I have been preoccupied with wondering why some men (and within the Catholic Church it is only men who are so allowed, encouraged and enabled) after years of living as part of the laity, perhaps married and with families, change their lives considerably by being ordained as deacons. Why is it that this becomes their aim, and subsequently – apparently – not only the fulfilment of their calling, but, in the eyes of the Church at least, the high point of their lives?
My preoccupation resulted from being asked whether I had ever considered studying for the Permanent Diaconate.
What amounted to the same question had been asked of me once before, and I had been able to answer with a prompt, “No, it’s not for me.” I had given little thought to the matter simply because I had no reason to. Being asked, however, did make me focus on the matter more than previously, though not for long; my thoughts only confirmed what I already knew.
The second, more recent question, however, while still being easily answerable with the same sure knowledge that I was not being called to the diaconate, did give rise to a great deal of thought.
It had taken me by surprise, and that in itself was enough to keep it in mind for several days; but it generated a need to clarify and confirm my reasons for being so sure that I had no such vocation: a need that took several weeks of work to satisfy.
Having not considered my standpoint in that way before, I set about the clarification of my apparent certainties. Being asked about becoming a deacon had reminded me that I could enjoy the studying and would welcome the discussions and fellowship with those who were training for eventual acceptance and ordination, but I had no reason to think I might enjoy such involvement other than with an interest in the mindsets and the spiritual journeying of men who believed they had such vocations. Why does their path lead them to ordination as opposed to a similar degree of involvement and usefulness (in all but the specifically ordained deacons’ functions) while remaining firmly anchored in the midst of the lay members of the Church?
There is only the one essential and definitive answer: that single word – vocation.
Ordination into the Diaconate, as with every step beyond, is strictly by invitation only; and that issues not merely from the lips, the minds or the hearts of men.
Answering my own question in that way generated a sense of unease, because I was unable to make that seemingly obvious and logical answer one of my certainties without altering my long-held understanding of what a vocation is, and how it is discerned. That understanding is certainly simple, though without any dismissal of the potential for wonderful and infinitely variable complications being embedded in one’s calling; but is it also simplistic?
Complexities, where they exist, are in the individual journeys, not in the discernment which will necessarily ebb and flow, dim and brighten, confuse and clarify with the intricacies of the personal path as they are confronted, negotiated, accepted and learned from. The oversimplification which could lead to my understanding being seen as simplistic would be the overlooking or ignoring of complexities relating to the journey itself, not to the discernment of one’s vocation.
Discernment itself is simple (that is not to say easy, but uncomplicated). Neither its imperatives nor object is confusing, but both are easily lost sight of; and too easily what is taken to be its fruit, plucked and proclaimed accordingly, is later recognizable as nothing more than the shrivelled remains of early blossom: the un-admitted victory of the combined wills of men, and hence the failure of their attempts at discernment. The spiritual journey is frequently complicated: neither simple nor easy. Neither the journey itself (entire or in part), nor its intended end (anticipated or not) necessarily form any part of what is in need of discernment. Discernment – in its central and overridingly essential place of influence, enables and allows us to know what we are being asked to do when we arrive at the place where we are meant to be.
My own problem – though, as with most paradoxes in my spiritual life, I find only a beautiful perplexity in the fact that I found it in no way problematic – was that, despite knowing that where I am today is where I am meant to be, I was unable to discern clearly how I was meant to respond to my recent reading and pondering on the questions raised.
It appeared that this could have meant one of four things:
1) I was either not yet meant to, or not yet ready to respond.
2) I should not even have been thinking about a response.
3) I did not have the ability (the gift) to discern God’s will for me on my own.
4) I was not, in fact, where I was meant to be.
I was also fully aware that regardless of, and perhaps more importantly, because of my feeling sure that it was not the case, I also had to include a fifth possibility: that somewhere within me was an awareness, or at least a suspicion, that I did in fact have such a vocation; and that I had completely buried it from my own sight beneath my certainties and my ready denials.
The clarifying of my own certainties (in the present context) reached its conclusion with the writing of a lengthy response, primarily for my own benefit, but in the form of a letter for passing to the person who had asked the question. Throughout the whole process there had been a constant and unchanging awareness of one insurmountable barrier that would lie between me and ordination if I had indeed been seeking or striving for that end. I could simply have referred to whatever I felt disqualified me, discussed it if necessary, and left it at that, having added weight to my already spoken, “No, it’s not for me.” But my uncertainty about my response was, it seems, not as vague as I had believed; by coming that far I had turned the quick way out into a definite non-possibility.
I took that to be an indication that I was making progress.
