By JLucas 25, April 2026

This morning, somewhere between Half Way Tree and Highgate, the road preached to me.

I was heading to a funeral—my “pumpkin lady” went to be with her Lord. That’s a story for another day. But grief was already sitting quietly in the passenger seat. As I reached Constant Spring, I found myself stopped at a light. Green came… and I didn’t move. I just froze. The car behind me started hooting, impatient, loud, almost angry. I snapped back, jump-started the engine, and drove off just in time to avoid a string of words no priest wants to hear before a funeral.

But truth be told, the problem wasn’t the light.
It was me.

Lately, I haven’t been sleeping well. My mind has been busy, my heart even busier. There’s a quiet weight I’ve been carrying—no dramatic collapse, no headline crisis—just the slow, steady pressure that builds when you keep showing up for everyone else and forget to show up for yourself.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: clergy struggle with mental health too.

We don’t often say it out loud.

A young priest learns quickly how to survive:

• Smile when you’re tired.
• Show strength when you feel unsure.
• Be available when you need space.

Sometimes it’s to please the bishop.
Sometimes it’s to serve the parishioners.
Sometimes it’s to reassure family back home that “Father is doing well.”

So we keep going. We preach hope, we offer counsel, we stand at altars and gravesides… while quietly managing our own storms.

The irony is not lost on me.

The very people called “Father” often have no safe place to be children again—no place to be weak, confused, or simply human. Lay people can unintentionally place us on pedestals, expecting holiness without humanity. Leadership can expect endurance without pause. And we, in our desire to be faithful, sometimes accept those expectations without question.

But no one thrives under the pressure of pretending.

Mental health is not a lack of faith.
Fatigue is not failure.
Anxiety is not sin.

They are signals. Invitations, even.

That moment at the stoplight wasn’t about traffic—it was a warning light on my dashboard. Something within me is asking for attention. Rest. Conversation. Care.

And maybe that’s the message for today:

Priests need listening ears too.

Not admiration. Not constant expectation. Just presence. Someone who can hear without judging, who can sit without fixing, who can remind us that before we are shepherds, we are sheep in need of a Shepherd.

If you’re reading this as a member of the faithful—pray for your priests, yes. But also check on them. Speak to them like men, not just ministers. Give them space to be human.

And if you’re a priest reading this…
You don’t have to carry everything alone.

Even the strongest among us need to stop at the light sometimes—not out of weakness, but because something deeper is asking to be seen.

Today, the road preached.
And I’m learning, slowly, to listen.