On most Sundays, you can find men sitting quietly in the pews, scattered among families, widows, and small groups of friends. They arrive faithfully, participate in the prayers and responses, shake hands at the sign of peace, and then slip out into the parking lot without a word. To the casual observer they look steady, even content. But beneath those still faces are often stories of loneliness, strain, heartbreak, and discouragement that have never been spoken aloud.  Some months ago, I watched a man in his sixties sit alone through the entire Mass. He sang softly, knelt with reverence, joined the responses. At the dismissal, he lingered for a moment as if hoping someone might notice him. No one did. He left quietly the same way he arrived. I do not know his story, but I have known many men like him: men who love the Church, yet do not know how to bring their woundedness into it.

Across Canada and throughout the Western world, men are facing challenges we seldom name out loud. Loneliness among men is rising. Suicide rates remain highest among middle-aged and older men. Many struggle silently with pornography, addiction, depression, or emotional isolation they have never learned to talk about. Young men feel adrift. Older men face grief they do not know how to name. Widowers often disappear from parish life. Divorced men linger on the margins, unsure where they fit. These realities rarely appear in parish bulletins or homilies. They seldom enter pastoral planning. Yet they sit beside us every Sunday.

As a Catholic man with both academic and in-formation clinical interest in mental health, I have heard variations of these stories many times. Men who feel invisible in their marriages or who have lost a partner to illness or separation. Men carrying guilt from past mistakes, sometimes distancing themselves from God, still unsure if He has truly forgiven them. Men who fear being seen as weak, even by those who care for them. Men who show up for Mass faithfully yet leave feeling just as alone as when they arrived.

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Suffering is part of every human life. But what troubles me is how many men feel they have nowhere in the Church to bring that suffering. The Church is often described as a field hospital, a place where the wounded come for healing. Yet many men have learned, explicitly or implicitly, that they are expected to be the medics, not the wounded: to carry burdens but not to reveal their own.

And so the quiet crisis continues.

The impact of male silence goes far beyond individual hearts. When men withdraw spiritually, families feel it. Marriages feel it. Children feel it. Parishes feel it. Many Catholic women quietly long for their husbands, sons, and brothers to speak openly about their faith and their struggles. Many Catholic young people long to see examples of prayerful, grounded, emotionally mature masculinity. A parish where men cannot bring their pain is a parish missing some of its strength.  But a parish where men can bring their pain becomes a parish where all are stronger.

None of this minimizes the needs of women, who carry their own profound burdens. It simply means the Church must widen her vision. If we can speak compassionately about the wounds of the poor, the sick, and the marginalized, then surely we must also learn to speak about the wounds of men. Men are not spiritually invulnerable. They are simply trained, from childhood onward, to act as if they are.

The Church already possesses the resources to care for men in their vulnerability. It simply underuses them.  Christ Himself is not a distant model of impossible perfection. He is the One who weeps at the tomb of His friend, who cries out in anguish in Gethsemane, who feels the weight of human sorrow press down upon Him until He can hardly stand. The shortest verse of the New Testament - “Jesus wept” - might also be the most important for men. 

We often emphasize Christ’s strength, and rightly so. But His strength is not the strength of repression. His is the strength of full humanity, the courage to love, to grieve, to carry others, and to meet suffering without hiding from it.  And scripture is filled with examples of men who do bring their anguish to God:

·      David pours out his soul in the Psalms with complete honesty.

·      Job refuses to hide his grief.

·      Jeremiah expresses despair with poetic intensity.

·      Peter weeps bitterly after his denial.

·      These are not weak men. They are holy men.

And then there is St. Joseph. We often speak of his silence as if it were a command for men to suppress their emotions. But Joseph’s silence is not the silence of repression, it is the silence of a man who listens. He changes direction when God asks him to. 

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When faced with fear, confusion, and public pressure, he does not harden. He becomes more attentive and more loving.  Joseph’s silence is spacious. It is the silence of a man whose heart is open to God.  He shows that emotional depth, not emotional denial, is the mark of sanctified masculinity.  If the Church wants a model for men today, St. Joseph offers one: a man whose strength flows from tenderness, courage, and trust, not from hiding his wounds.

If our faith offers all these examples, why do so many men feel they cannot voice their pain within the Church? Several reasons appear again and again:

·      Men rarely ask for pastoral help, even when they need it

·      Many ministries are built around relational styles that don’t feel natural to men

·      Our culture often frames vulnerability in feminine terms, leaving men unsure how to participate

·      Men fear being a burden

And many have never been shown how to talk about their inner world at all.  

Whether in the therapy room or the Church, these all form a wall that takes effort to break through. Most of all, men fear being misunderstood or dismissed. So they carry on silently.

But silence is not strength. It is simply silence.

The good news is that small changes can make a real difference.

Name men’s struggles from the pulpit. A single homily on male loneliness, grief, addiction, or spiritual dryness can open a door many men have kept shut for years. Offer purpose-driven men’s groups. Men often respond best to groups connected to Scripture, fatherhood, mentorship, or practical service. Once the structure is there, deeper conversation follows naturally.

Invite personal conversation gently. A priest asking, “How are you, really?” can be a turning point.

Expand Confession to include wounds, not just sins. Men carry guilt, yes, but also grief, anxiety, and despair. Confession can hold all of that if the door is opened. Honour men’s contributions without assuming they are unbreakable.  We must realise that visibility and gratitude are forms of healing, and these must be demonstrated continually.

When men feel they cannot bring their sorrow, their longing, or their inner lives into the Church, a part of them stays outside the temple gates. But Christ desires to meet men in the fullness of who they are: their strengths, wounds, and desires, the whole man.  This is good for men, but also for families, for marriages, for vocations, and for parish life.

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My hope is simple: that our parishes become places where men are not only servers, ushers, and singers in our choirs, but sons, brothers, and pilgrims whose hearts and souls matter deeply to God.

Brian Ross is a professor at NOSM University and an MDiv candidate at Tyndale University.