I left my credentials on the table so that I could sit at other tables

There was a moment a few years ago when I looked at my ministry calendar—full, color-coded, efficient—and thought: Is this it? Every day felt drained of emotional energy and creative potential. I showed up. I preached, I visited, I responded to emails, I sat in meetings. And I felt like I was slowly building my own coffin—one structured week at a time—until retirement.

I’ve always felt called to the pastorate. Since I was seven. I love preaching, teaching, gathering people, breaking bread, sitting in grief, walking through doubt. But in recent years, it began to feel like my calling was getting squeezed into one or two hours a week. And when I tried to minister in third places—pubs, gyms, breweries, cafés—I felt resistance. Not from the people I was meeting, but from the institution I was part of. The unspoken message was: That’s not “real” ministry.

But it felt very real to me.

Over time, I realized that the shape of my ministry was changing—and I needed to step into that change without waiting for permission. Effective July 1, 2025, I will no longer hold credentials in the denomination that formed me. I’m stepping away, not in anger, but in peace. I’m walking toward a new season of ministry: one where I’m rooted in a local non-denominational church that has loved and supported our family, and one where I’m increasingly showing up in places where church folks might never go. This decision was not easy. I didn’t walk away lightly. It came after years of wrestling, praying, doubting, and discerning.

For a long time, I tied my identity to my ordination. I worked for the title Reverend like it would finally give me the access and affirmation I longed for. And for a while, it did. But I now realize that my call to pastor people didn’t begin the day someone laid hands on me. It began when I started loving people. Listening. Showing up.

Before I was ever ordained, I was living the life of a pastor. But I couldn’t baptize the people I discipled. I couldn’t serve them the Lord’s Supper. That disconnect—between what I was doing and what I was “allowed” to do—left me feeling confused and, at times, used. And even once I was ordained, the deeper call on my life kept pointing me outward. To the ones who would never cast a shadow on the doors of a church. To those who found themselves disillusioned, burned out, skeptical, or just curious. My heart beat for the ones on the fringe. But I felt pulled back, again and again, into maintaining systems that didn't have room for that kind of calling.

That’s what drew me to the non-denominational church we’re now part of. They live by the phrase: “To reach people no one else is reaching, you have to do things no one else is doing.”That isn’t just branding. It’s embedded in their posture. It’s how they welcomed us when we were overseas, and how they’ve continued to love us now that we’re home. They didn’t see me as a résumé or a risk. They just saw me. And they made space for me to walk out my calling—not with pressure to perform, but with freedom to minister.

So yes, I left my credentials on the table. But it wasn’t an act of rebellion. It was an act of faith.

I left them on the table so I could go sit at other tables. Pubs. Parks. Coffee shops. Gym floors. Dinner tables. I left them behind so I could meet Jesus again—right where He always seems to show up: among the people, not above them.

To be clear, I’m not bitter. The Church that raised me also released me. I’m grateful for the mentors, friends, and experiences that helped form me. But it’s time now for something new.

For those who are disillusioned with church but still spiritually hungry—I get it. I still believe the Church is the body of Christ. But I also believe that the Spirit of Jesus is not confined to buildings or budgets. He’s moving in pubs and parks, through strangers and skeptics, in silence and surprise.

And for my fellow clergy who feel stuck—who feel like their gifts, energy, or imagination don’t quite fit in the system they’re in—I want you to hear this:

You’re not crazy. You’re not alone.

And your calling is not a cage.

Years ago, I wanted to leave my denomination just to get the Reverend title in another one. I was frustrated and ambitious. An older man in my church—who rarely attended—kept saying to me, “Prayer and patience.” At the time, I hated that. It felt too simple. Too dismissive.

But he was right.

Prayer and patience might be the most valuable resources for the wanderers among us—the ones who still long for God but can’t find a place to stand. If that’s you, I’d love to walk with you. I’d love to hear your story. I’d love to help you unpack your calling and maybe—just maybe—rediscover a sense of adventure again. Feel free to reach out. You don’t have to figure it all out alone.

I’m walking this road too.