Yes, we need to talk. These last couple of weeks, Italy has been reeling from the death of don Matteo Balzano, a thirty-five year old priest who took his own life (see my note here), and Malta is rightly grieving Jan Pace, found dead after a nationwide search triggered by people who loved him, and who were seriously (and rightly) concerned. This last year has been marked for me by suicides of people I knew directly, or who are the loved ones of those I know. We NEED to talk.

Let me set the record straight. I speak as a human being and as a Catholic priest, with some pastoral experience in the matter. I am not a mental health care professional, and will not remotely pretend to be one, as I would do more harm than good. But we are complex beings, and all aspects of our life are intimately linked, and nowhere more so than in our mental, psychological, and spiritual well being. I am not trying to provide any kind of analysis into the matter, not addressing specific issues: relating to mental health in general, to men’s mental health in particular, even less on issues relating to mental health among the clergy, and mental health among the LGBTQ+ community. Others have far greater competence than me in that.

But I feel I ought to share three things I have learnt, and which perhaps may help you too.

First. DO NOT JUDGE.

If you want to be of any use to persons who have suicidal thoughts (or have attempted suicide), if you want to be of any use to those who are grieving family and friends who have taken their own life: do not judge. Let me repeat that. Do. Not. Judge.

Sounds easy, but it is not. Outright judgement may be easier to avoid. However, sometimes what may appear even as sensible advice (and might be, if provided in the right way, at the right moment, in the right context of a journey) can be subtly — and powerfully — judgemental. We humans love to have answers, we crave to have agency. We’d rather blame ourselves, riddled with guilt: what could I have done, what could I have said (this is especially for people close). We’d rather blame ourselves than admit that we sometimes have no agency whatsoever in the matter.

Perhaps one of the deepest tragedies with suicide, is that it may still happen, despite people being surrounded by loved ones. Despite having any entire support network. Despite having the right mental health care support. Yes, it can still happen. No, there was nothing you could have done. It is NOT your fault.

Does that mean that there’s nothing to do? Oh no. There’s plenty that you can do, and that you should do. Of course, people can be supportive, and that support is real and powerful. But it’s also being aware that it is not a simple cause-effect. There is no magic formula. We human beings are not some mechanical device, but way more complex.

So what can we do?

Second. Be there.

Be there. Be there, and learn to shut up and listen. This has been true for me as a human being, as a friend, as a priest. Be there. Journey with people as they walk through hell, through the hell of grief, through the pitch-black darkness of their experience. I cannot take the person’s place, but I can be there making sure that they do not walk through hell alone. Not to give answers, but to hold their hand (metaphorically, at times even physically).

And, please note, please make sure that they also have the necessary support from health care professionals. Whether you’re accompanying a friend or a loved, or accompanying as a priest, make sure that they are seeking and getting the right support. As a priest I’m well aware that the spiritual aspect can be an powerful part of the journey, but alongside, and not in substitution of the proper psychological and psychiatric support as required. We’re allies, not competitors!

I’ve learnt also that walking through hell with others, also means that I need to be humble enough to be helped too. It is among the most powerful experiences as a priest, but also one where I should not play the superhero. Prayer is important, but not some magical tool. I too need the right support, proper support from other professionals as necessary, support in spiritual direction, in psychotherapy, to walk this journey with others. (By the way, I consider these tools as God given too. Gratia supponit naturam et eam perficit.)

Third. It’s ok to be angry with God

Now, I speak as a priest. It is ok to be angry with God. It is ok to want to tell God to [insert your expletive here]. If our faith is to be of any use, we need to get rid of this saccarine form that we often grow up with. We need to grow beyond the infantilisation of our faith.

It is ok to be totally angry with God. God can handle it. Let me explain by analogy. As an educator (and I’m quite sure that others have experienced it as educators and/or parents), it has happened to me that a fourteen/fifteen year old lad come to me, angry at me, and perhaps even lashing out. If instinctively, I might want to answer in tone, as an adult I realise that that young man is not angry at me, but is angry (often at themselves, at a situation, at the world at large). Ironically, they might take this out on me not because I am the target, but because I am the safe space. What that young man needs is to be listened to, to be taken seriously, to realise that their anger is legit, and needs to be expressed, perhaps regulated, but not suppressed.

Now, I honestly believe that my God is at least better than me (it’s the least I can hope)! I imagine that our relationship with him is like that adolescent. Why should I think that my God cannot handle it? (And, by the way, the Bible is replete with examples.)

And, for God’s sake, avoid the niceties that are blasphemous in moments where people are grieving their dearest ones, about God choosing them for themselves or God plucking some flower from his garden. Such phrase betray an image of a selfish God. My God is crying there beside me, and beside you, as we grieve our dear ones. And yes, my God is embracing lovingly, not judgementally, those who have taken their own life. I cannot imagine God otherwise. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty of questions to ask the God Lord when, one day, I’ll be called to meet my maker. But in the meantime, I have learnt to accept that I do not understand the mysteries of the universe.

Finally. Be a safe space.

Finally, I bring together these three points. No, I don’t have answers. And I would be harming you if I said otherwise. Actually, in some case, there are no answers. And it’s ok.

However, one thing I can do. Be a safe space. Be a space where people feel received, welcomed, embraced, without judgement. Where others can feel it is ok to be themselves: to feel received, welcomed, loved, as they are. Bleeding. Bruised. Hurt. In darkness. Right when they cannot even receive and welcome themselves. Right when they feel that they are a burden on themselves and on others. Right when the flickering flame of faith might seem completely extinguished. That is where I should be. I don’t have answers. But here you are safe.

No, you are not a burden. Not to me. Not to your loved ones. You are a gift. So, please — just as I would glad to rejoice with you in your joys and hopes, even more feel free to knock at my door when life is overwhelming, when you feel that you are walking through hell. I cannot walk through hell for you, but you can be darn sure that I will not let go of your hand as you do.