How I Forgave My Pastor (And Why It Wasn't For Him)

I carried that weight for years.

The anger. The betrayal. The replaying of conversations at 2 AM. The way I'd flinch every time someone said "pastor" in a positive context. The bitterness that colored everything — my relationships, my prayers, my ability to trust anyone in leadership.

I didn't want to forgive him.

Let me say that again, because I think honesty matters more than sounding spiritual: I did not want to forgive that man.

What he did was wrong. The manipulation was real. The control was real. The spiritual gaslighting was real. The way he used Scripture like a weapon was real. And for a long time, I felt like forgiving him would mean saying it was okay.

It wasn't okay. And forgiveness doesn't mean it was.

The Version of Forgiveness I Was Taught

Growing up in church, forgiveness was simple. Someone wrongs you, you pray about it, you let it go, and you move on. Maybe you sing a worship song. Maybe you cry during altar call. But you forgive — quickly, completely, and without conditions.

That version of forgiveness is a lie.

Not because forgiveness isn't real. It is. But because that version skips every hard part. It skips the anger. It skips the grief. It skips the reality that some wounds don't close in a single prayer meeting.

When you've been spiritually abused, forgiveness isn't a one-time event. It's a war you fight with yourself for months. Sometimes years. And anyone who tells you otherwise either hasn't been through it or is lying.

What Forgiveness Actually Looked Like for Me

It started with the song. I sat down one night and started writing what became "I Forgive You, Pastor." I wasn't trying to write something deep. I was trying to survive. The words came out like blood from a wound — messy, raw, and necessary.

That song wasn't me forgiving him. It was me deciding to forgive him. There's a difference.

The decision came first. The feeling came much later.

Here's what the process actually looked like:

Stage 1: Admitting I was angry. Not "disappointed." Not "hurt." Angry. Furious. I had to stop spiritualizing my emotions and just feel them. God already knew I was angry. Pretending I wasn't didn't honor Him — it just kept me stuck.

Stage 2: Naming what happened. I had to call it what it was. Not "a difficult season." Not "a disagreement." Abuse. Control. Manipulation. Naming it didn't make me bitter. It made me honest.

Stage 3: Grieving what I lost. Years. Relationships. Trust. A version of faith that was simpler and less bruised. I had to grieve all of that before I could let any of it go.

Stage 4: Making the decision. Forgiveness, for me, was a decision I made on an ordinary Tuesday. Not during a worship service. Not during a moment of spiritual clarity. I just woke up one morning and decided I was tired of carrying it. I was tired of him living rent-free in my head.

Stage 5: Repeating the decision. Because it didn't stick the first time. Or the second. Or the tenth. Some days I'd wake up and the anger would be right there, fresh as day one. And I'd have to decide again.

What Forgiveness Doesn't Mean

Let me be crystal clear about what forgiveness is NOT:

• •It's not reconciliation. I forgave my pastor. I will never go back to that church. Those are not contradictions.
• •It's not minimizing. "I forgive you" doesn't mean "what you did wasn't that bad." It was that bad.
• •It's not forgetting. I remember everything. Forgiveness doesn't require amnesia.
• •It's not trust. Forgiveness is free. Trust has to be earned. They are not the same thing.

If anyone tells you that real forgiveness means going back, they're wrong. If they tell you that real forgiveness means acting like it didn't happen, they're wrong. If they tell you that holding boundaries is unforgiveness, they are wrong.

Why I Did It Anyway

So if it's not for him, why bother?

Because I was suffocating.

The anger was eating me alive. It was affecting my marriage, my parenting, my relationship with God. Every time I tried to pray, the bitterness would rise up. Every time I heard a sermon, I'd filter it through suspicion.

I wasn't punishing my pastor by holding onto it. I was punishing myself.

Forgiveness was the door I had to walk through to get my life back. Not his life. Mine.

Forgiveness isn't just about pastors — it's about every relationship that's been damaged along the way. Parents, friends, leaders. The people who should have protected you and didn't. Ephesians 4:31-32 says, "Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you." That's the standard. And it's impossibly high. But it's not about perfection — it's about direction.

If You're Not Ready

If you're reading this and you're not ready to forgive, that's okay.

I mean that. It's okay. Forgiveness isn't a race. It's not a checkbox. And anyone who pressures you into it before you're ready is doing the same thing that hurt you in the first place — using spiritual language to control your timeline.

Feel what you feel. Name what happened. Grieve what you lost. And when you're ready — not when someone else decides you should be — you'll know.

And if you need a song to sit with in the meantime, "I Forgive You, Pastor" will be here. It was written for exactly this moment.

Continue reading: "I Left My Church — I Didn't Leave God" and "How to Rebuild Your Faith After Church Hurt"