When Nothing Sounds Right
Not every shadow is a storm.
Recently, the word "crisis" has become like a plaster: we stick it on everything that chafes us. Lack of enthusiasm? Crisis. Tiredness? Crisis. A need for silence? Crisis. Meanwhile, not every change of temperature in the heart means the fire is going out. Sometimes the flame simply changes. That is all.
A few days ago I was saying to myself: "Uh oh, I'm having a crisis." It seemed honest to me. I was less engaged, less emotionally present in the liturgy, weary of my duties. But today I see that I was not having a crisis. I was having a moment of passage. A moment in which something in me was maturing, as if in darkness, quietly, without fanfare.
Not every priest has to shine like the paschal candle all year round. Sometimes you have to go out, so that God can light you anew: no longer with the same light, but with a different one, more interior.
When everything works, but something is off.
There are moments in a priest's life when, outwardly, everything is going well: the ministry is running, people are coming, the liturgy is celebrated, the homilies are prepared. Everything is seemingly in place, and yet something is off. As if the sound of life had gone out of tune. There is no sin, no great spiritual darkness, but there is some emptiness, a longing. The spark is missing, the breath. A man walks, works, speaks, but feels he is beginning to resemble a well-oiled machine, not a living human being.
That is exactly how it was with me. I could not name it right away. Because, after all, everything was "OK". And yet somewhere deep down a question began to sprout: "Is this all there is?"
The change that came quietly
There was no great breakdown. I did not throw my stole into the corner, I did not write a dramatic letter to the bishop, I did not leave for the desert. But something began to break down from within: not dramatically, but systematically. Prayer was becoming a duty, not a conversation. Pastoral meetings became tasks to tick off. People were, at times, more of a nuisance than a joy. And though from the outside probably no one would have guessed, a quiet struggle was going on inside me.
I felt I needed… something. But I did not know what. It was not about rest, not about a holiday. It was something deeper. As if the soul were demanding space, freedom, something fresh.
A coincidence (or perhaps not) with a guitar
And then, completely unexpectedly, as if in passing, I remembered the guitar. How once, long ago, still as a high school student in Kęty, I dreamed of playing, because even then I loved to sing. But somehow there was never the time, the courage, or the determination. Now, in the very middle of a priestly emptiness, that thought returned. At first I ignored it. A guitar? Now? Seriously? Man, you're 28 years old…
But the thought kept coming back like a boomerang. Until one evening I called my brother, a professional musician, and said: "Listen, I'd like a guitar. I think I need to learn to play." He, without unnecessary questions, simply came over and handed me his own, which turned out to be a very good guitar. "Here. Now play," he said. And that is exactly how a new adventure began.
The fingers hurt, and the soul breathes.
It was not easy. Ha… it still isn't… At the beginning I strummed like a beginner cowboy. My fingers hurt mercilessly. The G chord was the Himalayas for me, and F was some outright form of torture. But… in all that clumsy noise, something remarkable began to happen.
I felt again that I was alive. With a full chest. That I was doing something that gave me joy: not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I began to learn patience. Humility. That not everything works out at once. That it is worth practising: not in order to perform on a stage, but in order to find harmony within yourself.
A new space of freedom
It was not only about the guitar. It was about the fact that I finally allowed myself something that was not "useful". Something that had no "pastoral purpose". Something that served no one but me. And precisely this, paradoxically, began to open me up to others anew.
After some time, I noticed that joy had returned to the liturgy. That I was once again glad of a conversation with another person. That homilies were somehow writing themselves more from the heart. And sometimes, after adoration, after meetings with the youth or the altar servers, I take out the guitar. Simply to be myself.
A priest is a human being too.
Sometimes I have the impression that a priest is expected to be always running at full speed. Always ready, always present, always spiritual. But a priest is a human being too. And he has the right, perhaps even the duty, to care for his humanity. For passion, for laughter, for growth. For what keeps the heart from turning to stone.
This recent spiritual season taught me one thing: that it is worth being good to yourself. That it is worth listening to your soul. That if you feel something is missing, perhaps it is not a temptation but a call.
Spiritual growth is not only retreats, reading theology, or adoration. Sometimes you grow spiritually when you learn the silence between the sounds. When the pain in your fingers teaches you humility. When not everything sounds clean, but you keep playing.
Playing the guitar has not become the centre of my life. But it helped me understand something: that a priest is also a human being. And that if he wants to be truly a shepherd, he must first care for his humanity, including that part of him which laughs, sings out of tune, and delights in new things.
Finally: to my brothers in the priesthood (and not only)
I do not know who is reading this. Perhaps a priest, perhaps a layperson. But if you are a priest and you feel something in you cooling down: do not run from it. Stop. Listen. Perhaps it is not the end, but an invitation? Perhaps right now the Lord God is saying: "And now, something new?"
Sometimes all it takes is the courage to reach for something different. For a guitar, for a paintbrush, for a camera, for the book you always wanted to write. Not in order to stop being a priest. But in order to be one again with your heart.
The point is not that all priests should now throw themselves at guitars. Not that a hobby should replace spirituality. But perhaps sometimes you have to allow yourself something that will be only for you: not for the parish, not for pastoral use. Something that will remind you that you are also a human being, not only a function.
Because perhaps the deepest vocation is born not in the moment when we have everything under control, but precisely when we allow ourselves to be a little… lost. So that God has a chance to find us anew.
I do not know how long I will keep playing the guitar. Perhaps I will reach for something else again. Perhaps I will learn to bake bread. Or finally read that thick book on St Thomas that has been lying by my bed for a year. But one thing I know: allowing myself this road "away from myself" was the most honest thing I could do.
And I think that is exactly what the priesthood is about. Not only "being for others", but also letting God be for me. Even if he sometimes comes dressed as a guitarist: in the rhythm of plucked strings and a quiet, uneven strumming which, with time, has begun to come together into something that slowly resembles a melody.
Not a perfect one. But mine.
Fr Adam Płonka
Recently, the word "crisis" has become like a plaster: we stick it on everything that chafes us. Lack of enthusiasm? Crisis. Tiredness? Crisis. A need for silence? Crisis. Meanwhile, not every change of temperature in the heart means the fire is going out. Sometimes the flame simply changes. That is all.
A few days ago I was saying to myself: "Uh oh, I'm having a crisis." It seemed honest to me. I was less engaged, less emotionally present in the liturgy, weary of my duties. But today I see that I was not having a crisis. I was having a moment of passage. A moment in which something in me was maturing, as if in darkness, quietly, without fanfare.
Not every priest has to shine like the paschal candle all year round. Sometimes you have to go out, so that God can light you anew: no longer with the same light, but with a different one, more interior.
When everything works, but something is off.
There are moments in a priest's life when, outwardly, everything is going well: the ministry is running, people are coming, the liturgy is celebrated, the homilies are prepared. Everything is seemingly in place, and yet something is off. As if the sound of life had gone out of tune. There is no sin, no great spiritual darkness, but there is some emptiness, a longing. The spark is missing, the breath. A man walks, works, speaks, but feels he is beginning to resemble a well-oiled machine, not a living human being.
That is exactly how it was with me. I could not name it right away. Because, after all, everything was "OK". And yet somewhere deep down a question began to sprout: "Is this all there is?"
The change that came quietly
There was no great breakdown. I did not throw my stole into the corner, I did not write a dramatic letter to the bishop, I did not leave for the desert. But something began to break down from within: not dramatically, but systematically. Prayer was becoming a duty, not a conversation. Pastoral meetings became tasks to tick off. People were, at times, more of a nuisance than a joy. And though from the outside probably no one would have guessed, a quiet struggle was going on inside me.
I felt I needed… something. But I did not know what. It was not about rest, not about a holiday. It was something deeper. As if the soul were demanding space, freedom, something fresh.
A coincidence (or perhaps not) with a guitar
And then, completely unexpectedly, as if in passing, I remembered the guitar. How once, long ago, still as a high school student in Kęty, I dreamed of playing, because even then I loved to sing. But somehow there was never the time, the courage, or the determination. Now, in the very middle of a priestly emptiness, that thought returned. At first I ignored it. A guitar? Now? Seriously? Man, you're 28 years old…
But the thought kept coming back like a boomerang. Until one evening I called my brother, a professional musician, and said: "Listen, I'd like a guitar. I think I need to learn to play." He, without unnecessary questions, simply came over and handed me his own, which turned out to be a very good guitar. "Here. Now play," he said. And that is exactly how a new adventure began.
The fingers hurt, and the soul breathes.
It was not easy. Ha… it still isn't… At the beginning I strummed like a beginner cowboy. My fingers hurt mercilessly. The G chord was the Himalayas for me, and F was some outright form of torture. But… in all that clumsy noise, something remarkable began to happen.
I felt again that I was alive. With a full chest. That I was doing something that gave me joy: not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I began to learn patience. Humility. That not everything works out at once. That it is worth practising: not in order to perform on a stage, but in order to find harmony within yourself.
A new space of freedom
It was not only about the guitar. It was about the fact that I finally allowed myself something that was not "useful". Something that had no "pastoral purpose". Something that served no one but me. And precisely this, paradoxically, began to open me up to others anew.
After some time, I noticed that joy had returned to the liturgy. That I was once again glad of a conversation with another person. That homilies were somehow writing themselves more from the heart. And sometimes, after adoration, after meetings with the youth or the altar servers, I take out the guitar. Simply to be myself.
A priest is a human being too.
Sometimes I have the impression that a priest is expected to be always running at full speed. Always ready, always present, always spiritual. But a priest is a human being too. And he has the right, perhaps even the duty, to care for his humanity. For passion, for laughter, for growth. For what keeps the heart from turning to stone.
This recent spiritual season taught me one thing: that it is worth being good to yourself. That it is worth listening to your soul. That if you feel something is missing, perhaps it is not a temptation but a call.
Spiritual growth is not only retreats, reading theology, or adoration. Sometimes you grow spiritually when you learn the silence between the sounds. When the pain in your fingers teaches you humility. When not everything sounds clean, but you keep playing.
Playing the guitar has not become the centre of my life. But it helped me understand something: that a priest is also a human being. And that if he wants to be truly a shepherd, he must first care for his humanity, including that part of him which laughs, sings out of tune, and delights in new things.
Finally: to my brothers in the priesthood (and not only)
I do not know who is reading this. Perhaps a priest, perhaps a layperson. But if you are a priest and you feel something in you cooling down: do not run from it. Stop. Listen. Perhaps it is not the end, but an invitation? Perhaps right now the Lord God is saying: "And now, something new?"
Sometimes all it takes is the courage to reach for something different. For a guitar, for a paintbrush, for a camera, for the book you always wanted to write. Not in order to stop being a priest. But in order to be one again with your heart.
The point is not that all priests should now throw themselves at guitars. Not that a hobby should replace spirituality. But perhaps sometimes you have to allow yourself something that will be only for you: not for the parish, not for pastoral use. Something that will remind you that you are also a human being, not only a function.
Because perhaps the deepest vocation is born not in the moment when we have everything under control, but precisely when we allow ourselves to be a little… lost. So that God has a chance to find us anew.
I do not know how long I will keep playing the guitar. Perhaps I will reach for something else again. Perhaps I will learn to bake bread. Or finally read that thick book on St Thomas that has been lying by my bed for a year. But one thing I know: allowing myself this road "away from myself" was the most honest thing I could do.
And I think that is exactly what the priesthood is about. Not only "being for others", but also letting God be for me. Even if he sometimes comes dressed as a guitarist: in the rhythm of plucked strings and a quiet, uneven strumming which, with time, has begun to come together into something that slowly resembles a melody.
Not a perfect one. But mine.
Fr Adam Płonka
