The Ache of Desire Pastors Try to Bury

I was thirty-four when I finally said it out loud.

Not what I was supposed to say. Not the kind of thing that gets you a bigger church or a pat on the back from denominational execs.

What I actually wanted.

I wanted to matter.

Not just in that plastic, churchy way—well done, good and faithful servant. No, I wanted to build something that outlasted me. I wanted to say words that didn’t just fill the air for 30 minutes but stuck to people’s ribs and changed them. I wanted to stop shrinking myself into the role everyone else had decided was holy.

But I was terrified of saying it. Because it didn’t sound humble. It didn’t sound pastoral. It sounded selfish.

I remember sitting at a youth ministry conference years ago, watching the parade of gotee-wearing, Hebrew-tatted pastors walk by. Everyone trying to impress each other. And I thought: Is anyone else suffocating in here, or am I the only fraud in the room?

Turns out, I wasn’t the only one. Not even close.

The Desire I Buried for 30 Years

Let me tell you the ache that wouldn’t die in me.

Music.

I’d been carrying it since I was a teenager. Songs scribbled on napkins. Chords that haunted me in the middle of the night. Lyrics that bubbled up during sermons I was supposed to be listening to.

But pastors don’t have time for that kind of thing. At least that’s what I told myself.

So I shoved it down. Hard. Thirty years of later, not now. Thirty years of convincing myself ministry was more important. Thirty years of swallowing the fear that if I ever tried, I might fail. Or worse, people might laugh.

And here’s the thing: I got really good at making the burial look holy. Ministry is my calling. People’s needs come first. Sacrifice is godliness. All the right lines.

But you can only bury something living for so long before it rots and poisons you.

It finally took a health crisis to rip the mask off. My body said what my mouth wouldn’t: You can’t live like this anymore.

So in February, I grabbed a guitar, boarded a plane with my youngest son, and flew to Ireland. We wrote music. We filmed the journey. I gave the ache a voice for the first time in decades.

It felt like resurrection.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect. Even now—months later—I still hesitate. I still drag my feet getting into the studio. Why? Because desire is dangerous once it’s real. When it’s only in your head, nobody can judge it. But once it’s out in the world? It can be dismissed. Criticized. Mocked.

And that—ironically—is sometimes scarier than never trying at all.

The Ache Every Pastor Knows

Your ache may not be music. But it’s something.

Maybe it’s painting. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe it’s planting something new instead of polishing something old. Maybe it’s just the freedom to speak what you actually think without watching your words go through the shredder of “what will people say?”

And like me, you probably buried it. Because somewhere along the way, you were told that real pastors don’t have time for childish dreams. That your only desire should be for “the work of the Lord.”

So you shoved it down. And you called that holiness.

But let’s be honest—it’s not holiness. It’s slow death.

You can bury a desire, but you can’t kill it. Not really. It mutates. It leaks sideways. It shows up as overwork, or cynicism, or that addiction you can’t shake. It seeps out in your sharp tone with your spouse, your kids, your staff. It leaves you hollow even while you look successful.

Pastors don’t burn out because ministry is too hard. They burn out because they’ve been living amputated from their own hearts.

The God-Wired Ache

Here’s the scandal nobody told you in seminary: desire isn’t your enemy. It’s your engine.

Paul burned with desire. The psalmist sang about God giving the desires of our hearts—not stamping them out. Jesus didn’t shame His disciples for wanting. His very first question to them was simple: “What do you want?” (John 1:38).

Wanting is not the problem.

The problem is when you confuse your ego with your essence.

But make no mistake—God planted desire in you on purpose. To create. To love. To bring something into the world that wouldn’t exist without you.

When you bury that, you don’t become spiritual. You just become small.

The Ache Pastors Apologize For

I’ve lost count of how many pastors I’ve sat with who whisper their longings like they’re confessing a crime.

“I want to write.”
“I want to be known for who I am, not just my role.”
“I want to stop copying other people’s models and build something original.”
“I want to feel fully alive again.”

And then, almost every time: But I know that sounds selfish.

It’s not selfish. It’s sacred.

What if the ache you’re trying to suffocate is the very ache that proves you’re still alive?

The Theology We Twisted

Somewhere along the way, we took Jesus’ words about denying ourselves and twisted them into a command to annihilate ourselves.

That’s not what He said.

Jesus wasn’t asking you to kill your desires. He was asking you to kill the false self—the polished mask, the performance machine, the empty image.

The true self—the one God actually knit together in your mother’s womb—that self was made to ache. To want. To hunger. To burn.

The ache you feel isn’t rebellion. It’s revelation.

Desire Versus Ego

Let’s be clear: not every craving is holy. Ego craves attention, control, applause. Ego gets loud when it’s hungry.

But holy desire is different. It’s steady. It’s patient. It doesn’t scream. It hums under your skin like a current that won’t shut off.

Ego builds kingdoms with your name on them. Desire builds something that points beyond you. Ego leaves you restless no matter how much you get. Desire leaves you alive even if nobody claps.

You already know the difference in your gut. One leaves you hollow. The other makes you whole.

What Happens When You Finally Tell the Truth

So what do you do?

You stop lying.

You stop pretending you don’t want what you want. You write it down. You say it out loud, even if your voice shakes. You take one small step toward it. Just one.

Because the moment you tell the truth—even if nothing changes around you—something shifts inside you. The fracture begins to close. The ache becomes fuel instead of poison.

And here’s the crazy thing: once you stop apologizing for wanting, the whole world looks different. Sermons feel different. Conversations feel different. Even rest feels different.

Because now you’re not playing dead anymore.

The Invitation

So let me say it plainly: it’s not just okay to want more than ministry. It’s holy.

Ministry is not your life. Christ is your life. And Christ is big enough to hold your passions, your dreams, your art, your fire.

You don’t have to quit tomorrow. You don’t have to blow it all up. But you do have to stop burying yourself alive.

Take one step. Write the song. Paint the canvas. Speak the truth. Plant the seed.

Because the ache is not your enemy. The ache is your invitation.◼︎

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