RIP dear Priest..confide if you please
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Pope Leo XIV Warned Us About This - 35-Year-Old Priest's Suicide Proves He Was Right
On July 5th, 2025, a 35-year-old priest took his own life. His heartbreaking story is a symptom of a silent crisis of crushing loneliness and burnout haunting our spiritual fathers. In this profoundly moving address, Pope Leo XIV issues a father's desperate plea for his sons—the men we call 'Father.' He exposes the invisible cross they carry and challenges us to look beyond the collar to see the man within. This is not just a sermon; it is an urgent wake-up call for every Catholic. Learn how we can stop this tragedy from happening again. This message could save a life.
TRANSCRIPT
My beloved children, my brothers and
sisters in Christ, I come to you today
not from the gilded halls of the
Vatican, not as a distant sovereign
seated on the throne of Peter, but as a
father, a father whose heart has been
shattered. I speak to you from a place
of profound sorrow, a spiritual wound
that has pierced the very soul of our
holy mother church. I must begin with
news that has left me sleepless. News
that should shake every one of us from
our complacency. News that echoes like a
funeral bell in the heart of our faith.
On the 5th of July in this year of our
Lord 2025, in a small beautiful Italian
city named Kenobio, a young priest,
Father Mateo Balsano, took his own life.
Let those words sink in. Do not turn
away from their horror.
A priest of Jesus Christ, a man who
stood in persona Christi at the altar, a
man who offered the world the body and
blood of our savior, felt so utterly
consumed by despair, so crushed by a
silent agony, so profoundly alone that
he could see no other escape. He was 35
years old. 35. A life of ministry, of
promise, of love for God and his people
was just beginning to blossom. He was
ordained in 2017, a son of the dascese
of Novara, a shepherd who had served
faithfully, who played with the youth,
who brought the light of Christ to his
parishes in Castileto Soprino and the
Valvigo.
By all accounts, he was a good priest, a
faithful priest, a joyful priest, and he
is gone. My heart breaks not only for
him, for the eternal rest of his
immortal soul, which I commend to the
infinite ocean of God's mercy, but it
breaks for the silence that surrounded
his suffering. It breaks for the signs
we all must have missed. It breaks for
the culture within our own church, our
own parishes, our own hearts that
allowed one of our spiritual fathers to
feel so completely and utterly
abandoned.
His death is not an isolated tragedy. It
is a symptom. It is a screaming alarm in
the dead of night, waking us to a fire
that has been burning silently in the
rectory next door, in the heart of the
priest who baptizes your children, who
anoints your dying parents, who listens
to the deepest shames of your soul in
the confessional. It is the fire of a
silent epidemic of loneliness, burnout,
and crushing despair among our priests,
the very men we call Father. And so I
must ask you, my children, and I ask
myself before God with fear and
trembling, how did we let this happen?
And what in God's name are we going to
do about it? We, the leoty, have for too
long held a dangerous and uncchristian
view of our priests. We have placed them
on impossibly high pedestals,
transforming them in our minds from men
into myths. We see the collar, the
cassich, the vestments, and we forget
the fragile human heart that beats
beneath them. We have turned our priests
into spiritual gladiators, expecting
them to fight the lions of sin and doubt
in the public arena, while giving no
thought to the wounds they carry when
they retreat, bleeding and alone into
the coliseum's dark corridors. Think of
Father Mateo. Think of your own parish
priest. We see him on Sunday vested for
mass proclaiming the gospel. We see him
at the parish council meeting managing
budgets and logistics. We see him at the
hospital, a figure of strength and
comfort. We have come to see our priests
as spiritual vending machines. We insert
our need, a mass intention, a baptism, a
wedding, a moment of counsel, a funeral,
and we expect a holy product to be
dispensed efficiently and with a serene
smile. But what about the man? What
happens when the machine is tired? What
happens when the machine is grieving its
own losses? What happens when the
machine feels the rust of loneliness
corroding its gears? We whisper and we
judge.
Father doesn't seem very enthusiastic
today. His homaly was a bit short. He
forgot my name. He seems distracted.
Imagine the life. He wakes up before the
sun to pray for us, for the world. He
offers the holy sacrifice of the mass.
Holding God in his hands. He then steps
down from the altar and into a whirlwind
of human need. He counsels the couple
whose marriage is disintegrating.
He plans a baptism with a joyful young
family. He sits with an elderly woman,
her body riddled with cancer, and speaks
to her of eternal life. He deals with a
leaky roof in the parish hall, with
angry emails about parking, with the
diosis budget report. He tries to
prepare a homaly that will touch the
hearts of the devout, the skeptical, the
grieving, and the bored all at once. And
then at the end of a day spent pouring
himself out for hundreds of people, he
returns home. Not to the laughter of
children, not to the embrace of a loving
wife with whom he can share the burdens
of his heart. He returns to the profound
deafening silence of an empty rectory.
He has given up the fundamental human
consolations of marriage and family, not
because he is inhuman, but as a radical
testament to a supernatural love. He has
made this sacrifice for us. And how do
we repay him? We repay him with
scrutiny. We place his life, his words,
his moods, his very humanity under a
microscope.
If he is firm in church teaching, he is
rigid and out of touch. If he shows
mercy and pastoral flexibility, he is
soft and a compromiser. If he is joyful
and laughs loudly, he is not serious
enough. If he is reserved and quiet, he
is aloof and unapproachable.
This is a crucifixion, a slow daily
crucifixion of the human spirit.
We expect him to be Jesus in the flesh,
forgetting that even Jesus in his agony
in the garden craved the companionship
of his apostles. We expect him to carry
all of our burdens while we refuse to
help him carry even the smallest
fraction of his own. The loneliness of
the priesthood is one of the deepest and
most misunderstood crosses in the church
today. It is not the solitude of the
contemplative monk in his cell which is
a solitude filled with the palpable
presence of God. It is the loneliness of
the crowd. It is the paradox of being
surrounded by people yet being seen by
no one. Everyone wants something from
him. But how many of us simply want to
be with him? How many of us have invited
our priest over for a simple family
dinner? Not to ask for a blessing or
advice, but simply to share a meal and a
laugh as a friend.
How many of us have asked about his
family, his hobbies, his dreams, his
fears? Father Mateo was surrounded by
people. But who saw the real Mateo? Who
saw the man who might have been
struggling with anxiety? Who saw the son
who missed his mother? Who saw the human
being who was simply crushingly tired?
This breaks my heart because his silent
cries for help were likely all around
us, but we were not trained to hear
them. The slight withdrawal, the look of
exhaustion, the forced smile. These were
his Morse code signals from a sinking
ship, and we standing on the shore saw
only the calm surface of the water. Now,
I must speak to you of something deeply
painful, a truth the church has been too
slow to acknowledge. There is a mental
health crisis among our clergy. Our
priests, our spiritual fathers are
suffering from depression, anxiety, and
burnout at rates that should horrify us.
And the very culture we have created, a
culture of stoic perfectionism, has
become a prison for them. It has made
seeking help a source of shame rather
than a sign of strength.
Imagine a priest feeling the black cloud
of depression descend upon him. Who can
he turn to? If he confides in his
parishioners, he fears they will lose
faith in him, that they will see him as
a hypocrite for offering counsel he
himself cannot follow.
If he goes to his bishop, he may worry
rightly or wrongly that it will be seen
as a weakness, a mark against his
record, a barrier to future assignments.
If he confides in his brother priests,
he may feel he is burdening men who are
already carrying their own heavy
crosses.
And so he suffers in silence. He puts on
the mask each morning. He ascends the
altar, preaches the homaly, sits in the
confessional, and smiles at the parish
picnic. All while his own soul is
suffocating in darkness. This is what
happened to Father Mateo. This is
happening right now in your dascese, in
the parish down the street. We must
change this. We as a church must be the
first to tear down this wall of stigma.
We must shout from the rooftops that it
is not a sin to be sick. that mental
anguish is not a sign of a weak faith
and that seeking help from a therapist
or a counselor is an act of profound
courage and humility. A priest who goes
to therapy is not a broken priest. He is
a priest who is fighting to be whole so
that he can better serve his flock. He
is a priest who understands that grace
builds on nature and sometimes nature
needs a physician.
The church provides hospitals for the
body and confessionals for the soul. But
we have been slow to create safe and
accessible havens for the wounded mind.
This must become a priority for every
bishop for every dascese. We need better
mental health resources, confidential
support networks, and a culture that
encourages our priests to care for their
own psychological well-being as
diligently as they care for their
spiritual lives. And this leads me to
another painful point, forgiveness.
How quick we are to demand mercy in the
confessional for our own failings. We
approach our priests, confess our
deepest sins and expect to hear those
beautiful words, I absolve you and they
give it freely in the name of Christ.
But how much mercy do we show them when
a priest makes a mistake and he will
because he is a man? How do we react
when his homaly is uninspired? When he
is impatient, when he makes a poor
administrative decision, when he says
the wrong thing, what is our response?
Is it one of compassion and
understanding? Or is it one of gossip,
criticism, and complaint? We send
emails, we whisper in the pews, we form
factions, we treat his human error as a
betrayal of his sacred office. My
beloved children, do you see the cruel
irony? We demand divine mercy for
ourselves from a man to whom we are
often unwilling to show basic human
decency. We expect him to be a limitless
font of compassion while we offer him
only a thimbleful of our own. If we are
to be a church of mercy, our mercy must
begin at home. It must begin with our
spiritual fathers. When your priest is
having a bad day, offer him a prayer,
not a critique. When he makes a mistake,
offer him your support, not your scorn.
When he seems weak, remember that it is
in our weakness that Christ's strength
is made perfect. forgive him his
humanity. Just as he standing in the
place of Christ forgives you your sins.
It is not enough to diagnose the
illness. We must begin the cure. The
healing of our priesthood is not just
the responsibility of the bishops or the
Vatican. It begins with you. It begins
today in your parish, in your heart. I
implore you with all the love of a
father for his children to take up this
sacred duty first and most importantly
pray. But I do not mean a quick God
bless father John. I mean a deep
persistent and heartfelt prayer. Pray
for his humanity. Pray for his tired
heart. Pray for his moments of
loneliness in the silent rectory. Pray
that God will ease the burden of his
responsibilities.
Pray that he will be protected from the
temptations of despair. When you are in
adoration, offer a decade of your rosary
for the priest who brought you the very
eucharist you are adoring. When you pray
as a family, add a petition for our
priest that the Lord may grant him joy,
strength, and good friends.
Make the well-being of your priest a
central pillar of your spiritual life.
Your prayers are an invisible shield
around him, a bomb on his hidden wounds.
Second, be his friend. This is so simple
and yet so profound. Break down the
barrier between priest and person.
Invite him to your home for a barbecue,
to watch a football game, to celebrate
your child's birthday. And when he is
there, let him be a man. Don't pepper
him with theological questions or parish
problems. Ask him about the book he's
reading. Ask him about his favorite
childhood memory. Ask him about his
parents. Let him laugh. Let him relax.
Let him for a few hours take off the
invisible vestments of his office and
simply be one of the family.
These small acts of genuine, no strings
attached friendship can be an oasis in
the desert of his loneliness.
Third, offer him your practical support
and express your gratitude. Priests are
often overwhelmed. Ask him, "Father,
what can I do to help? Is there a
project I can volunteer for? Can I help
with the parish garden? Can I run an
errand for you?" Offering your time and
talent lifts a practical burden and more
importantly shows him that he is not
alone in his ministry. And thank him
specifically. Don't just offer a generic
thanks for the mass father. Say,
"Father, thank you for your homaly on
forgiveness last week. It truly spoke to
my heart and helped me with the struggle
I was facing."
This specific gratitude reminds him that
his work, his sacrifice is bearing fruit
in the lives of his people. It is fuel
for his weary soul.
Fourth, create a culture of support in
your parish. This is a call to action
for every parish council, every Knights
of Columbus, every women's sodality.
Make the well-being of your priest a
parish priority. Organize a parish
appreciation event for him. Set up a
fund to ensure he can take a proper
vacation or go on a silent retreat to
recharge. Be his defenders. When you
hear gossip or unfair criticism, gently
but firmly correct it. Say, "Father is a
good man doing a very difficult job. He
needs our prayers and support, not our
criticism. Your collective voice can
change the entire atmosphere of a parish
from one of scrutiny to one of love. And
finally, a word to my beloved sons, my
brother priests. My dearest sons, if you
are listening to this and your heart is
heavy, I want you to hear me, your
father, speak directly to you. You are
not alone. Your struggles are real. Your
burdens are heavy and your feelings are
valid. You are seen. You are loved.
Please, I beg you, do not suffer in
silence. Your vulnerability is not a
liability. It is a bridge that connects
your humanity to the humanity of your
flock. It is not a scandal to admit you
are struggling. The scandal is that we
have made you feel you could not reach
out for help. Talk to a trusted brother,
priest, a spiritual director, a
therapist. Seeking help is an act of
priestly courage. You give the world
permission to be human and to be healed.
You must give that same permission to
yourself. Your ministry is a marathon,
not a sprint. You must care for your own
soul, mind, and body or you will not be
able to finish the race. Jesus himself
rested. He wept. He asked his friends
for support. In this, as in all things,
he is your model. Do not be afraid to be
the man he created you to be. The death
of Father Mateo Bolzano is a tragedy
that has left a gaping wound in the body
of Christ. But it must not be in vain.
His death must be a resurrection for us.
It must resurrect our compassion, our
awareness, and our commitment to our
priests. Let us commit today to being a
church that truly cares for its fathers.
Let us build parishes that are not
courtrooms of judgment, but families of
support. Let us see the man behind the
collar and love him, support him, and
pray for him in his weakness and in his
strength. I want you to leave this
reflection and do one thing this week.
Reach out to your priest. Write him a
note. Send him an email. Stop him after
mass. Look him in the eye and say,
"Father, I want you to know that I am
praying for you. Thank you for your yes
to God. How are you really?" Let us
transform the silent rectories of our
world into homes filled with the warmth
of our prayers. Let us lift the
invisible cross of loneliness from the
shoulders of our priests and help them
carry it. For in strengthening them, we
strengthen the entire church. In loving
them, we love the Christ whom they
represent. May the soul of Father Mateo
and the souls of all the faithful
departed through the mercy of God rest
in peace. And may Mary, mother of
priests, wrap all of her beloved sons in
her mantle of protection. May St. John
Viani, patron of parish priests,
intercede for them and inspire in us a
true love for our shepherds. And may
almighty God bless you all, the Father
and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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