When Even the Preacher Lets You Down

Trust is dead. That’s just the truth. And maybe it’s been dying a long time, but these days, it feels like there’s nothing left. Everyone’s selling something—faith, success, love, healing—but none of it feels real when you’re the one left picking up the pieces. Especially when the people who taught you how to believe are the ones who end up breaking you.

I grew up in ministry. My parents were in it for decades. Church on Sundays, small groups on Tuesdays, prayer meetings, outreach, the whole thing. I watched them give their lives to the church—pouring everything into helping people, teaching morals, telling others how to live. And maybe at some point, I believed in all of it too. But over time, the cracks started to show. Not in the world, but in them.

Ministry didn’t make them better. If anything, it seemed to twist them. I don’t say that with bitterness—I say it with exhaustion. They wore the titles, they preached the words, but when it came to being decent, honest, present human beings? They failed. Repeatedly.

And that’s where the real disillusionment set in. Because when you grow up being told that these are the people who have the answers—these are the “called ones,” the ones who know how life works—and then you see them lying, hiding, judging, or emotionally abandoning you behind closed doors, something in you starts to rot.

It’s not just personal. It’s systemic. Ministry, as a structure, rewards performance. The better you look, the more people follow. The more people follow, the more you’re praised. But no one sees the damage done behind the scenes. No one sees the hypocrisy, the manipulation, the control dressed up as spiritual care. And even if some ministers are sincere, the system they operate in is too often built on silence, pressure, and appearances.

I’ve seen people get chewed up and spit out by the very thing that was supposed to heal them. I’ve seen good people walk into churches vulnerable and leave ashamed, confused, or worse—ignored. And I’ve watched my own family, the ones who were supposed to protect and guide me, use ministry as both a shield and a weapon.

So no—I don’t trust pastors. I don’t trust leaders with microphones, with slogans, with smiles that don’t reach their eyes. I’ve learned the hard way that titles mean nothing. That just because someone stands behind a pulpit doesn’t mean they know how to show up for the people closest to them. Sometimes, they’re the ones who disappear the fastest when things get real.

I’m not looking for answers anymore. I’m not trying to replace one belief system with another. I’m just being honest about the mess. About the disappointment. About the way it feels when you realize that even the people who were supposed to have the most integrity—don’t.

Some will call it bitterness. I call it clarity.

Because when you’ve been burned enough times, you stop hoping the fire won’t touch you. You start learning how to walk through the flames without pretending it doesn’t hurt.

And maybe that’s what life is, in the end: not trust, not faith, not inspiration—but survival. Getting through the wreckage with your eyes wide open