The Pressure to Have Answers
When you’re a pastor, people come to you expecting wisdom. They look to you for guidance, truth, and a sense of certainty in an uncertain world. And that’s not a bad thing, it’s part of the calling. But somewhere along the way, many of us begin to believe the lie that we always need to have the right answer.
I’ve been there. Someone asks a heartbreaking question about suffering, or a theological curveball I didn’t see coming, and I can feel it, this pressure rising inside me to respond quickly, confidently, and clearly. Because pastors are supposed to know, right?
Except sometimes… I don’t.
And after years of wrestling with that discomfort, I’ve learned something freeing and deeply important: “I don’t know” can be one of the most honest, pastoral, and faithful things I can say.
When I Didn’t Have the Answer
I’ll never forget the day a young couple sat across from me, tears in their eyes, asking why they lost their baby.
There is no theology textbook that prepares you for that moment.
They weren’t asking for a lecture on the problem of evil. They were asking if God was still good, if He still saw them, still loved them.
And I didn’t have an answer that could make that pain go away. So I told them the truth.
“I don’t know why this happened. But I do know God is still here. And I know He’s not afraid of your questions.”
We cried together. We prayed. And in that vulnerable space, something sacred happened. Not because I had the answers, but because I was willing to hold the pain without pretending I did.
The Freedom of Not Knowing
Saying “I don’t know” doesn’t mean I’m giving up on truth. It means I’m giving up on pretending to be God.
There’s a big difference.
God is infinite. I’m not. God sees the full picture. I don’t. My job isn’t to have perfect clarity—it’s to point people to the One who does.
In ministry, we talk a lot about trust. But part of trust is not having all the answers. Part of trust is saying, “I’m still waiting on this too. Let’s wait together.”
That kind of honesty creates space for God to move. It reminds people that faith isn’t about certainty, it’s about the relationship.
Why Pastoral Humility Matters
I think people are more drawn to vulnerability than polish. They don’t need a pastor with a script, they need a human being who’s walking this road with them.
When I admit I don’t know something, I’m not failing my congregation. I’m showing them what humility looks like. I’m reminding them that it’s okay to question, wonder, and wrestle.
And I’m inviting them into something deeper than easy answers: I’m inviting them into mystery.
Trusting the God Who Knows
I’ve learned to find comfort in this truth: I may not know everything, but I know the One who does.
There’s a beautiful humility that comes with leaning into God’s wisdom rather than my own. It keeps me dependent. It keeps me listening. It keeps me praying.
And honestly, it keeps me human.
The more I let go of the need to have it all figured out, the more space I make for the Holy Spirit to actually do the work I can’t.
Teaching Through Tension
Sometimes, the most powerful sermons come from unresolved tension.
I’ve preached on things I don’t fully understand: grace, suffering, divine timing, and I’ve told my congregation, “I’m still learning. I’m still growing.”
And you know what? Those are the messages people bring up later. Not because they were perfect, but because they were real.
It turns out, people don’t need a flawless leader. They need someone who’s willing to walk with them through doubt, grief, and unknowing.
There’s Power in the Pause
If you’re a pastor, a leader, or even just someone who others turn to for guidance, can I give you some permission today?
You don’t always have to have the answer.
There is power in pausing. In breathing. In saying, “I don’t know, but I’ll walk with you.”
God can do a lot with that kind of honesty. He meets us in the mystery. He works in the waiting.
And sometimes, the most faithful thing we can do is admit what we don’t know, while holding fast to the One who knows it all.