Deep Formation
The question of how we prepare those called to serve the Church, to guide souls, and to keep watch in an age of unease grows more pressing by the day. Our institutional churches, burdened by financial strain and shaken by conflict and scandal, often find themselves weakened. Many local churches, thin in community and practice, lack the habits needed for deep formation. A generation shaped more by individual expression than by discipline, more by fleeting sentiment than by thoughtful reflection, now stands unsteady before the gathering darkness of the age. We built churches suited for an era of affluence and confidence, yet we now find ourselves in a world turning ever more towards despair, suspicion, and division. And so, the need for clergy who can minister—truly minister—has seldom been greater.
The preparation of clergy isn’t merely a matter of skill or knowledge. It requires slow and patient formation—of rooting a man or woman in something greater, something enduring, something that will sustain them beyond their own lifespan. Scripture, the wisdom of the Church, the guidance of saints and shepherds past, and the sanctifying grace of prayer and the sacraments—these have long formed the bedrock of Christian formation, yet now they risk being neglected just when they’re most needed. If they fade from practice, what hope does the Church in the West truly have?
The Modern Shift
We live in a time that prizes efficiency above all. The quick fix, the managerial solution, the measurable outcome—these are the dominant values. In our work, our homes, our schools, we prioritise what seems useful now, often at the cost of depth. The retreat from the humanities in our universities reflects a wider crisis, a loss of deeper vision, as institutions place their faith in technological and economic imperatives. The Church, too, is caught in this current. As attendance declines and resources thin, we’re tempted towards pragmatism, pursuing strategies that promise quick returns. Formation is slow and costly; we want something faster, easier, something that produces measurable results and feels novel.
But this is a mistake. Of course, leadership and practical skill have their place. Yet if they come at the cost of deep, serious theological grounding, of a life truly steeped in scripture and prayer, we’ll find ourselves unable to form churches that are anything more than activity centres with a religious gloss. Without deep roots, how can we expect our clergy to stand firm? How can we expect them to speak beyond the noise of this age to the lost souls yearning for the God they do not yet know?
What Truly Sustains Clergy
We must recover the commitment to deep formation. A long immersion in the life of the Church. A life shaped by prayer, Word, and sacrament. An experience of real community. And this must begin long before a candidate enters seminary. There must be time—years, if necessary—for reflection, for spiritual deepening, for the careful cultivation of a heart that leans towards the things of God.
Many seminaries, however, have been encouraged or forced to water down formation. Dioceses are impatient for their clerical candidates and so either pressure seminaries to curtail formation or shift their focus towards leadership theory, organisational dynamics, and community outreach. These things have their place, but they aren’t enough. The work of ministry is the work of faith deeply inhabited. And when the hour of testing comes—and it will come—it isn’t leadership strategies or administrative skills that will hold a priest fast. It will be the deep roots of tradition, the well-worn habit of prayer, the unshakable presence of God’s Word. We must be prepare priests for the “patient endurance” to which Christian in exile in a hostile world are called—perhaps to be the Church more in the tradition of the suffering East than the triumphant West.
The rise in clergy exhaustion and burnout speaks to the consequences of shallow formation. While part of this is due to the impossible ministerial situations in which they’ve been placed, it’s also because so many haven’t been formed in the depths. When the weight of ministry presses down upon them, there’s little for them to draw from. They can organise programmes, lead meetings, arrange events—but can they stand with the broken-hearted, guide the lost, face suffering without flinching? Can they carry the weight of souls?
In this respect, the Church is like a nation facing an existential threat, yet responding by shortening training for its defenders, sending them to the front lines unprepared. Under-trained and ill-equipped, their morale is low and their attrition rate high. All the while, the line gradually retreats, unable to hold against the forces pressing in. The collateral damage from poor formation can be dreadful.
A Call to Deep Formation
The work of the Church isn’t, at its heart, a work of management. It’s a work of formation. And if the shepherds aren’t formed, how shall they form the flock? The Church isn’t a corporation, nor a political entity, nor a social club. It’s a living body, a people called and shaped by the Spirit of God to witness to the world through its faithful endurance, its willingness to take up its cross and follow Jesus. If we wish to see the Church endure, if we wish to see it flourish, then we must return to the kind of formation that sustains it through centuries of challenge and change.
We may be quickly approaching a crossroads. If so, it will as ever be tempting to follow the easy path, to look for quick solutions, to grasp for methods that promise fast results. But the way forward doesn’t lie in shortcuts. It lies in the slow and faithful work of formation—of raising up clergy who know the deep things of God, who are steeped in scripture and prayer, who stand firmly upon the rock of the Christian tradition.
The prophet Jeremiah spoke of those who would heal the wounds of God’s people lightly, saying, “Peace, peace,” when there was no peace (Jeremiah 6:14). We mustn’t be among them. The wounds of our age run deep, and only those well-formed in Christ will have the strength to tend them rightly.
We’re called to prepare clergy who don’t seek relevance, but truth. Who don’t chase after the world’s approval, but pursue faithfulness. Who don’t measure their worth by numbers, but by the weight of the Cross. This is the kind of ministry that will stand the test of time. This is the kind of Church that will weather the storms ahead.
We’ve been entrusted with something precious—something that doesn’t belong to us, but to the Lord. If we’re to be found faithful, we must return to the deep wells of our tradition, that we might raise up deacons, priests, and bishops who will serve with wisdom, integrity, and hearts that beat in tune with the eternal rhythms of God.
“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” the psalmist tells us (Ps. 111:10). If we forget this, if we build upon sand rather than stone, then all our efforts will crumble in time. But if we commit to deep formation, the Church will yet stand firm. And those who are called to serve will be, not managers, not activists, not organizers, not experts in technique—but true shepherds, labouring in the fields of the Lord, till the harvest is gathered in at last.
