When Our Priests Must Perform

I’ve had an on-and-off relationship with the Church since I was 14 years old. But when I became a full-time employee in its media ministry, I entered a world that I hadn’t seen before—not from the pews, and certainly not from my youthful, idealistic gaze. I began to understand the immense burden carried by our priests. Their workload isn’t just sacramental or spiritual; it is social, emotional, and—perhaps most painfully—relational.

Before I started working in the Church, I used to think priests had it easy: pray the Mass, hear confessions, attend meetings, go back to their quiet rectory life. But what I’ve witnessed from the inside has changed how I see them. Our priests are not just spiritual fathers. They are often expected to be public figures, community organizers, fundraisers, counselors, and—unofficially—everyone’s friend.

I sometimes wonder if, before entering the seminary, young men fully grasp the public nature of priesthood. Of course, they are prepared for theological rigor and the demands of pastoral care. But are they also prepared to be constantly seen, constantly expected upon, and constantly judged—not just by the faithful, but by benefactors, co-workers, and critics?

Some priests struggle with this deeply. Especially those who are introverted or more contemplative by temperament. They entered the seminary, perhaps hoping to be immersed in prayer, theology, and service—but not necessarily in public performance. Yet, once they are ordained, it’s as if they become public property.

This is most evident in how they relate to benefactors.

In the Philippines, it’s not uncommon for seminary formation to be supported by donors—individuals or families who “adopt” seminarians and help cover their needs. This is often done out of generosity and goodwill. But I’ve heard stories—real, painful stories—that reveal a more complex reality.

One priest confided in me that during his regency year—a period when he stepped away from seminary to discern his vocation more deeply—his benefactor seemed to withdraw all support and emotional connection. It was as if he had ceased to be “valuable” once he paused the path toward priesthood. When he returned to seminary, the same person warmly welcomed him back, even reaching out again. But the wound had been inflicted. He carried that memory all the way to his ordination.

This experience is not isolated. In our culture, especially in Church circles, there’s a subtle but powerful sense of “utang na loob”—a moral debt. And this becomes heavier when the giver starts expecting something in return: exclusive access, availability, special attention.

Our priests, out of deep gratitude or perhaps emotional obligation, often say yes to these expectations. And in time, they begin to blur the line between ministry and people-pleasing. They are called to serve everyone, yes, but they are human. They get tired. They want to say no. But how can they, when every favor denied might risk losing a donor, or worse, being judged as “ungrateful”?

There are priests who are invited to dinners, outings, and social events not because they are lonely or need companionship—but because someone wants to show them off, or gain proximity to their influence. And saying “no” is difficult, not because they don’t want boundaries, but because the Filipino culture has conditioned them to avoid appearing rude or ungrateful.

And this is what breaks my heart the most.

Behind every collar is a man struggling to be faithful—not just to God, but to the overwhelming expectations of people. Many priests want to be good, generous, available shepherds. But we forget that they, too, have limits. They need rest. They need space. They need time away from people, so they can return to them with genuine presence.

We, the lay faithful, often forget this. I forget this.

There were moments when I, too, expected too much from a priest. I wanted more availability, more energy, more empathy. But I didn’t see that he was already exhausted. That he had just come from a funeral, or a finance meeting, or a spiritual crisis of his own.

This blog post is not about condemning benefactors or exposing specific behavior. It’s a call to empathy. A gentle reminder that priesthood is not a performance. It is a vocation that is deeply human and sacred. And just like any vocation, it comes with breaking points.

When St. Paul asked in Galatians, “Am I now trying to please people or God?”, he was confronting the tension between public approval and divine obedience. Our priests wrestle with this every day—especially when “pleasing people” becomes a way to protect peace in the parish, or preserve relationships with donors. But the Gospel demands truth, not performance.

We, too, have a role in this. We can help unburden our priests—not by withdrawing support, but by giving it freely and unconditionally. By not demanding special favors in return. By treating them not as spiritual superstars, but as brothers walking the same difficult road of discipleship.

We are all tired. We are all wounded. And we are all trying.

But perhaps, the greatest gift we can offer our priests is not money, or meals, or applause—but space to be human, and permission to say no.

Because in saying no to the world, they are freer to say yes to God.