As St Luke’s Day approaches, a time when we remember one of the Gospel writers, I find myself reflecting on language. Specifically, the language we use to describe the realities of ministry: the wounds, the healing, and the hope.
St Luke’s Gospel, with its stories of healing, welcome, and the reversal of fortunes, invites us to see God’s love at work among the broken and the marginalised. It’s a Gospel that speaks directly into the heart of ministry, not as a polished performance, but as a journey marked by compassion, struggle, and grace.
At our recent conference in Birmingham, I introduced St Luke’s in terms of:
- Advocating for wellbeing
- Building communities of practice
- Caring for those broken in ministry
I did so partly for rhetorical ease, but more importantly because it captures what we’re about: walking alongside clergy who are navigating the complexities of vocation – those who feel called yet stretched, hopeful yet hurting. And, at times, broken.
It’s a term that has surfaced in our internal conversations as we’ve reflected on the language, we use to describe ourselves. Is it too heavy? Too ambiguous? Does it refer to being broken by ministry or in ministry?
We ask these questions not to sanitise suffering, but to honour it.
Ministry-associated trauma is real. It shows up in burnout, anxiety, depression, compassion fatigue, and moral injury. Clergy often carry the emotional weight of unresolved conflict, safeguarding anxieties, and unhealthy congregational dynamics. Many feel isolated, unsupported, and unsure where to turn. Some push themselves to the point of breakdown, as a priest shared with me recently:
“It wasn’t as some well-meaning colleagues wished to frame it as a ‘breakthrough’. It was a breakdown.”
To name this reality is not to sensationalise it. It is to dignify it.
We believe healing begins when trauma is acknowledged, not ignored. That’s why we offer spaces for reflection, supervision, and care. That’s why we aspire to listen deeply to clergy voices. And that’s why we wrestle with the language we use.
There should be no stigma in being broken. Christian tradition is no stranger to woundedness. We worship a God who was beaten, forsaken, and who died. Christ’s wounds, as Aquinas puts it, are “trophies of his glory.” The Paschal Mystery reminds us that suffering is not the end of the story. Resurrection is real, but it doesn’t erase the scars.
Still, brokenness should not define a person. It may describe a moment, a season, or a struggle. It must be held alongside resilience, growth, and hope. The journey through trauma is rarely linear. Wounds and healing often intermingle. And the Church must create spaces where pain can be named without needing to be immediately resolved.
Should we be exploring alternatives: “walking with those wounded by ministry,” or “supporting those navigating the cost of vocation”? Language matters. It shapes how we see ourselves and how we see others. Let me know what you think!
At St Luke’s, we believe clergy wellbeing is not a solo enterprise. It is a shared commitment.
We are shaped by the Incarnation, by the truth that God meets us not in spite of our vulnerability, but through it.
We are shaped by covenant, by the promise to support one another’s flourishing.
And we are shaped by hope that even in the darkest valleys, healing is possible.
So yes, ministry can break us. But it can also remake us.
And in that tension, in the waiting of Holy Saturday, in the tears of Gethsemane, in the silence of lament we find God. Not as a fixer, but as a friend. Not as a distant deity, but as a wounded healer.
May we be communities where wounds are not hidden, but held. Where healing is not hurried, but honoured.