I love the ministry. I truly do. There’s nothing more beautiful than watching someone give up everything to follow Christ and serve others. Most people who answer the divine call aren’t motivated by applause or attention. They step forward because they believe, deep in their bones, that God has summoned them to something greater.
But ministry isn’t always filled with inspiring stories and selfless saints. Sometimes it brings you face to face with hypocrisy, pride, and heartbreak. And sooner or later, anyone who stays in ministry long enough will encounter that tension.
So, what do I do when I come across someone in ministry whose private life doesn’t line up with their public image?
Over the years, I’ve learned something important: it’s not just about them. It’s about me, too.
Yes, I do run into hypocrites in ministry. More than I’d like. And it hurts. But I believe most people enter the ministry with a good heart, earnestly desiring to do what God asks of them. Still, the ministry has a way of testing what lies beneath the surface. Over time, the pressures of ministry begin to expose what was never fully dealt with. Pride creeps in. Hypocrisy slowly settles. Hidden sins that were avoided or ignored often surface. And time—time has a way of showing who is striving for God and who is still struggling with themselves.
I’ve seen more than I ever wanted to. I’ve had pastors steal money from me—men I once trusted. Under pressure, they tried to hold things together in their own strength rather than depending on God. I’ve also encountered a missionary who funneled tens of thousands of dollars each month for personal gain, all while neglecting the basic needs of the children in his orphanage. Eventually, the authorities intervened. And I’ve watched others—pastors who didn’t steal, but undermined other brothers in ministry behind closed doors, pratting against others with malicious words. In time, their own ministries changed in ways I could not have foreseen. I don’t presume to know why. I only know God’s ways are higher than mine.
And then there are those who whisper about me. Some believe I’m a hypocrite. That accusation has stayed with me longer than I care to admit. I’ve wrestled with it. I’ve asked God to search me—to expose anything in me that isn’t real, anything I’ve tried to hide or excuse. Maybe this is part of our shared brokenness: we’re quick to recognize flaws in others and slow to confront our own. And if I’m going to walk this road, I want to walk it with integrity—not just in public, but especially in private.
That wrestling has shaped how I respond. Any time I encounter hypocrisy—especially when it hides behind ministry—my first instinct isn’t to lash out or call them out. It’s to look inward. I run to the mirror. I examine my own heart. I revisit the places where I’m still weak, because I know how dependent I am on God. Apart from Christ, I am nothing.
Over time, I’ve stopped trying to protect an image or impress a crowd. I don’t pretend to be more than I am. I’ve made peace with being overlooked, misunderstood, and even disliked—and while it still stings at times, it no longer controls me. There’s a quiet freedom in that. Not the freedom of being admired, but the freedom of not having to perform. I can simply be who I am before God.
And in that space, I’ve discovered something sobering—when people don’t feel threatened by you, they let their guard down. They’re real. Being trusted with that kind of honesty is a quiet grace. But that gift comes with sorrow. Because when people feel safe around you, they sometimes show you parts of themselves they hide from everyone else—the struggles they never post about, the sins they polish before Sunday service. That kind of knowledge is a carried burden at times. It’s not exciting. It’s not juicy. It’s not fuel for gossip. It drives me to my knees in prayer.
Over time, God has taught me a better way to respond. I’ve sat in rooms with preachers and leaders who are far more gifted than I’ll ever be. And yet, in private, I’ve seen cracks in their armor, things that grieve the Spirit of God. When God allows me to see it, I’ve learned it is not for me to judge or speak about. It’s for me to weep, to intercede in prayer, and offer kindness where I can.
I’m not close to everyone—and I don’t need to be. I’m not naive. Some ministers won’t even greet me, let alone call me a friend. Still, when God allows our paths to cross, I choose kindness. I don’t fake honor, but I serve where I can and listen when needed. I try to treat them with the dignity God gives His servants. I cry for them in secret. I pray sincerely. Because I know what they’re walking—a path that looks successful on the outside but carries a hidden spiritual decay—will not end well.
There was a time in my life when I tried to warn them. I pulled some aside and offered gentle cautions. Not to shame them, but because I didn’t want to see the blessings of God stripped from their lives. Yet those warnings fell on deaf ears. Some scoffed. Some smiled. And they continued on, preaching the very Word that would one day confront them.
So, I said nothing more. I watched. I waited. And over time, God took action. I’ve seen ministries change, leaders step aside, and in some cases, lives end. That reality doesn’t make me smug. It makes me tremble. Because if God deals with His servants with such seriousness, what does that mean for me?
I don’t want to get away with anything. I want to be clean before the Lord, even in the hidden crannies of my heart. These experiences have left me with a deep fear of God—not a paralyzing fear, but a reverent one.
I know my weaknesses. I don’t parade them, but I don’t dismiss them either. I know what they could become if I ever take my eyes off Christ. I fear pride creeping in, and I ask God to guard my heart against bitterness taking root. And when people look down on me—when they are unable to see beyond my past—I don’t chase their approval. I’ve placed that weight in the Lord’s hands.
God is kind. He is slow to anger. He is abundant in mercy. But He is also righteous. He is holy. He is just. And He corrects His servants. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve felt the hand of His discipline, and I’ve also tasted the sweetness of His forgiveness and new beginnings.
So when I encounter brokenness in ministry—when public devotion and private obedience do not align—I no longer feel the urge to expose or correct. I don’t cheer when someone falls, and I don’t take part in the gossip. Instead, I feel a heaviness—a sorrow that moves me to prayer.
Because if God had not shown me mercy, I might have become the very thing I now weep for. And that truth keeps me low, grateful, and trembling before Him.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
But ministry isn’t always filled with inspiring stories and selfless saints. Sometimes it brings you face to face with hypocrisy, pride, and heartbreak. And sooner or later, anyone who stays in ministry long enough will encounter that tension.
So, what do I do when I come across someone in ministry whose private life doesn’t line up with their public image?
Over the years, I’ve learned something important: it’s not just about them. It’s about me, too.
Yes, I do run into hypocrites in ministry. More than I’d like. And it hurts. But I believe most people enter the ministry with a good heart, earnestly desiring to do what God asks of them. Still, the ministry has a way of testing what lies beneath the surface. Over time, the pressures of ministry begin to expose what was never fully dealt with. Pride creeps in. Hypocrisy slowly settles. Hidden sins that were avoided or ignored often surface. And time—time has a way of showing who is striving for God and who is still struggling with themselves.
I’ve seen more than I ever wanted to. I’ve had pastors steal money from me—men I once trusted. Under pressure, they tried to hold things together in their own strength rather than depending on God. I’ve also encountered a missionary who funneled tens of thousands of dollars each month for personal gain, all while neglecting the basic needs of the children in his orphanage. Eventually, the authorities intervened. And I’ve watched others—pastors who didn’t steal, but undermined other brothers in ministry behind closed doors, pratting against others with malicious words. In time, their own ministries changed in ways I could not have foreseen. I don’t presume to know why. I only know God’s ways are higher than mine.
And then there are those who whisper about me. Some believe I’m a hypocrite. That accusation has stayed with me longer than I care to admit. I’ve wrestled with it. I’ve asked God to search me—to expose anything in me that isn’t real, anything I’ve tried to hide or excuse. Maybe this is part of our shared brokenness: we’re quick to recognize flaws in others and slow to confront our own. And if I’m going to walk this road, I want to walk it with integrity—not just in public, but especially in private.
That wrestling has shaped how I respond. Any time I encounter hypocrisy—especially when it hides behind ministry—my first instinct isn’t to lash out or call them out. It’s to look inward. I run to the mirror. I examine my own heart. I revisit the places where I’m still weak, because I know how dependent I am on God. Apart from Christ, I am nothing.
Over time, I’ve stopped trying to protect an image or impress a crowd. I don’t pretend to be more than I am. I’ve made peace with being overlooked, misunderstood, and even disliked—and while it still stings at times, it no longer controls me. There’s a quiet freedom in that. Not the freedom of being admired, but the freedom of not having to perform. I can simply be who I am before God.
And in that space, I’ve discovered something sobering—when people don’t feel threatened by you, they let their guard down. They’re real. Being trusted with that kind of honesty is a quiet grace. But that gift comes with sorrow. Because when people feel safe around you, they sometimes show you parts of themselves they hide from everyone else—the struggles they never post about, the sins they polish before Sunday service. That kind of knowledge is a carried burden at times. It’s not exciting. It’s not juicy. It’s not fuel for gossip. It drives me to my knees in prayer.
Over time, God has taught me a better way to respond. I’ve sat in rooms with preachers and leaders who are far more gifted than I’ll ever be. And yet, in private, I’ve seen cracks in their armor, things that grieve the Spirit of God. When God allows me to see it, I’ve learned it is not for me to judge or speak about. It’s for me to weep, to intercede in prayer, and offer kindness where I can.
I’m not close to everyone—and I don’t need to be. I’m not naive. Some ministers won’t even greet me, let alone call me a friend. Still, when God allows our paths to cross, I choose kindness. I don’t fake honor, but I serve where I can and listen when needed. I try to treat them with the dignity God gives His servants. I cry for them in secret. I pray sincerely. Because I know what they’re walking—a path that looks successful on the outside but carries a hidden spiritual decay—will not end well.
There was a time in my life when I tried to warn them. I pulled some aside and offered gentle cautions. Not to shame them, but because I didn’t want to see the blessings of God stripped from their lives. Yet those warnings fell on deaf ears. Some scoffed. Some smiled. And they continued on, preaching the very Word that would one day confront them.
So, I said nothing more. I watched. I waited. And over time, God took action. I’ve seen ministries change, leaders step aside, and in some cases, lives end. That reality doesn’t make me smug. It makes me tremble. Because if God deals with His servants with such seriousness, what does that mean for me?
I don’t want to get away with anything. I want to be clean before the Lord, even in the hidden crannies of my heart. These experiences have left me with a deep fear of God—not a paralyzing fear, but a reverent one.
I know my weaknesses. I don’t parade them, but I don’t dismiss them either. I know what they could become if I ever take my eyes off Christ. I fear pride creeping in, and I ask God to guard my heart against bitterness taking root. And when people look down on me—when they are unable to see beyond my past—I don’t chase their approval. I’ve placed that weight in the Lord’s hands.
God is kind. He is slow to anger. He is abundant in mercy. But He is also righteous. He is holy. He is just. And He corrects His servants. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve felt the hand of His discipline, and I’ve also tasted the sweetness of His forgiveness and new beginnings.
So when I encounter brokenness in ministry—when public devotion and private obedience do not align—I no longer feel the urge to expose or correct. I don’t cheer when someone falls, and I don’t take part in the gossip. Instead, I feel a heaviness—a sorrow that moves me to prayer.
Because if God had not shown me mercy, I might have become the very thing I now weep for. And that truth keeps me low, grateful, and trembling before Him.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
