When Life Is Not Fair
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Not too many months ago, tragedy struck a parish in Iowa when Fr. Dennis Conway, a beloved priest, took his own life. Just days ago, a similar heartbreak occurred in northern Italy when Don Matteo Balzano, only 35 years old, did the same.
Every suicide is tragic, but when it happens to a priest, it often shocks people even more. “Aren’t they supposed to be joyful?” we wonder. “Aren’t they supposed to be beacons of hope—the ones who step into the darkness and lead us toward light?” They are meant to be exemplars of faith and virtue. So when a priest falls so hard that he takes his own life, priests and faithful alike are left asking: What happened?
We may never know the full answer—only God knows the hearts and stories of these men. But as a priest, I’d like to offer a few simple reflections that might help all of us understand a bit more, and to give us something to do to help.
This might seem obvious—but it’s easy to forget. Your priest came from a family, lived a normal life, and had experiences much like your own. And yet, God called him to something extraordinary. That calling doesn’t remove his humanity. In fact, God often works through it—or even in spite of it.
He still struggles. He still sins. He still wrestles with weaknesses. His family may have their own wounds. He has to keep himself healthy—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually—with few people checking in to ask how he’s really doing. He has bills to pay, things to repair, and sleepless nights filled with worry. Perhaps one could add to that a schedule that is often almost literally running from one thing to the next. He’s not just a “sacramental machine” who can function endlessly without rest. He’s human—just like you.
It’s far easier for complaints to reach our ears than compliments. We hears them after Mass, in the office, in emails and anonymous notes. Here is just a small sampling of some common ones:
“Father, the church is too hot… or too cold.”
“Father, can the choir be quieter?”
“Father, why are your homilies so long?”
“Why isn’t Mass more exciting?”
“I’m upset with something your staff did.”
Meanwhile, any compliments are rare. Maybe the homily was moving—but no one stopped to say so before heading to brunch.
And we priests have our own worries. We notice the family that leaves before the final hymn. We might be alone in the confessional again. We wonder how to pay for a broken air conditioner. We see pews empty when the weather is either “too nice” or “too bad.” We notice who’s missing—again—and wonders where they went.
Please know that this isn’t to discourage legitimate feedback. But it’s a reminder that your priest carries a tremendous load, and constant criticism can quietly wear him down. Honestly, it would wear anyone down.
A priest is called to preach, to teach, to shepherd—and yet often, he sees very little fruit. He preaches a homily he poured himself into, and it seems to land flat. He invites people to rediscover Sunday Mass, only to find those who are absent, and most need to hear it are unchanged.
He hears the whispers: “They started going to the non-denominational church most of the time. It’s just more exciting.” Or, “I get more out of their service.” He starts a new parish initiative, excited for renewal, only to hear: “We couldn’t make it… there was a sports tournament.”
He fixes one thing in the parish, and two more break. He marries a couple with joy, only to see them disappear from Mass. He buries a beloved parishioner with a nearly empty church. He sees the ridicule of Christianity online and wonders if hope is slipping away for change on a cultural level. He continues to work hard for a parish or even a school to thrive, and he often gets more resistance than reward.
A brother priest recently said something to this effect: he did not think people realize how much some priests endure and carry. It would likely crush an ordinary man. A priest absorbs others’ pain. He’s misunderstood. He’s gossiped about. He cleans up messes he didn’t cause. He sometimes has to navigate decisions from superiors that feel disconnected. He experiences burnout. He feels like a failure more often than a success. And around the holidays—when everyone else is with family—he feels the sting of solitude.
He’s not the only one who carries these burdens, but for many priests, they come all at once—and they compound. It can be absolutely crippling. God’s grace is there, absolutely, but that does not mean the cross does not weigh heavy at times.
Does this mean you should leave your priest alone, and just let him be? Not at all.
In fact, I often stop people when they begin a conversation with, “Father, I know you’re so busy…” Yes, I’m busy—doing the Lord’s work, which is being here for you, right now.” Don’t be afraid to call. Don’t be afraid to ask. Don’t hesitate, even if it’s 3 a.m., because your grandmother is dying and needs the sacraments. That’s why I became a priest. I live for those sacred moments.
Don’t get me wrong- there are so, so many joys we experience as priests- and I feel privileged to be a part of so many of them. Truly, I wouldn’t trade many of them for anything else in this world. We love so much of what we do. We wouldn’t still be here if we didn’t. Further, we know the sacred duty being entrusted to us- and we have literally laid our lives down on the floor to do it. We are happy and overjoyed- and I know I speak for so many in saying how grateful we are for the call from God, no matter what happened that day, or is going on in our lives.
Maybe the task at hand, that I would suggest, is to simply try to see the priest who is with you with a little more understanding.
No, we are not perfect, and perhaps far from it. However, just think: maybe you don't see how your priest is doing his best—and pouring his heart out every day, whether you might see it or not. Maybe the temperature in church doesn’t matter as much as the fact that you’re there. Maybe Sunday soccer isn’t worth missing Mass over. Maybe you could tell him how that homily moved you. Or invite him to dinner. He loves being a part of your life. I cannot tell you how healing these moments are for those of us charged with your souls.
And, above all else, pray for your priest. We spend so much time praying for you- especially those of you that feel forgotten. You may not know the battles he’s fighting, and that’s okay. You don’t see the crosses he’s carrying and that too is fine. You don’t realize how hard he’s trying—especially in the quiet hours when the world is asleep, because that is what a good priest does.
Often, we priests are fighting so hard for you. We just hope that you’re fighting for us, too.
Yes, it’s shocking when a priest takes his own life. But perhaps it’s also a wake-up call. We shepherds love our flocks so much. We are charged with ceaseless care for you. And maybe, just maybe, we do need reminded from time to time that you also love us—and are willing to care for us, too.
Fr. Daniel Belken is a Roman Catholic Priest for the Diocese of Springfield-Cape Girardeau in Missouri. As a “cradle Catholic,” he had an early start on a path that eventually led him to the seminary after graduating high school. This was due in great measure to the boundless passion and zeal of Pope Saint John Paul II, several good priests, and ultimately, God’s great mercy. He was ordained a priest on June 12, 2020. In his leisure time, he enjoys practicing and playing the organ, reading classic literature, and publishing to his podcast "Open Wide the Doors."
