By: Diego Gomes
For a long period of my life, I had a friend who was very special to me – just as I know I was special to him. I am ten years older, which gave me the opportunity to watch him grow, from the energetic teenager who caused trouble at church camps to the young man with the kind heart that he became.
When he was already in college and I, an apprentice pastor in my 30s, reconnected with him, our relationship began as a discipleship. I served him by sharing about Christ and offering advice that maturity had taught me. Over time, we went beyond that, and throughout the years, our friendship grew stronger.
I accompanied him through the challenges of university, taught him how to prepare sermons and lead people, counseled him during his dating, engagement, and, finally, celebrated his wedding. He, in turn, was a faithful and dedicated disciple, a friend who stood by me during moments when my pastoral façade prevented me from expressing my feelings or succumbing to the difficulties.
He was the friend who, with a simple look, knew if I was okay or not. He was also the eager disciple, after all, he had a clear pastoral calling and aspired to ministry. Our relationship, though deep and affectionate, was not perfect – and let’s face it, no relationship is.
I, a young pastor, was still very insecure about my ministerial abilities. Many times, I shared my insecurity with people much younger than me, who didn’t have the maturity to realize that religious leaders, on their best days, are still just human beings trying to do their best. I didn’t know how to distinguish vulnerability from exposure, and I ended up sharing too much about my personal life. This created, among those around me, a sense that they were entitled to unrestricted access to my world, since I was “the pastor.”
Our relationship had cracks from the beginning, some we tried to fix, others we let pass in silence. Perhaps due to our inexperience, immaturity, or inability to solve such deep problems on our own. And there were the intermediaries, people who constantly tried to sabotage our friendship. This is a story that, perhaps, one day I will write.
The fact is, years later, we went through a crisis. I was living the most difficult moment of my life, my ministry, and my mental health. That friend, pressured from all sides to distance himself from me and disconnect his image from the promising young pastor whose popularity was in freefall, stayed by my side for a while and helped me a lot (I will be eternally grateful for that).
However, we were very young and made many mistakes. I could spend days talking about the mistakes I made, but I’ll summarize: at that moment, I wasn’t fit to lead anyone. But, due to guilt and codependency with those who clearly expected perfection from me, I accepted a leadership I shouldn’t have, at a time when my focus should have been on me, but I felt that I owed my best to those first people who believed in me as a pastor at the beginning of my ministry. Obviously, the situation spiraled out of control quickly!
I know I placed a heavy burden on a friend who was willing to help me, who made promises like “I’m with you till the end” and “we’ll get through this together.” Perhaps, in his sincere desire to help, he didn’t know how to say, “I can’t” or “I’m unable.” Perhaps, due to immaturity and fear of difficult conversations, he simply decided to pull away. Perhaps I’ll never know… so many “what ifs?”
The relationship ended in a very traumatic way. There were commitments (both public and legal) assumed, since he was a disciple in training to eventually take over as the pastor who would replace me. Quickly, I was “fired” from the position of friend and pastor, blocked on all social media, and soon the news started pouring in.
Everything he said he wouldn’t do, he did. Actions that seemed inconsistent, considering everything he had told me, seen, and lived with me, started to be taken in a way that seemed almost like a personal attack. I was in shock, not knowing where I went wrong, or what I did to deserve that. The fact that that friend was also a leader, who left a public position and the people of a church without explanations, put me in a very uncomfortable position. People wanted (justifiably) an explanation that I couldn’t give, and for a while, I stayed silent and paralyzed.
The news came fast, about parallel meetings I wasn’t invited to, negative conversations about me that I could never defend myself from. The pain of the offense then overwhelmed my heart, and I spoke ill of him to those close to me. In my urge to vent, I was dishonest, saying negative things about someone who had once been a close friend. I deeply regret speaking ill of him at that moment.
A few months later, with my heart broken in repentance, I sent him a message. Even though I was blocked on social media, I sent a text recognizing my mistake, expressing my regret, and asking for forgiveness, with no expectation of a reply, but offering myself for a face-to-face conversation. My once great friend responded, expressing part of his hurt, forgiving me, but making it clear that if he saw me on the street, he would cross to the other side to avoid greeting me. No apology came from him.
I moved on with my life, free from bitterness and with a clear conscience. Sometimes I missed him, other times I remembered him in my prayers, blessing him. About a year later, shockingly, I discovered that he had shared something intimate I had entrusted to him in a moment of vulnerability.
I’ve always believed that when leaders make mistakes, the appropriate response is to face them honestly and openly. I never had the pretense of being a “superhuman” pastor and always sought help in my weaknesses. Back then, trusting in my friend’s integrity, I shared a moment of weakness and asked for help from that friend. I opened my heart, exposed the flaws I saw in myself, and gave that, then, great friend the freedom to correct and advise me.
What I would never imagine was that that moment, a private conversation followed by several pieces of advice where I opened my heart to a friend, would become public knowledge in the most unethical way possible. Not only did he expose my privacy publicly without my consent, but he also twisted things and invented such an absurd lie that it caused irreparable damage to my reputation. When I found out about it, it felt like I experienced something close to what Jesus felt when Judas betrayed Him with a kiss, calling Him “friend.”
Betrayal is one of the most excruciating pains a person can experience in life. The betrayal of a friend generates a devastating sense of loss and a deep trauma to one’s trust. We will all have a “Judas” in our story, and perhaps, at some point, we will also be the “Judas” for someone else.
The truth is that every betrayal has a price and the fake idea of a gain, and we must not forget that. For Judas, the gain was a few silver coins; for Jesus, the price was the cross. For Jesus, the gain was fulfilling His purpose fully; for Judas, the price was ending up hanged by the consequences of his own choices.
I don’t know what “gain” my friend received for selling my privacy and dignity, nor do I know the cost this choice has had on his life. What I do know is the price I paid, dealing with depression, anxiety attacks, online harassment, and malicious gossip. My hope is that the gain of all this pain will be some maturity, wisdom, and insight.
After the betrayal, I was still blocked. The message coming from the other side was clear: “I never want to speak to you again.” What I was left with was dealing with my feelings of pain, betrayal, and loss, and moving forward. I accepted that I would never have the right to respond, because the one who tells the first version usually controls the narrative. I resigned myself to the acceptance that the only thing I could do was choose my “seeds” and act in ways that were consistent with what I wanted to reap in the future. After all, no one escapes the harvest.
I forgave my friend and moved on with my life, processing the pain of that betrayal in therapy. I never allowed myself to think of him with bitterness again, which required many hours of prayer. I learned, many years ago, that the harvest is the best teacher. It teaches us the lessons we are reluctant to learn, often in a painful way.
Until a few weeks ago, a message appeared in my inbox. It was him, my old friend, who had blocked me, suddenly reappearing. I confess I feared the content, but curiosity won over fear, and I read the message. To my surprise, he made a request: that I delete an old photo from my social media, from the day I celebrated his wedding.
I didn’t even remember the photo and, immediately, I complied with the request. However, one sentence in his message made me reflect deeply: “I can’t change that…” (referring to the fact that I had celebrated his wedding), but at least he could ask me to delete the photo.
I’m still processing this “encounter” through a simple message, but I’ve learned a great lesson about myself. Unlike him – and that doesn’t mean I’m better or more noble – I wouldn’t change “that” (knowing him).
Despite all the mistakes and pain, we caused each other, I hold on to the happy memories of the moments we shared our dreams, fears, and secrets. I hold on to the productive conversations, to everything I taught and learned. I wouldn’t change this, because denying the past is denying the course of life, and I’ve never been one to deny things.
The course of human life is like a river, with mistakes and successes, attempts to be better, and expectations of building something meaningful. People are a fundamental part of this experience, as they are our teachers along the way.
Maybe you, reading this text, think like my friend: “I’d delete this person from my story if I could.” I invite you to reflect nothing in life happens by chance. We can’t change what has been done to us, but we can learn the lessons those circumstances bring us. We don’t have the full picture. Only God, with His panoramic view, knows the exact course of our lives. He promised to turn even the most painful situations into good for us, using them as raw material for our growth.
Forgive, if necessary, trust in God’s justice, and embrace the lessons that difficult relationships offer us. Perfection is an unreachable mirage, but wisdom comes from learning how to swim in the flow of life, amidst mistakes and successes, becoming more intentional on the journey.
To my friend, if you ever read this text: I forgive you! Thank you for everything you did for me, for standing by me. Remember that day when I was suffering a lot because of an injustice, and you told me: “You have supernatural resilience, you’ll make it”? That was true.
I needed that “supernatural resilience” to survive you! And I made it across the river. The bank on this side is more beautiful and lighter. Maybe I would never have swum this far without you pushing me down the current. Thank you for teaching me lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.
