Vocation vs state in life

First, I want to say thank you for everyone who commented or chatted with me about last week’s post. It’s really easy for me to get stuck in my own head and forget that there are other ways of looking at a thing, so I’m genuinely grateful to hear your perspectives. I have a new thing for this week, but I don’t intend to close any earlier conversation — so I’m happy to hear any further thoughts that you have!

On to this week’s topic: vocation and state in life.

It’s very common to conflate “vocation” with “state in life,” and today I want to consider whether there is value in being clearer about the distinction.

Vocation literally means “call,” and in this context we’re talking about a call from God. To my knowledge, the Church has not nailed down a definition more precise than that. State of life is whether you’re married, single, a priest, a nun, etc. Clearly they are related concepts, and the terms are often used nearly interchangeably. When we look at statistics regarding the Church, we hear about the number of “vocations” which normally means the number of ordinations. The diocesan “vocations director” is the person who helps young men and women discern whether they are called to the priesthood or religious life; if God is not calling you to these particular states in life, you don’t really have a reason to talk to the vocations director.

I don’t like this use of the word “vocation,” and I want to explore this dislike. Maybe I’m wrong! I’ll flesh this out, and then I want to hear what you think.

The reason for my (personal) dislike stems from my observation that life is messy and often doesn’t fit neatly into tidy categories. A person might spend years in formation for a diocese or religious order, anticipating ordination or perpetual vows, but then discern out before the final commitment is made. A person who feels called to marriage may never find a spouse; a person who feels called to religious life may not be accepted by any order. A person may find, years into their committed life, that something tragic was present at the root: their spouse was previously married (and very dishonest), the founder of their religious order had severe moral failings. People can be widowed at a young age, experience infertility or subfertility, or have their religious order dissolved by the Vatican. People can have conversions or other big changes, and it’s worth affirming that their life before that time was also of value in God’s eyes. If a vocation is defined as a call to a particular state in life, what do we do with when a person’s life doesn’t fit neatly into a particular category?

I had my own wrestling to do with this question — my life hasn’t exactly unfolded the way I had anticipated — and where I finally landed (with peace) is an awareness of God’s call and providence in the present moment. I attribute this perspective to my reading of Walter Ciszek, Wilfred Stinissen, and Thomas Dubay.

Ciszek (whose He Leadeth Me I heartily recommend) was an American Jesuit who heard the pope’s call for priests to minister in Russia and felt personally called by God for this mission. So he went, and first he couldn’t be in Russia, and then he was in Russia but couldn’t reveal that he was a priest, then the Soviets thought he was a spy for the Vatican and put him in solitary confinement for five years. This was followed by a decade or two in Siberian slave/prison labor camps, where he was happy to finally have some priestly work to do. (Many saint stories have a vibe of “look how horrifically he suffered! Be ashamed that you don’t love Jesus this much!” In contrast — and this is why I love his book so much — he shares the insights and lessons he gained through his experience in a way that is genuinely helpful for ordinary people living ordinary lives, like me with my family in the suburbs of America.) Ciszek’s life did not turn out the way he anticipated, and in particular, he was really distraught about not being able to serve as a priest. He couldn’t provide sacraments for people while in solitary confinement, couldn’t even talk to people about Jesus. So he had to wrestle with what is my priesthood? what is God calling me to? what is God’s will for my life? He came to realize that God’s will for him was in the circumstances of his everyday life, whatever it looked like. In his words:

Our [his and a priest-friend’s] dilemma at Teplaya-Gora came from our frustration at not being able to do what we thought the will of God out to be in this situation, at our inability to work as we thought God would surely want us to work, instead of accepting the situation itself as his will. It is a mistake easily made by every man, saint or scholar, Church leader or day laborer. Ultimately, we come to expect God to accept our understanding of what his will ought to be and help us fulfill that, instead of learning to see and accept his will in the real situations in which he places us daily. The simple soul who each day makes a morning offering of “all the prayers, works, joys, and sufferings of this day” — and who then acts upon it by accepting unquestioningly and responding lovingly to all the situations of the day as truly sent by God — has perceived with an almost childlike faith the profound truth about the will of God. To predict what God’s will is going to be, to rationalize about what his will must be, is at once a work of human folly and yet the subtlest of all temptations. The plain and simple truth is that his will is what he actually wills to send us each day, in the circumstances, places, people, and problems. The trick is to learn to see that — not just in theory, or not just occasionally in a flash of insight grated by God’s grace, but every day. Each of us has no need to wonder about what God’s will must be for us; his will for us is clearly revealed in every situation of every day, if only we could learn to view all things as he sees them and sends them to us. (He Leadeth Me, 40)

Stinissen says something similar:

The distinction between what God wills and what he merely permits is extremely important on the theological level. When it has to do with real life, however, with unavoidable events and our reaction to them, we might wonder if speculation about the difference is not often a subtle form of escapism. If God does not will the evil that befalls me, I do not need to accept it. Then I may in good conscience rebel against it. (Into Your Hands, Father, 18)

and

We seek God, but in reality he does not need to be sought. He is everywhere. We can never escape him. Everything speaks of him, and everything mediates something of him. We do not need to go long distances or buy a compass to find the right way. God is in our everyday reality: our parents, our body with its health or sickness, our gifts and limitations, our riches, our poverty, our high or low IQ. As soon as we cease to resist all of this and open ourselves to accept God’s reality, we begin to live in his kingdom. (ibid, 19)

To be clear — and I’m happy to discuss this at length if anyone’s interested — this isn’t to say that God hates you and wants you to suffer, because that isn’t true. It is a way of living that begins with a sober acknowledgement and acceptance of reality as it is. It is saying “My kid is sick right now, we’ll cancel that thing we wanted to do” and accepting that this is the reality of the situation — instead of thinking up a thousand reasons why the whole situation is unjust and I shouldn’t be expected to endure it. This is how reality is, and this is the place from which God wants me to act and wherein God intends to give me his grace. Ciszek goes on to emphasize — even from his place in a horrifically dehumanizing and degrading Soviet prison — that in any situation, we have the freedom to act with love, and that God’s grace is always available to us. Stinissen points to the death of Jesus,

which shows us two things very clearly. The first is that suffering and even total ruin do not signify a lack of love on the part of the Father. The second is that suffering is not in vain; it bears fruit and has redeeming power. (p. 15)

and

All the absurdity of which mankind’s foolishness and blindness are capable is caught up in God’s loving omnipotence. He is able even to fit the absurd into his plan of salvation and thereby give it meaning. (p. 16)

I hope that summary wasn’t so cursory as to be scandalous. Again, I’m happy to talk further; I’ve been turning these things over for years now and it’s been really fruitful for me, but I’m not sure if I articulated it well.

Let me tie all this back to vocation and state in life.

If God’s call for me (can we say “my vocation”?) is to act with love in the actual circumstance that I’m experiencing right now, then I have a way of understanding myself and my relationship with God if/when my “state in life” ends up not fitting neatly into a particular category.

The potential problem I see with this outlook is that it seems to mean that one’s state in life is of relatively little importance, and that’s not a position I’m comfortable holding. I do think it’s important to encourage young, uncommitted Catholics to seriously consider the priesthood or religious life, and I think we ought to consider encouraging them toward marriage as well. It’s important that young people become more attuned to the voice of God, and that they aren’t too afraid to commit their lives. At the same time, we also ought to have space for peope whose lives don’t fit into those categories.

I often find it helpful to have specific questions, but I’m not really sure what I’d ask. What do you make of all this? I’d especially like to hear from young adults and those who work with them, and I’m interested in hearing people’s reflections on their own vocations. I feel like the ideas I laid out here are missing something; there’s a hole or lacuna in here somewhere, and I’d be grateful if someone can identify it and point it out.