You meet and shake hands. At first, they’re wary of you—the hurt from their last place shines back at you in their stare. You don’t make any abrupt declarations or try to assure them that everything is different here, at this place. You look them in the eye and thank them for coming. When service ends, you find them, shake hands again, and ask about their experience during worship. You invite them to come back; you hand them a welcome bag in hopes that they’ll send in the information card. You follow up a few days later…
They come back.
Months go by, even years. You bury their loved ones; you marry them to their partner. You baptize their children. You sit with them in times of deep grief. You answer questions when their faith is tested, and God feels far away. You think of them during your evening prayers, and you check on them via text or a phone call from time to time on non-Sunday hours. A relationship forms, a bond that you feel deeply and hope that they do, too.
Then, something goes wrong. You say or do something that angers them, that they disagree with, that triggers something from their past. If you’re lucky, they reach out and let you know; less lucky when they go straight to social media and damn the entire community. Most of the time, however, it’s a silent goodbye. A letter of transfer request. No ‘thank you for your friendship or time with me’, just, nothing.
Don’t mistake me: This is what we do as priests. I do not want or need sympathy. That is not to say, however, that these moments have no cost. After all, clergy are human, too. Our mentors—the ones who have been at this for decades—will shrug it off and say, “That’s ministry, friend.” While true, it’s unhelpful. The old guard of clergy will bring up memories of when they were your age and how they never had those issues. It was a different time. People had to go to church, they had to be seen there for societal normalcy. Whatever the answer, the pain still lingers. You give your heart to people, and they light it on fire; the friction of their feet set it ablaze as they run to the next place.
But you remain. You try to stay calm, act like it doesn’t affect you. It does. You answer the ‘Where did ____ go?’ with answers that are thin and false, so to not allow your hurt to show. After a few years of this, you become resentful if you don’t seek therapy, prayer, and respite. You burnout. Then the pain turns to anger. You stop checking in as much; when you do, it isn’t real.
These are the moments in the life of a priest. Many of these issues are why ministers move on so often—out of hurt, out of longing for the honeymoon phase where everyone is happy to see them. Not all priests will agree, but deep down, most will. We hurt, just like you. We love, just like you. We get angry, just like you. We question faith, just like you. We love this church, just like you. Please, give us the grace we extend to you, in return. We need it, even if we say we don’t. Find something kind to say once in a while instead of a criticism. Find a moment to send a note to a priest’s spouse, they need that. Encourage us as we encourage you. We are here to serve, make no mistake. We do so willingly and earnestly. We did not accept this call to be universally loved and held in high esteem. But we hope for your friendship and your Christian love. And we want the best possible worship environment for you.
Call or text your pastor, priest, minister, deacon, Bishop, or whoever you have, today. Let them know that you appreciate them—even if you’re no longer at their place. It will mean the world, and it might just help them make it one more day.
Fr. Sean+