The Pastor Who Can’t Pray Anymore: A letter to you (and me)

Dear friend,

I remember the evening. The recliner had been moved into our bedroom for some reason—maybe to make room for something else, maybe because everything was shifting. The room was dark, but I was darker. I felt like I weighed nothing at all. I wasn’t floating. I wasn’t peaceful.

Just… gone.

It was the spring of 2021. The world had changed—COVID, the political noise, the church disoriented, all of us adapting to survive something we couldn’t define. And that night, I finally said out loud what had been simmering inside for months:

“I can’t go another day in ministry. I have to quit.”

I said it to my wife. She made some phone calls. I agreed to preach one more time, and then it was over. That final Sunday came and went, and when it was done, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: relief. Temporary, yes—but real. I want you to know this story because if you're reading this, there’s a chance you know the feeling. Maybe you’ve reached that same breaking point. Maybe your spirit is hollow. Maybe prayer—once your lifeline—feels like trying to dial a disconnected number. If so, I want to tell you: I’ve been there. And I think God was too.

I was still praying. I just wasn’t showing up.

Here’s the strange part: I didn’t stop praying—not technically. I kept reading the Psalms every day. I used a prayer method I’d developed called “the cross.” It was structured, daily, consistent. But it wasn’t honest. I told myself it was. I thought I was showing up with my whole heart. But really, I was praying around the pain, not through it. God wasn’t fooled.

I still use that same method today. I still pray the cross. But now, I’m learning to pray it with unabandoned vulnerability. The only difference is that I stopped pretending. I stopped managing my tone with God. I stopped trying to sound okay. If you can’t pray right now, maybe that’s not a failure. Maybe it’s the first honest thing you’ve done in months.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I never doubted God. That might sound strange, but it’s true. I didn’t feel “released” from the church I was pastoring until the day I preached my final sermon, and even then, I didn’t question God’s presence. But I absolutely stopped believing in myself.

I had a doctorate. I knew Greek. A bit of Hebrew. I had the tools. But the person using them? He didn’t feel real. He felt like a character I had created to play the role of “pastor.” And the role was crumbling.

People weren’t coming back. Giving was down. I carried the silent, heavy belief that all of it was my fault. And I didn’t just feel like a failure—I became one in my own imagination. A walking disappointment. It’s a brutal thing, feeling abandoned in a room full of people.

I read a book later—The End of Burnout by Jonathan Malesic—and he named what I couldn’t:

• Exhaustion (and not just physical)

• Cynicism (bitterness about what used to bring joy)

• Ineffectiveness (the sinking sense that nothing you do matters)

Those three words still ring true. I carried all of them. Maybe you do too.

Healing didn’t come in a flash. It came in a long, slow walk.

Literally. In England.

We moved 4,000 miles away—to Bristol. The distance between that old life and the new one felt like the distance between Pluto and the Sun. I started therapy and sought help from the National Health Service (NHS). I walked through green groves until the soles of my shoes wore down. I studied. I rested. I began to hear something again—not a voice, exactly, but a clearing of the fog. A sense that I wasn’t lost. Just tired. Just human. And maybe… maybe that was enough to bring me back.

So, friend—if you’re the pastor who can’t pray anymore…

You’re not alone. You’re not disqualified.And you’re not broken beyond repair. You may still be praying—sort of. That counts. But when you’re ready, I hope you can lay down the performance. I hope you can show up to God messy, weeping, cynical, or quiet. I hope you’ll find that God never needed your performance in the first place.

If all you can manage today is a sigh, let it be your prayer. That’s what the Psalmist did. That’s what I did.

That’s what I still do.

Cheers,

Jonathan

P.S. If any of this feels familiar and you need someone to walk with you through it, I coach pastors and leaders just like you. But whether you reach out or not, know this: I’m cheering for you. I’m praying for you—even when you can’t.

Email: Jonathan.a.crabtree@gmail.com

Phone: 769-298-3006