Blessed Are the Burned-Out

Before the palms, before the cross, before the sunrise—this is for you.

For the hands tending Sacred Refuge,
for those who feel they must be more than human—
this is your invitation to pause.
To remember that you are holy.
That you are human.
That you are held.

In my work in ministry,
I have walked alongside hundreds of pastors and church workers.
And I know:
You are tired.

This blessing is one small offering in return—
a moment of restoration in the Holy Currency of Wellness.
A reminder that you, too, are part of the ecosystem of grace.

Let me take your hands, and place this blessing in them.

Blessed are the burned-out,
the ones with sermon notes in the margins of bulletins,
who haven’t sat through a full worship service in years
because they’re always making it happen for someone else.

Blessed are the ones who stayed late to fold bulletins,
to run through sound checks, to clean up candle wax—
so someone else could experience sacredness.

Blessed are the ones who can’t cry during the Good Friday service
because they know they have to lead the Easter one.

Blessed are the cracked-voiced singers,
the undercaffeinated liturgists,
the ones whose hearts are full of beauty
and whose bodies are just so tired.

Blessed are the pastors who write resurrection sermons
while quietly grieving the loss no one else knows they’re carrying.

Blessed are the ones who bring communion to others,
not remembering the last time someone blessed them with bread.

Blessed are you—
in your imperfection, your overwhelm, your quiet ache.

You are not failing.
You are not alone.
You are not unseen.

You are standing at the edge of something holy.

And so—before the week begins,
before you take up basin and towel,
before you preach the cross and sing the tomb open—

Come.

Not as leader. Not as shepherd.
But simply as you.

Breathe.
Be held.
Let this blessing carry you for once.

You do not have to resurrect the world.
Just remain. Just be. Just breathe.
The presence of the Holy One is already here.

You are not the tomb’s keeper.
You are not the dawn’s engine.
You are the one the Holy One would sit beside
in the garden—

before the palms, before the cross, before the sunrise—
just to say:

“You are enough.
Let me hold your hand awhile.”