To the pastors

We whisper it at funerals.

“He was such a good preacher.”

“He affected my life so much.”

“He was so good to my family.”

“He was always there when I needed him.”

“He walked with the Lord.”

“What an example he set.”

But how tragic that we wait until the casket is closed to say what should have been spoken while they were still alive to hear it.

We choke back our gratitude while they walk among us, afraid that our honor might look “bad.” We silence our praise lest someone accuse us of “man worship.”

So we let the faithful ones walk on, carrying our burdens, interceding for our souls, while we offer them polite nods instead of heartfelt thanks.

These are the men who rise in the dark hours before dawn to kneel beside a bed soaked in prayer. Who bury their own heartbreaks beneath Sunday smiles so they can preach hope into ours. Who drive across town at midnight because someone’s son overdosed, or someone’s daughter ran away.

Who stand at hospital bedsides, gravesides, and front porches, carrying the weight of other people’s storms.

Who bear invisible bruises from criticism disguised as “concern.”

Who hold the church together with trembling hands and still call it a privilege.

Their eyes are rimmed with sleeplessness.

Their hearts carry the scars of betrayal.

Their families feel the sting of being second to every emergency.

Their bodies bear the quiet evidence of years poured out like oil on the altar of ministry.

And yet, they keep showing up.

To preach.

To pray.

To comfort.

To love.

To lead.

Scripture says, “Let the elders that rule well be counted worthy of double honour, especially they who labour in the word and doctrine.” (1 Timothy 5:17)

But too often, we give them half of what they’re due and none of what they need.

We critique the sermon instead of considering the sacrifice behind it.

We measure the man instead of thanking God for his faithfulness.

We forget that the shepherd is human, that behind the anointing is a heart that bleeds just like ours.

So maybe it’s time we change that.

Maybe it’s time we write the note, send the message, speak the words while they can still hear them.

Maybe it’s time to look a weary pastor in the eye and say,

“Your obedience has changed my life.”

“Your prayers carried me through.”

“Your faith has steadied mine.”

Not at his graveside.

Not in past tense.

But now.

While he’s still standing behind the pulpit with tired eyes and a willing heart.

Because honoring a man of God is not worship, it’s obedience.

It’s gratitude to the One who sent him.

It’s saying, “I see you. I see your sacrifice. I thank God for your yes.”

To every pastor who has carried the cross quietly, who has preached through pain, who has wept over souls that never knew it,

this is for you.

You are not unseen.

Heaven keeps record of your tears.

And though the world may wait until your eulogy to give you honor, may you feel it now, in the voices of those who finally learned to say thank you, without fear of what someone might think.