Father Joseba Kamiruaga Mieza, CMF
We see them celebrating the Eucharist—lifting up the Body of Christ in solemn reverence, clothed in garments that mark them as set apart. We see them listening patiently to those who come in sorrow, offering a word of encouragement, a blessing of peace. We see them busy in parishes, teaching, walking with the faithful, organising, serving—often in several places at once.
And in the midst of this, we may ask: What burden could they possibly carry? They always seem to smile.
Yet we often forget: behind the priestly vestment is a man—fragile, finite, searching. A man who, like St. Paul, may see himself as “the least,” even “a miscarriage” [1 Corinthians 15:8]. A man who, behind the shield of his calling, has dared to surrender to the ocean of human suffering and divine grace, diving into both like a diver in deep waters. He speaks of God by day, but sometimes cries out to God by night: “Master, do you not care that we are perishing?” [Mark 4:38]
On July 5, in a rectory in Novara, Italy, Father Matteo Balzano—just 35-years-old—took his own life. He was a priest who had likely helped many others to find meaning, hope, and healing. Yet in the solitude of that sacred space—often imagined as a place of refuge for wounded souls—he died alone.
It is a painful and humbling moment. The rectory is where the priest, day after day, offers his life so that others might be renewed. It is where sin is forgiven, and peace poured like oil upon hearts that struggle. And yet it was there that Father Balzano’s own silent anguish reached its breaking point.
Yet we often forget: behind the priestly vestment is a man—fragile, finite, searching. A man who, like St. Paul, may see himself as “the least,” even “a miscarriage” [1 Corinthians 15:8]
What sadness hides behind a gentle smile? What longing lives behind the warm handshake and kind words? Sometimes, even priests—who bring the anointing of hope to the sick and the dying—go to sleep embracing only their pillow, yearning for a sign of human tenderness. This priest died quietly, with no one at his side. And that silence itself is a cry.
I write this as a priest myself—by the grace of God. I am called to be a comforter. But who comforts the comforters? I help bind wounds, but who binds mine? I speak of God’s healing, but who heals the healer?
It’s easy to say, “They have God. Let them pray.” And yet, some nights, even prayer longs for a human voice—an ear that listens, a hand that holds, a presence that does not judge but simply stays. When a priest says, “Do you care that I perish?”—he is not questioning his faith; he is seeking communion.
We priests are often on the front lines—present in people’s greatest sorrows and most hidden joys. And yet, it takes so little to help us remain anchored in that calling: a kind word, a thoughtful message, a sincere, “How are you?” Words carry power, especially when a soul is trembling.
Is it scandalous to say that even priests may think about ending their lives? No. What would be tragic is failing to offer comfort to those who spend their lives comforting others.
I write this as a priest myself—by the grace of God. I am called to be a comforter. But who comforts the comforters? I help bind wounds, but who binds mine? I speak of God’s healing, but who heals the healer?
A priest’s suicide shakes us. It leaves a question unanswered, a wound exposed. And it forces us to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: priests, too, face deep emotional pain—sometimes invisible even to those closest to them. Often, this pain is not due to the usual challenges like finances, community tensions, or personal struggles. Many of these are anticipated and embraced at ordination, with faith and joy.
What is harder to name is the quiet erosion of meaning when expectations feel unending and affirmation scarce. The priest is called to live at the crossroads: between God and the people, between the Church and the world, between the present moment and eternity. And to remain balanced at that threshold is a daily task that requires courage, companionship, and constant renewal.
Don Matteo’s death raises questions for all of us—priests and lay faithful alike. Are our priests being heard? Do they have a brother, not just a colleague, with whom they can share life’s burdens? Someone to say, “I’m here for you,” not only during feast days or meetings, but in the quiet, difficult hours of the soul?
Sometimes, just a small gesture can go a long way—a visit, a shared coffee, a birthday message, a thoughtful word. We talk about the importance of “image,” but often, a genuine smile or a shared laugh brings more healing than a thousand strategies. It’s not a sign of weakness, but of love.
A priest’s suicide shakes us. It leaves a question unanswered, a wound exposed. And it forces us to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: priests, too, face deep emotional pain—sometimes invisible even to those closest to them
St. Charles Borromeo once reminded his priests: “We are to give ourselves to others, yes—but not so completely that we are left with nothing for ourselves.” This is not selfishness—it is wisdom. Time for rest, prayer, retreats, and leisure refreshes the priestly soul. These are not luxuries; they are necessities. The soul, too, needs sabbath.
But this care must be rooted not just in self-help, but in grace. Priests must renew, above all, their friendship with Jesus. Our relationship with people cannot stand unless it is first grounded in our communion with Christ. Without this, we build on sand, not on rock.
Do we have spiritual companions who allow us to be transparent—who see beyond our roles and receive us as sons, brothers, friends? Do we let ourselves be guided, that we might better guide others?
Priestly fraternity is not just a beautiful ideal—it is a lifeline. We are ordained not in isolation, but into a body: the presbyterate. When a priest isolates himself, it weakens the whole body. But when a priest is joyful, even amid struggles, he strengthens the Church. A priest who has found peace in God—despite challenges—can still radiate light.
We are called to be joyful priests. Not because life is easy, but because we know we are loved and chosen. Even when nothing seems to go “well,” we walk with Christ and live for others. That joy, when real, speaks more loudly than any sermon. It reminds the world that the Kingdom of God is near.
So, let us support one another—especially in silence. Let us pray for each other, even if we don’t know what fruits our prayers will bear. Let us not be afraid to reach out, to listen, to care.
Rest in peace, Father Matteo Balzano.
