Climbing Out from Beneath the Bus

How a pastor moves beyond offense and betrayal

Every pastor knows the sting of disappointment, but few pains cut deeper than the feeling of being “thrown under the bus.” It’s a phrase that has become part of our modern vocabulary for betrayal—a moment when someone you trusted decides it’s easier to sacrifice your reputation than to stand beside you when things get hard. It’s not just political or professional. It’s deeply personal. Especially when it happens in ministry.

Most pastors enter their calling with open hearts and open hands. We live and lead in the currency of trust, guided by a code of confidentiality, and committed to conduct our lives in transparency. When any one of those is broken—especially by those closest to us—the wound is deep. It doesn’t just bruise your ego; it cuts into your sense of calling. It’s one thing to be criticized by strangers; it’s another to be betrayed by someone who once walked beside you in ministry.

The Bible gives us the ultimate picture of this kind of pain. Jesus Himself was betrayed—not by an enemy, but by one of His own. Judas knew His voice, shared His bread, and walked the same dusty roads. Yet for thirty pieces of silver, he traded relationship for self-interest. Peter, too, denied Him three times. Even the disciples who had promised to stay awake and pray fell asleep. Jesus was left to face the darkness alone. If betrayal could reach the Son of God, we shouldn’t be surprised when it comes knocking on our own door.

There’s something strangely comforting in that truth. Jesus didn’t escape betrayal; He endured it. He faced it without retaliation. He didn’t demand that His disciples understand. He simply prayed, “Father, forgive them.” For every pastor who’s been thrown under the bus, that prayer still works. It doesn’t minimize the pain, but it starts the healing. Because betrayal, left unchecked, will make you bitter—and bitterness, if left alone, will build its own bus for you to drive.

In the quiet moments after the hurt, every pastor has to decide: Do I park my ministry in the garage of resentment, or do I start the engine of recovery? Healing doesn’t happen quickly. It takes time. But there are some steps that help.

First, talk to God before you talk to people. Prayer isn’t just a spiritual discipline—it’s a survival tool. David knew this well when he wrote, “I pour out my complaint before Him; I tell my trouble before Him” (Psalm 142:2). God can handle your honesty. You don’t have to sanitize your pain before you pray. Just bring it.

Second, find a safe place to tell the truth. Every pastor needs a confidant who can hear the raw version without judging or weaponizing it. That’s not gossip—it’s grace in motion. James 5:16 reminds us to “confess your faults one to another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” Healing comes in the honest exchange of pain and prayer.

Third, resist the urge to retaliate. This one’s tough, because everything in you wants to set the record straight. But Jesus gave us another model. He “made Himself of no reputation” (Philippians 2:7). You don’t have to chase vindication; you can trust God for restoration. Your silence can speak louder than your defense when it’s anchored in peace.

Fourth, rebuild slowly. Don’t rush to fix what time and truth can mend. When Paul was deserted by Demas and others, he didn’t stop ministering. He wrote, “But the Lord stood with me and strengthened me” (2 Timothy 4:17). The Lord still stands with pastors who’ve been abandoned. Ministry isn’t over just because someone walked away.

Finally, remember that every wound can become a testimony. The scars you carry today might become the healing balm for someone else tomorrow. When you pastor from beneath the bus, you learn how to minister to people who’ve been run over by life. That’s where empathy grows. That’s where grace deepens.

David knew this truth too well. He wasn’t only betrayed by enemies—he was wounded by those who once sat at his own table. Ahithophel, his trusted counselor, turned against him and joined forces with Absalom in a rebellion that nearly cost David both his crown and his heart. Scripture says that Ahithophel’s counsel “was as if one inquired at the oracle of God,” which made the betrayal sting all the more deeply. But David did what true leaders must do when trust is shattered: he turned to God in prayer. “O Lord,” he cried, “turn the counsel of Ahithophel into foolishness” (2 Samuel 15:31). And God did. What David lost in human loyalty, he regained in divine strength. His restoration didn’t come through revenge—it came through resilience.

History offers its own reflection of this truth. Winston Churchill, who led Great Britain through its darkest hours, was once described as “indispensable in war and expendable in peace.” Many pastors know that feeling. You were the one they called when the storm was raging, but when calm returned, you became expendable. It hurts—but it also teaches. God reminds us that we are called to serve, not to be celebrated. Leadership in the Kingdom is never about applause; it’s about obedience.

So, what do you do when you’re pastoring from beneath the bus? You keep serving. You keep showing up. You keep believing that the One who called you hasn’t changed His mind about you. Romans 11:29 says, “For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.” You may be under the bus, but you’re still under the call.

And that’s the power of pastoral resilience. The same grace that called you will carry you. The same hands that anointed you will lift you. The same God who saw your faithfulness before will write redemption into your story again. You may limp for a while—but you’ll lead again. Because the call of God doesn’t end when people throw you under the bus. Sometimes, that’s exactly where God starts building your comeback.

ARTICLE REFERENCES:

Ruth Haley Barton, Strengthening the Soul of Your Leadership, Dr. Henry Cloud, Necessary Endings, Eugene H. Peterson, The Pastor: A Memoir