-by Paul Tompkins
There comes a time in every person’s life when silence becomes heavier than words. I believe I have reached that point. These thoughts have not come to me in a moment of anger, nor are they the product of one disappointing experience. They have grown quietly over many years, shaped by countless conversations, Sunday mornings, funerals, quiet walks, and long hours of reflection. They come from a heart that still loves the Catholic Church and always will. If I had stopped loving her, I would have stopped caring long ago. Love, however, carries a responsibility. Sometimes it applauds. Sometimes it remains silent. And sometimes, with a heavy heart, it speaks, because remaining silent would be the greater betrayal.
I have been a Roman Catholic all my life. I was baptized in St. Michael’s, learned my first prayers in this Church, confirmed in the faith in this church, and entrusted the people I loved most to God’s mercy through this Church. Some of my happiest memories and some of my deepest sorrows unfolded beneath her roof. As a little boy, I watched my parents and grandmother kneel in quiet faith, not because anyone was watching, but because they genuinely believed they were in the presence of God. Their faith was simple, humble, and sincere. They never spoke much about theology, but they taught me more about Christianity by the way they lived than many books ever could. Looking back now, I realize that those early memories became part of who I am, and perhaps that is why writing these words hurts far more than remaining silent ever could.
Over the course of my life I have been blessed to know priests who forever shaped my understanding of what it means to follow Christ. They were not extraordinary because they possessed brilliant minds or delivered unforgettable sermons. They were extraordinary because they made people feel seen. They appeared quietly at hospital bedsides when families needed them most. They sat patiently with grieving widows long after everyone else had gone home. They knew the names of children, remembered birthdays, encouraged young people who doubted themselves, and somehow always found time for the lonely soul who simply needed someone to listen. They never sought admiration, and because they never sought it, they received it naturally. Their lives preached every single day, even when they never stood behind a pulpit. Those priests taught me that authentic ministry is not performance but presence; it is not measured by applause but by compassion; it is not remembered because of eloquent language, but because someone chose to walk beside us when life became almost too heavy to carry alone.
It is because of those priests – and because I still believe they represent the true heart of the priesthood – that I write these reflections today. This is not an attack on the Catholic Church, nor is it an accusation against any one priest. God knows there are many faithful shepherds who continue to carry burdens the rest of us never see. They deserve our gratitude, our encouragement, and our prayers. My concern is something much deeper. I fear that, in too many places, we have slowly begun confusing the visible expressions of our faith with the faith itself. My concern is not with Gregorian chant, Latin, sacred architecture, incense, stained glass, lace or beautiful vestments. These have enriched Catholic worship for centuries, and rightly so. Beauty has always helped lift the human heart toward God. But beauty was never meant to become the destination. It was always meant to become the doorway. Every beautiful church should send us back into the world determined to love more deeply. Every hymn should soften our hearts toward those who suffer. Every Eucharist should leave us more willing to forgive, to serve, to comfort, and to sacrifice. If those things do not happen, then even the most beautiful liturgy has not yet fulfilled its purpose. Sometimes, after mass, I find myself wondering what it would have been like to walk beside Jesus along those dusty roads of Galilee. I imagine Him stopping to speak with the old woman everyone else hurried past. I imagine Him sitting with fishermen whose hands were rough from years of labour, smiling with children who climbed onto His lap without fear, and sharing simple meals with families whose names history would never remember. I cannot picture Him worrying about appearances. His attention always seemed drawn toward people before places, toward broken hearts before beautiful buildings, toward suffering before ceremony. The Gospels reveal a Saviour who spent remarkably little time admiring religious structures but an extraordinary amount of time restoring human dignity. Whenever I read those pages, I cannot help asking myself a difficult question. If Christ quietly walked into one of our churches today, where would His eyes naturally rest? Would He notice the polished marble first, or the lonely widow sitting quietly in the last pew? Would He admire the fresh flowers around the altar before noticing the struggling family wondering how they would buy groceries for another week? Somehow, I think His gaze would always find the people first.
One of Pope Francis’ most memorable observations was that shepherds should “smell like their sheep.” In one simple sentence, he described every truly remarkable priest I have ever known. None of them carried the scent of privilege. They carried the smell of hospital corridors after sitting beside the dying. They carried the salt air from fishing wharves, the smell of coal dust from the Glace Bay pits, the scent of fresh-cut hay from farmers’ fields, the smell of coffee shared around kitchen tables, and the quiet exhaustion that comes from giving oneself away day after day. Those priests never needed to convince anyone that they loved their people. It was written all over their lives. They understood that priesthood does not begin and end at the altar. The altar prepares the priest for the world waiting beyond the church doors.
Recently I listened to a thoughtful young seminarian speak with great enthusiasm about Gregorian chant, Latin, philosophy, and the rich intellectual tradition of the Church. I admired his intelligence and his love for learning. The Church has always needed scholars, and she always will. But as I listened, another question quietly settled into my mind. Will the farmer understand him? Will the fisherman? Will the widow who now eats every meal alone? Will the young father wondering how he will pay next month’s bills? A farmer does not need a lecture on Plato’s transcendentals. He is already searching for truth every time he studies the weather before planting his crops. He understands goodness every time he rises before dawn to care for his animals. He experiences beauty every morning as sunlight spills across the fields that have sustained his family for generations. He understands love every time he sacrifices his own comfort so those he loves may have a better life. He may never use philosophical language, but he lives those realities every single day. The task of the priest is not to impress people with what he knows. It is to help them discover that God has been quietly walking beside them all along.
As I find myself in the autumn of my own life, I realize that I am no longer writing these words for myself. Most of my journey has already been travelled. I write them for the young seminarian whose heart still burns with hope. I write them for the newly ordained priest who will soon receive his first parish. I write them for future generations who deserve to encounter shepherds whose lives make Christ believable once again. My prayer is wonderfully simple. May our churches always remain beautiful, but may our compassion become even more beautiful. May our liturgies always remain reverent, but may they produce lives even more reverent toward human dignity. May our priests always treasure the traditions of the Church, but may they never forget that Christ did not hand His disciples a throne when He called them. He knelt before them with a basin and a towel. He showed them that true greatness is found not in being admired but in loving others until our own lives begin to resemble His.
When my generation is gone, I hope our grandchildren will remember priests not because their vestments were magnificent or their ceremonies flawless, but because they stood beside people when life was falling apart. I hope they remember priests who carried groceries for the elderly, visited the forgotten, comforted frightened children, sat quietly beside the dying, encouraged the discouraged, and walked so closely with ordinary people that they truly did smell like their sheep. If that day comes, our churches may or may not become full again, but something far more important will happen. Hearts will be filled once more with hope. And I cannot help believing that somewhere, the Carpenter from Nazareth will quietly smile.