Can Something Good Emerge from the Crisis of Clergy Burnout?

Rediscovering what it means to be the Body of Christ

When I wrote last week about clergy burnout, I expected it to strike a chord with some of my fellow clergy. What I didn’t anticipate was the sheer volume of responses—a flood of emails and messages from across the UK (and a few from the States), all echoing the same themes: exhaustion, despair, and a profound sense of being unheard.

These are good people—faithful, hardworking, often overstretched—who entered ministry not for prestige but because they felt called to shepherd souls. One vicar, juggling five dwindling congregations, described being sent on yet another “resilience training” course—as if the issue were his lack of stamina rather than the impossibility of his task. Several confessed, depressingly, that speaking openly about burnout to diocesan officials felt like professional suicide. The message, implicit but clear, was:

Keep struggling, but do so quietly.

The Church, like so many venerable institutions, finds itself caught between the world it was built for and the world it now inhabits. This isn’t a story of bad actors—far from it. The bishops, the archdeacons, the overworked diocesan staff—they’re good people, trying their best within a structure groaning under the weight of legacy and expectation. The problem isn’t a lack of conviction; it’s the quiet creep of institutional drift that happens when survival becomes a daily preoccupation.

You see it clearly in the finances. Of course dioceses must balance the books. But in a context of scarcity, this can become an overriding concern. How shares are paid—whether through weekly giving, relentless fundraising, or drawing down reserves—becomes secondary. The result? Local churches feel intense pressure to prioritise financial survival over mission and ministry, with clergy caught between diocesan demands and exhausted congregations.

Then there’s accountability, or the lack of it. Neglectful or incompetent clergy often remain unchallenged, not because no one cares but because the system resists their correction. Meanwhile, the diligent are rewarded with ever-expanding workloads—until they, too, break. Dioceses, overstretched and reactive, often operate with a kind of institutional attention deficit syndrome, unable to focus on the human realities behind spreadsheets and mission plans.

At the heart of it all? A crisis of purpose. For all the talk of ‘mission’, the Church often behaves as if its chief goal is to keep the show on the road, maintaining an image of relevance in a culture that no longer cares to shop at Church of England or Church in Wales, Plc. A parish may host endless community events—coffee mornings, heritage projects, even yoga sessions—under the banner of “engagement,” yet do little to nurture actual discipleship. Meanwhile, dioceses chase financial stability and media-friendly activism, treating faith as an adjunct to survival.

The result? Exhaustion. And burnout.

The Tug-of-War Between Old and New

Another theme in the responses was the ongoing battle between two positions I find equally unsatisfying. On one side are those who champion the traditional parish system—its historic buildings, liturgies, and deep local roots. On the other are advocates of “fresh expressions” and experimental ministry models, arguing that the old ways are no longer viable. Both use clergy burnout to justify their case—the first to demand more funding, the latter to push for reinvention.

The problem with the “new ways” crowd is that too many within it embrace the age’s obsession with disruption—the belief that destruction is a necessary prelude to renewal. We live in iconoclastic times, where both progressives and conservatives assume nothing new can flourish until the old is torn down. The old Stalinist maxim—You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs—has become the unspoken creed of our day.

We’ve become very good at breaking eggs and very bad at making omelettes.

I sympathise with the stubborn defenders of the parish—the priests and laypeople who, with little support, keep their churches open against all odds. They’re right to be wary. Closing a church—especially a medieval one—is a wrenching decision. These buildings have anchored communities for centuries. In rural villages, where they’re often the last communal space, closure can feel like abandonment. People grieve not just a building, but a deeper loss—history, identity, belonging. Any restructuring must acknowledge this with pastoral sensitivity. We must accompany their grieving in prayer, as we would those mourning a loved one.

But mere preservation isn’t the answer. Too many parish structures survive not because of vibrant faith, but because of cultural nostalgia. There’s little point in propping up churches only to repeat the same patterns that have failed for generations. The future of the Church won’t be found in choosing between the old and the new, but in rediscovering what is true. After all, neither beautiful buildings nor clever initiatives can compensate for anaemic faith.

A Different Vision: The Body of Christ

So where does that leave us? I believe the way forward lies in recovering a deeper vision of the Church—not as an institution to be managed or a brand to be marketed, but as a community of formation, the Body of Christ.

The local church isn’t just a venue for worship or good works; it’s a living community, shaped by those who have gone before and sustained through worship, teaching, and love. A church doesn’t live simply because services take place within its walls. It’s alive when its people—men, women, and children—are formed by Scripture, sacraments, prayer, and fellowship. These are the sine qua non of congregational life. Worship only makes sense within this wider pastoral context. If Christians lack a real sense of belonging beyond Sunday services, the church is no more truly a “household of faith” (Gal. 6.10) than are relatives that only gather occasionally for meals a proper family. We must recognise this and shape our structures accordingly.

Recognising local churches as communities of formation challenges the idea that clergy and lay leaders exist primarily to provide worship. Expecting clergy to exhaust themselves racing between buildings for occasional services helps no one. It reduces churches to mere venues while leaving people disconnected from ministries that could actually form them in faith and draw them into the Church’s active life.

On the other hand, conceiving our churches as communities of formation captures something of the spirit of the “fresh expressions” movement while grounding it in something more substantial than contemporary lifestyle preferences or shared interests. It restores to the Church its true purpose: to be a community called by God to form men and women as the Body of Christ. Fostering such communities, wherever possible, should be a key diocesan strategy.

Rethinking Clergy Deployment and Lay Leadership

The challenges facing the Church are real, but they are not insurmountable. We don’t need panic or paralysis; we need purposeful action—anchored in theological clarity, pastoral wisdom, and a willingness to reimagine our structures. The way forward isn’t about merely preserving what was, but recovering the essence of what the Church is called to be.

Clergy deployment is a pressing concern. The goal should not be to keep as many churches open as possible, limping along with threadbare resources. Instead, we must ask: Are clergy able reasonably to fulfil their ordination vows? Can they meaningfully preach and teach the Word, administer the sacraments, and offer pastoral care in ways that are sustainable? Too often, they’re stretched thin—juggling roles as liturgists, administrators, counsellors, and community organisers across multiple churches. This leads to exhaustion and turns their vocation into mere institutional upkeep. Ironically, the more geographically spread out clergy become, the less visible they are pastorally.

Dioceses must make difficult choices. Where consolidation is needed, it should be done with pastoral sensitivity—not as a retreat, but as a strategic realignment. Where clergy numbers are insufficient, creative solutions must emerge. Simply adding to the responsibilities of the few remaining clergy is no solution. Likewise, we must address the backdoor method of overloading priests through unfulfilled vacancies. The priority shouldn’t be mere survival, but allowing clergy to be what they were called to be: shepherds, preachers, and pastors.

Alongside this, we must take the formation of the laity seriously. Too often, laypeople are drawn into the bureaucracy of the Church rather than its mission. They’re given tasks, not understanding; responsibilities without much authority. The default expectation is that they will help “keep things running” rather than being empowered as co-labourers within the shared ministry of the one Body. The Church must shift its emphasis to help local congregations—both clergy and laity—to be formed together for ministry as a whole. A thriving Church is not one sustained by a few overworked clergy, but one where faith is so deeply embedded in the life of its people gathered as the Body of Christ that it produces a bounty of good works.

Recovering Hope

The numbers paint a sobering picture. Clergy are exhausted. The culture is indifferent, if not hostile, to the Church’s message. It would be easy to despair. And yet, this isn’t the whole story.

There are signs of hope. You see it in rural parishes where the faithful still gather week by week, sustaining ancient rhythms of prayer. You see it in urban churches where new expressions of community are forming—not as gimmicks, but as genuine responses to the Gospel. You see it in the quiet faithfulness of exhausted priests who still kneel at hospital bedsides, feed their people spiritually at the altar, and nourish them with good teaching. You see it in laypeople who, often unseen, hold their communities together with prayer, service, and stubborn love. In an age of fracture, theirs is a fidelity that doesn’t flash or trend. It simply abides. And in that abiding, there is hope.

The way forward won’t be found in grand strategies or quick fixes, but from the careful, deliberate, and wise tending of what remains—the embers of faith still glowing in scattered places. It’ll require both wisdom and courage: to make hard choices about structures, to trust laypeople with real authority, to resist the urge to try to sustain everything at the cost of sustaining anything well.

Most of all, it will require a return to first principles. The Church doesn’t belong to us; it belongs to Christ. Its future does not hinge on our ingenuity, but on his faithfulness. That is the ground of our hope—not in our ability to engineer a perfect solution, but in the assurance that even now, the Spirit is at work, breathing life into old, dry bones.

The task before us isn’t to save the Body of Christ, but to serve within it—with clear-eyed realism, sacrificial love, and the quiet confidence that the One who called us will sustain us. That, in the end, is enough.