My vocation to the priesthood is as natural as breathing. It is not something that leaves when I rest my head, or go to work, or spend time with friends.
Shortly after my First Communion in 2nd grade, I began altar serving during Mass. I put on my robes, delivered the chalices, lit the candles, and carried the books. I passed time in the vestibule looking at schedules, vestments, and prayers until I carried the cross down the aisle.
It was not spiritual but physical proximity to the Eucharist which brought me closer to Jesus. I could feel in my soul the real presence of Jesus. The closer I got to the altar and the consecrated host, the closer I felt to Christ.
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Even at 11, 12, and 13 years old, I was having many thoughtful conversations with my parish priests as we drove to funerals. For example, what should a eulogy be focused on — the person who died or the hope of their resurrected life? Should a funeral include a Mass or be separate? Is white the most fitting color because we have hope in the Resurrection or is it purple because the person is waiting for their resurrected body? Even as a prepubescent middle schooler, I had much to say about lived religion and how to offer pastoral care to those suffering the loss of a loved one. My priests valued my opinion and began encouraging me to pursue philosophy and theology studies.
At my eighth grade Confirmation, I could sense the spiritual and physical reality of the Holy Spirit moving me forward in faith.
These were things I held in my soul.
I felt God embodied, strangely for the first time, at an observation of an Anglican Choral Evensong while studying abroad in England. As soon as I stepped into the Church, I felt I could sit in the pew as a woman and feel no discomfort about my body. A friend invited me to a different Choral Evensong the same week. How was my faith in God getting stronger through Anglican services — songs I didn’t sing myself? God was, is, and always will be Catholic, right?
I still dutifully attended daily Mass across several different parishes, always feeling like my womanhood must be concealed at the door. Whenever I attended Mass, my experience of womanhood always seemed to be confined to my womb and even then, it was only about Mary’s womb. I never heard homilies about women’s friendships, balancing work and family, the integration of academic and spiritual life, or anything which encouraged me professionally, personally, or spiritually.
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In college, when I would share what I perceived to be mystical experiences to a priest, they were dismissed or subtly implied as symptoms of mental illness. At the same time, I noticed the priest would praise the stories of white, upper class women religious from Christendom — particularly saints and sisters from the middle ages like St. Hildegard of Bingen — as the gold standard for women’s community and spiritual experience to wider groups. I was only allowed to grow in my faith and vocation if I followed the script from women of the Middle Ages and listened closely to the voice of a male priest from a religious order — not necessarily God.
When I returned to the United States, I started asking my college chaplains about their life in a religious order. I could feel something deeper brewing within me — something I could not yet identify as a particular vocation but a piece to the puzzle.
After college, I was asked to serve as a Eucharistic minister at Mass. The closer I got the altar, the closer I felt to Jesus. I felt more peaceful, happier when I was distributing Jesus than receiving the Host myself. I was drawing others to the font of Life.
When my closest male friends entered the religious order of our alma mater after college, I remember sharing stories about them and of the priesthood to my other friends. The Church contends that “the ministerial priesthood is reserved to men because the Church is bound to follow the example of the Lord, who chose only men as his Apostles.” Yet I wished to be with them, learning and sharing in the joys and hardships. I longed to be in fraternity with my brothers in formation. I wanted what they were experiencing.
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As a young adult, I had a “vocation coming out.” In a threshold of discernment, I admitted to my best friend I was called to be a priest. I had felt a persistent calling — not overnight and not prompted by one specific source. Evidenced by several different markers throughout my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood, and pointed out by every pocket of the congregation. The final straw was not only wanting to share the Gospel, preach, teach, minister, and administer, but also to be recognized in the confessional as a steward of mercy. I yearned to put on vestments and brave the chill of the world. I wanted to be free of oppression, starved philosophies, and embrace my mission. I wanted to join the religious order of my alma mater and be a priest.
I was met with a head nod. My family, friends, and recent mentors were unsurprised. In fact, they were overwhelmingly supportive. It was one of the first times the weight of the community wasn’t on my back but rather carrying me. Those around me recognized the presence of something special, something holy, something authentically Christian and communal.
My community is limited in what they can do to help me. At most, they make suggestions of how to creatively meet my vocational needs. They allow me the space to breathe and make mistakes. They encourage me to share my story. Usually, someone will ask me about being a religious sister based on my age and marital status. Every time I’ve considered it, I’ve been met with desolation and feelings of conformity. I would be lying to myself about the deepest desires of my heart if I took vows to become a religious sister; the crisis of conscience would be detrimental to my mental health. I’d feel robbed of an opportunity to use my gifts in the service of God and my community.
Even if I never enter a historically male religious order, take holy orders, or administer the sacraments, in my understanding, Christ Jesus would take joy in my honoring of conscience, the strength of the community around me, and the courage to speak when I have only the treasured poor of the Church to gain. I am here, I am ready, I am waiting. The same faith and community which led me to stepping into my vocation will be the one to support me now until eternity.