Ministry life is a crucible.
As pastors’ wives, we know the burn of betrayal—maybe from a trusted confidant, a church member, or even someone we mentored.
We know the grind of hardship—financial strain, family tension, or the quiet ache of isolation that no one else sees. I’ve walked that road for decades, now retired, and I’ve learned some hard-earned lessons. One cuts through the noise: You don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t have to “be Jesus” to others. Healing is your right, and being human is your reality.
There’s a subtle lie we’ve swallowed in ministry circles: that we’re called to “be Jesus” to people. It sounds noble—self-sacrificing, Christ-like, the ultimate example of faith. But it’s a trap. Only Jesus is Jesus. We’re not Him, and we were never meant to be. That belief sets us up for a fall—unrealistic expectations from ourselves, from those we serve, and a slow slide into behaviors that look more like narcissism than godliness. It’s a cancer in ministry settings, and it’s time we name it for what it is.
Letting Go of the Lie That We Must “Be Jesus”
I bought into it for years. When betrayal hit—like the time a close friend spread lies that cut deeper than I’ll ever admit—I thought I had to forgive instantly, radiate peace, and keep serving without a flinch. When life piled on—bills we couldn’t pay, kids struggling under the ministry spotlight, or the loneliness of being the one everyone leans on—I told myself to push through, to be the unshakable rock. Why? Because I’d internalized that I had to be a perfect reflection of Christ. Anything less felt like failure—not just to the church, but to God.
But Jesus didn’t call us to be Him. He called us to let Him in—to give Him access to our lives, in sickness and in health, in strength and in collapse. He’s the one who heals, not us. Our job isn’t to embody perfection; it’s to do the work of renewal, to discern truth from lies, to be courageous and transparent in our growth so others can see what healing looks like. That’s the real witness—not a polished facade, but a cracked vessel showing where the light gets in.
The Weight of the Lie
The “be Jesus” mindset is a heavy yoke. It tells us we can’t falter. When someone betrays us, we’re supposed to turn the other cheek without a tear. When exhaustion sets in, we’re supposed to muster supernatural strength. When our hearts break, we’re supposed to hide it, because “Jesus wouldn’t break.” But Jesus did break—He wept over Lazarus, He sweat blood in Gethsemane, He cried out on the cross. If the Son of God felt the weight of His humanity, why do we think we’re above it?
I hit that wall after a brutal season. A family we’d poured years into turned on us—gossip, accusations, the works. I was furious, wounded, and drowning in guilt for not “rising above” it instantly. I’d cry in private, then step out to lead a women’s group like nothing was wrong. I thought that was strength. It wasn’t—it was denial, fueled by the lie that I had to be Jesus instead of letting Jesus be Jesus for me. The truth came when I stopped pretending: God wasn’t mad at my mess. He was waiting in it, ready to mend what I couldn’t.
Healing as a Human
Healing isn’t a betrayal of your calling—it’s a cornerstone of it. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being real. That means giving yourself permission to hurt when you’re stabbed in the back. It means resting when you’re spent. It means saying, “I’m struggling,” without shame. Some days, you’ll feel steady; others, you’ll stumble hard. That’s not a flaw—it’s the rhythm of renewal. The Bible calls us to renew our minds (Romans 12:2), not to fake our way through life. That takes work—prayer, reflection, sometimes a counselor or a friend who gets it. It takes courage to let people see the process, not just the product.
And here’s the kicker: When you’re transparent about your healing, you free others to heal too. They don’t need you to be Jesus—they need you to show them how to lean on Him. I’ve seen it firsthand. When I started admitting my limits—sharing with a small group that I was wrestling with forgiveness after that betrayal—women opened up about their own wounds. My honesty didn’t weaken their faith; it gave them permission to stop hiding.
The Cancer of Perfection
The belief that we must be as perfect as God isn’t just a burden—it’s a distortion. It twists our calling into a performance, tempting us to chase approval instead of glorifying God. I’ve seen it play out: the pastor’s wife who never rests, who snaps at her kids because she’s stretched too thin, who secretly resents the church for demanding what she can’t give. That’s not holiness—that’s pride masquerading as duty. It points to us, not to Him. God doesn’t need our perfection to shine; He uses our weakness to show His strength (2 Corinthians 12:9).
This lie also poisons those we serve. They start expecting us to be infallible—never tired, never hurt, always available. When we inevitably crack, they’re shocked or judgmental, because we’ve trained them to see us as more than human. That’s not their fault—it’s the culture we’ve built by carrying this false standard. But when we let go of it, when we say, “I’m healing, and it’s messy,” we shift the focus back where it belongs: on the One who’s actually perfect.
A Better Way Forward
So here’s where I’ve landed, and where I hope you’ll land too: You’re not Jesus. You’re His follower, His child, His work in progress. Give Him access—let Him into the pain, the fatigue, the doubts. Do the work to renew your mind—read the Word, wrestle with it, sift through the lies you’ve believed. Be discerning about what you take on; you don’t have to say yes to everything. Be brave enough to show your journey—let people see you heal, not just survive. That’s the real ministry—not perfection, but presence.
I’m not saying it’s easy. The church might not always understand. Some will still want the shiny version of you. But God doesn’t. He made you human, and He’s not shocked when you act like it. He’s patient with your healing, even when you’re not. And as you walk this road, you’ll find it’s not just about you—it’s about breaking a cycle. It’s about showing other pastors’ wives, other believers, that we don’t have to carry the cancer of perfection. We can heal, we can grow, and we can point to Jesus without trying to take His place.