoring would bring as much frustration as joy, I probably would have nodded, yes, of course. But I did not anticipate the depth of that tension: wanting more for the church than maybe the church wants for itself. Wanting more for our people than they may want for themselves in that moment. It’s a tension born of love, of burden, and yes, of hope.

The Burden of the Calling
Pastoring is rarely safe. It is rarely easy. It carries a thousand little duties, even more than the eye sees. Sermons must be crafted, visits must be made, texts and emails must be replied to, staff must be led, finances must be managed, conflicts must be mediated, vision must be cast, and the Spirit must be listened to. The pastor becomes a preacher, counselor, administrator, visionary, sometimes a janitor, and sometimes a crisis manager. The role is, by nature, boundless.

And in that boundlessness comes stress. According to a recent survey, nearly 63 percent of Protestant pastors report facing stress in their ministry (research.lifeway.com). Another survey reports that a troubling 18 percent of pastors say they’ve contemplated self-harm or suicide in the past year (barna.com). One researcher notes that more than 70 percent of pastors say they are “constantly fighting depression” (oasisrest.org). These are not abstractions. They are alive, very real.

The frustration I feel isn’t just “things not going as I hoped.” It is the fatigue of wrestling with things that are beyond my direct control. It is the wondering: Are we reaching people? Are we making disciples? Are we living up to the calling? Can we do more? Why aren't we doing more? Sometimes the answers seem elusive. Sometimes the nights of sleeplessness weigh heavily on one's mind.

The Desire for More
I want more for the church than, let’s face it, the church sometimes wants for itself at this moment. I don’t mean that as judgment; I mean it as hope. I believe God has called us into more. I believe we are called to be a people who reach beyond the comfortable, the familiar, the routine; who love the unloved, welcome the outsider, follow after truth, and press into holiness and mission. Yet I often find inertia. I often find scars from past hurts. I often find fear of change and of busyness. And I often struggle with how to move forward when the people I love are weary, skeptical, tired, or simply content.

I want more for you. I want more for our men’s and women's ministry, for our youth and children, for our families, and for the community we serve. I stay up thinking of strategies, of vision, of how to equip while still keeping my feet anchored in the Gospel. I wrestle with the question: How do I marry faithful theology with genuine contextual relevance? How do I preach the cross in a culture that often dismisses it? How do I chase revival without chasing hype?

The Cost of Loving
There’s a cost in this kind of leadership. It is not only the hours. It is not only the pastoral care visits or the sermon prep. It is the way you carry others’ hopes and hurts inside you. It’s the way congregants’ doubts and complacency feel like your own. It’s the prayers you offer at three in the morning when your mind won’t let you sleep because the church is not just your job; it’s your heart.

One study of clergy distress found that pastors experienced excessive demands, criticism, loneliness, and isolation, factors that erode satisfaction with life and potentially lead to emotional or physical problems (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov). The burdens are real.

Some nights I stare at the ceiling and think: If this congregation went silent tomorrow, would I miss the rhythm of it? Would I miss the people? Or would I just feel relieved not to carry it anymore? Those are dangerous questions. But they remind me I must not drift into cynicism. I must keep remembering the Gospel. I must keep remembering the call.

And Yet, One of My Greatest Pleasures
Here is the paradox: despite the frustration, weariness, and restless nights, I would not trade this calling for anything. The ministry of a pastor is one of my greatest pleasures, second only to my salvation and my family. It is a high privilege to stand in the pulpit and to proclaim the Word. It is a sacred opportunity to walk with people through the valley and up the mountaintop. It is a joy to witness heart-change, new life, and redemption. It is a joy to baptize, to pray, to see community formed. It is a joy to say—the heart’s cry—to someone: You matter. Jesus loves you. You belong here.

In fact, a recent study revealed some encouraging shifts: in 2023, around 59 percent of pastors reported being “very satisfied” with their vocation (up from 52 percent the previous year), and 51 percent stated they felt more confident in their calling than when they began (barna.com). That gives me hope because I believe we’re not just in maintenance mode. God is moving. The church is alive. And though we’ll wrestle, we’ll press on.

What Helps Me, and Might Help You
Because hope without any action can slip into despair, I want to share a few things I cling to. Maybe they’ll encourage  you, fellow pastors, and church leaders.

• Sabbath and rest – I am learning that I cannot keep going at full throttle without intervals of rest. God himself modeled rest. Sunday afternoons and Mondays are my rest.

• Accountability and friendships – Even though pastors often feel isolated (65 percent report feeling lonely and unsupported at times) (barna.com). I need people who know me beyond the church walls. 

• Prayer and personal devotion – When all the activity presses in, I must return to the One who called me. 

• Healthy boundaries – Because the church is not my church. It is God’s church, and my role is that of a steward, not an owner.

• Honesty – I try to be honest about the challenges. I try to tell people: yes, I struggle. Yes, I worry. When others know I am human, they don’t expect perfection. They see Jesus through my brokenness.

A Pastor’s Heart for His Church
To my church family, I want you to know something important: I’m okay. Honestly, I am. What I share here isn’t written from a place of exhaustion or complaint, but from a heart that loves deeply. Pastoring is not a burden I carry alone; it’s a calling I embrace with joy. There are moments of challenge, yes, but those moments are reminders of just how much I care about what God is doing in and through our church.

If you are part of Ignite Church, please hear this clearly: you are the joy of my life. You are the people I pray for, the faces I think of when preparing a sermon, and the family God has called me to shepherd. The long nights and early mornings are not signs of fatigue but of love. They are what happens when a pastor’s heart is fully invested in God’s people. I stay awake not out of worry but out of hope, believing that the Lord has more in store for us than we can imagine.

When I speak of the weight of responsibility, I also discuss its beauty. That weight reminds me that this ministry matters. It reminds me that we’re not just doing “church,” but building the Kingdom of God one life at a time. The burden of hope is not heavy when it’s carried in faith. And faith, when shared together, becomes strength.

To my fellow pastors who may read this, you’re not alone. The ups and downs, the joys and sorrows, they come with the calling. But take heart: the same God who called you is faithful to sustain you.

And to my church family, thank you. Thank you for loving, serving, praying, and believing alongside me. We are on this journey together. I don’t stand above you; I stand with you. You make ministry worth every sleepless night and every early morning.

May we continue to walk forward with faith, side by side, trusting that God will finish the work He has started. May we press in together when the weight feels heavy, and may we lean on His grace when our strength runs out.

Although the church is not perfect, she remains the bride of Christ. She still carries His truth, His love, and His power into a weary world. And I still count it the greatest privilege of my life to be your pastor.

“Therefore, having this ministry by the mercies of God, we do not lose heart.” (2 Corinthians 4:1, LSB)

Thank you for walking this journey with me.

Soli Deo Gloria,

Pastor Jody