Have You Hugged Your Minister Recently?

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

There is a quiet assumption in most congregations: the minister is fine.

After all, they stand up every Sunday. They open the Scriptures with clarity. They pray with confidence. They speak hope into hospital rooms, steady a trembling hand at funerals, and bless newborns as if grace flows through them without effort. We assume strength because we see it.

But assumption is not the same thing as reality.

Ministers are not called to the work for applause. If they were, they chose the wrong profession. The calling to ministry is rarely glamorous. It is more often late-night phone calls, quiet counseling sessions, and wrestling alone with a text long after everyone else has gone to bed. They did not step forward seeking accolades. They stepped forward because they believed they were summoned.

And yet — the pressure is constant.

There is the subtle fear of the missed need. The member who slipped through the cracks. The hospital visit that came too late. The counseling appointment that could not be squeezed into an already crowded week. Every shepherd lives with the question: Did I miss someone?

Then there is the tug-of-war between church and family.

When a crisis erupts in the congregation, the minister’s heart runs toward the need. But sometimes, that call comes during dinner. Or during a child’s ballgame. Or on the one evening that was supposed to belong to their spouse. The congregation sees availability. The family feels absence. A minister often stands in the middle, pulled in both directions, praying not to fail either. But knowing the spouse is quietly asking, “where is my minister?”

It is a strange loneliness. Ministers are surrounded by people and yet can feel profoundly alone. They carry confidences they cannot repeat. They absorb criticism they cannot publicly answer. They lead people who sometimes expect perfection but forget that leadership is still human. The human side aches when they drive by a home with church members enjoying a Christmas party.

The irony is thick: the one who comforts others must often comfort themselves.

Scripture gives us a tender image of this reality. In the Old Testament, when Moses grew weary holding up his arms during battle, Aaron and Hur stood beside him and held his hands up until sunset. Even the strongest leader needed someone to steady him.

Ministry is no different.

So what can a parishioner do?

First, speak encouragement — specifically. Not a vague “good sermon,” but a clear word: “When you said this, it helped me. You may never know how much I needed to hear those words.” Ministers store those moments like water in a canteen. They remember them in dry seasons.

Second, guard their family time. Resist the urge to call for non-urgent matters during evenings or days off. Teach your children that the minister’s children deserve the same protected space your family values.

Third, pray for them — not abstractly, but by name. Tell them you are doing so. In fact, send them the heart-felt prayer. There is something strengthening about knowing that someone is intentionally asking God to carry what you cannot.

Fourth, write a note. In a world of quick texts and fleeting comments, a handwritten word becomes a keepsake. Many ministers quietly keep such notes in desk drawers, pulling them out on hard days.

Fifth, offer practical relief. Provide a meal during busy seasons. Volunteer to carry part of a ministry load. Show up early. Stay late. Ministry was never meant to be a one-person performance. They lead the church, but the church is the people!

And perhaps, sometimes, simply offer a hug.

Not because they need flattery. Not because they are fragile. But because they are human.

The Church is not an audience. It is a body. And when one part grows weary, the others are meant to strengthen it.

The minister may never say they feel alone. They may never admit how heavy the week has been. But beneath the robe or suit jacket is a person who chose obedience over comfort, service over applause.

A simple word. A simple prayer. A simple embrace.

You might be surprised how far it goes.

Communities rise and fall on visible leadership, but they endure because of quiet encouragement. When the shepherd is strengthened, the flock is steadied. And sometimes, the holiest act in a church hallway is not a theological debate or a polished performance — it is a reminder that the one who pours out is not forgotten.