I find myself sincerely struck — and, to some extent, disconcerted — by the press release from the Diocese of Novara, where the Vicar for the Clergy and Consecrated Life brushes off in about five lines the news that a presbyter has taken his own life. As so often happens in our ecclesiastical circles, we immediately resort to religious language to cover discomfort with a veneer of spirituality: “Only the Lord, He who searches and knows each of us, can understand the most impenetrable mysteries of the human soul.” Words that, rather than console, seem intended to ease one’s conscience.
But the truth is something else: God has given us life. And to the Church, He has entrusted a clear mandate, which cannot be ignored. When a man — a priest — reaches the point of taking his own life, it is a sign that something inside him has broken. Not suddenly, but slowly. Inexorably. And it has broken in a final, irreparable way. Sometimes those living alongside the priest don’t even notice. Because in pain, we tend to shut down — unless there is someone truly capable of welcoming our human fragility. And yet, often, those who know remain silent. Those who could act, look away, already overwhelmed by their own burdens. The institution, for its part, is too busy trying to preserve itself. To protect itself. To safeguard its own structures, at every level. Because what is too often missing is precisely care.
Let it be clear: this is not about finding scapegoats. And it is not the time to construct pseudo-theological reflectionson dynamics that remain beyond our understanding. Not now. Not like this. This is not the time for speculation, but for prayer. And, above all, for silence.
The time of responsibility
But this is also — and above all — the time of responsibility. A responsibility to be assumed with humility. As an ecclesial community, certainly. But also — and in particular — as a presbyterate. Silere non possum has long been drawing attention to priestly formation and the serious deficiencies present in many seminary paths. These are not generic accusations, but concrete data and lived experiences, which show how certain visions of the priesthood continue to cause deep wounds.
Recently, even the Dicastery for the Clergy acknowledged the enormous danger contained in “a particular idea of the priest” that ends up dehumanizing the ministry, turning it into an unreachable function, detached from the concrete realities of life. A warning echoed clearly by an authoritative voice such as Chiara D’Urbano, psychologist and consultant to the same Dicastery, who has denounced the spiritualistic and perfectionistic tendencies that undermine the human and emotional balance of many presbyters.
There is something, in the formation and life of priests, that clearly does not work. And what is warped at the start of formation is difficult to straighten later. In fact, it often festers. It changes form, yes, but remains essentially the same. Dragging along boulders of unspoken suffering, of unconfessed loneliness. Especially when all of this takes place in secret — behind a worn smile, behind irreproachable punctuality, behind carefully chiselled words to be proclaimed in catechesis and parish meetings. The fundamental problem is that both the Church and society tend to believe that if you’re a priest, you’re no longer a man.
You can’t cry: otherwise, you’re melodramatic.
You can’t get tired: you’d be lazy.
You can’t caress a child: you risk a shameful label.
You can’t have a woman by your side: you already have a mistress.
You can’t have a friend: someone will hint he’s your boyfriend.
You can’t give a hug: you’d be ambiguous.
You can’t go on holiday: you’re bourgeois.
You can’t buy yourself a gift: you’re wasteful.
You can’t take care of yourself: you’re a narcissist.
You can’t dress as you please: you’re eccentric.
You can’t look youthful: you’re ridiculous.
But you can’t even wear a cassock: you’re an outdated zealot.
And if, God forbid, you fall in love? Or if, discreetly, you were to confide that what attracts you are, in fact, men? The tragedy is that all of this often arises and spreads within the presbyterate, in the seminary, among brother priests. But what is really expected of priests? What do people truly want from a priest? Who is — in the end — the priest? The dehumanization of the priest, cloaked in a false spiritualism, is an old theme, yet ever current. But today, its effects are tragic. Devastating. Yes, there is a deep loneliness. But there is also a widespread inability to listen. And therefore to share.
Who really listens today? Who stops to listen to priests? Where are those monks, those wise priests who carry out the delicate role of spiritual guides, confessors, and fathers? What real place does friendship have in a priest’s life? Who notices how the priest is really doing, what he carries in his heart? What are the kinds of relationships a priest can build without fear of being blackmailed, ridiculed publicly, or used? Who really cares about any of this?
Sometimes we expect from priests performances worthy of superheroes. Performances that are inhuman, because they are not human.
And when abuse doesn’t come from outside, but from within the Church itself? When the one manipulating you is your bishop, who imposes unbearable burdens, transfers you from one parish to another, or strips you of your pastoral duties based on shameful, unproven accusations — perhaps from a resentful confrere or a parishioner you simply corrected? When abuse of power takes the subtle but devastating form of mobbing by a religious superior, who deliberately drives you toward burnout to break you psychologically? And what about those bishops who form alliances with retired prelates — perhaps residing right in your parish — who still want to play parish priest and, out of revenge, spread false and malicious rumors about you? How does one defend against all this? How do you stay on your feet when injustice comes from those who should protect you?
When humanity no longer has a place, when everything is reduced to a function, to a social role, loneliness is no longer a possibility. It’s a condemnation. It becomes your daily garment. It becomes your life. And if someone loses their mental health? Or worse, their life? Who cares? No — it is unacceptable to think that no one noticed the anguishof a man who took his own life and who belonged to a presbyterate, to a community of believers.
What led Don Matteo to take his life remains a painful and profound mystery. What remains is the dull ache, and a burning question within us. This question, however, must turn pain into action. Let us not always wait until it is too late. If there is something to say, let us say it now. If there is an abuse to report — of power, of conscience, by a superior, a bishop, a rector — let us denounce it now. And if there is a caress to offer, or a shoulder to lend, let us do it now.