Why Sundays Are Stealing Your Soul

Last week was Easter. You’d think after three decades of doing this, I’d be past the pressure by now.

But there it was again.
That little voice…

This one has to land.
This one has to be powerful.
This one has to matter. 

I caught myself tying the worth of the message to the weight of the moment.
I know better. I teach pastors not to do that.

And still, I did it.

Because that’s how deep it goes.
And I’m not the only one.

On Monday, I spoke with a pastor who participated in one of our cohorts last year.

His Easter service was full.
The energy was high.
The people were kind. 

But he said, “I think I’m just coming down from the adrenaline. Everything’s quiet again—and I feel… flat.”

He wasn’t depressed.
He wasn’t discouraged.
He was just… emptied.

And he didn’t know why that felt so unsettling.
But I did.
Because I’ve lived it too.

Sundays used to fill us.
Now they drain us.

Not because preaching is a problem.
Not because gathering is wrong.
But because we’ve let one day decide if we’re enough. 

Six days of pouring out.
One chance to prove it counted.

And if it goes well? Relief.
If it doesn’t? Regret. 

It’s not ministry anymore.
It’s a measurement.

And deep down, we know it.
But we don’t know how to stop.

Somewhere along the way, Sunday became a scorecard. 

We count heads.
We replay reactions.
We overanalyze transitions.
We adjust the lights.
We edit ourselves. 

And it works—until it doesn’t.

Until you wake up on Monday and wonder why you feel a little numb.
Or a little angry.
Or like you’re grieving something you can’t name.

According to Barna, 77% of pastors report high stress related to performance. Nearly half feel alone in it.

The American Institute of Stress confirms that emotional crashes—especially after performance-driven events—are a common physiological response. 

This isn’t weakness. It’s chemistry. It’s reality.
And if you don’t learn to honor it, it will keep stealing from you quietly.

So here’s where you can start today:

Ask yourself one question: Who are you when no one’s watching?

Write it down.
Not the title.
Not the role.
Not the version of you they expect on stage. 

Just… you.

Then ask: What would need to shift for that version of me to breathe again?

That’s the real work.
And it’s the only one that lasts.

Some of you need a coach to help you stop performing.
Some need a cohort where no one claps—and no one competes.
Some of you need a different system entirely. 

But all of us need this reminder: 

The stage is where you speak. But it’s not where you live.◼︎ 

Tim Eldred has spent over 35 years in pastoral ministry and coaches pastors and churches who are ready to move beyond merely surviving. He founded The Authentic Pastor to help ministry leaders find freedom from the pressures and systems that wear them down.