Yesterday, we had a visiting priest celebrate Mass at my parish. He’s retired, but spends his time fundraising for a charity. He goes parish to parish, speaking and begging, and he mentioned during his homily that he would make his final appeal at the end of Mass. Right before he did it, our deacon stood up to thank him for saying Masses this weekend, while our pastor is out of town, and closed by saying that this priest is doing the REAL work of God. I mean, he says in my paraphrase, being a deacon is great, but you’re out there really advancing the kingdom.

The priest stood up to make his final funding appeal, but he took a moment first to speak to the parents in the congregation: I’ve been watching you, he said in another paraphrase, and you’re doing God’s work, too. You’re showing us priests what love is, and we need that.

I was so glad he said that. This is the same parish where, during Advent, the priest pointed to the Advent candles in his homily and noted how they burn themselves out in giving light to others, and what a beautiful metaphor that is for the crucifixion, and how we should all be doing that. I’ve been fuming about it ever since: a literal recipe for burnout is not a good homily, it is not a good application of Scripture to our lives. Christ did not burn himself out in daily living: he took breaks, he allowed others to minister to him. We, too, are allowed to take breaks and be ministered to. And we are not less in the eyes of the Church for taking those breaks, but reserving some of ourselves in order to continue functioning. Nor are we less for not being priests (or religious).

We are all called differently, and we are called to serve where we are. Some, indeed, we be called to step out and leave their sphere and serve elsewhere. But none of us are left with no ways to serve where we are, and none of us have to burn ourselves out to “make up” for not being called to something else. Mothers are often shamed for taking time for themselves, but a burned out mother can’t take care of her family. Married people are harangued for not giving enough to the Church, or warned against being so selfish as to “keep” their adult children from following religious vocations in preference of having grandchildren. But only those adult children have any idea what their vocation is, and it’s up to them to pursue it. They will not be lesser Christians for having a vocation other than the religious life.

I appreciated this priest’s reminder that we are doing God’s work, right where we are, whether that’s in the home, in the workplace, in the trench, or in the mission field. We do not have to strive to be someone else, or something else, something more. We are supposed to be ourselves, and we are supposed to be taken care of. People who don’t get taken care of are the subject of tragedies; theirs is not an example to emulate. We are all called to work for God, and the workers deserve their wages. We can work and take our rest; we can minister and be ministered to.

In consideration of differences in vocation, I offer here a poem I wrote about Christ and Mary, with whom I’m trying to get reacquainted:

His was the crucifixion, blood and tears;
hers was the slow submission of the years:
no sudden scourging, breaking, thorning hurt,
but only slowing, aching down to dirt.

His knees had buckled underneath the beam;
her knees went kneeling on in years unseen
until they cracked like whips when she went down
to weep again his wearing of the crown.

His days of suff'ring here were fierce and brief;
her days stretched out upon the rack of grief.
There are more passions and more ways to die
than on a crossbeam hung against the sky.

There came a day when she found him again
beyond th'imaginings of mortal ken:
His outstretched arms around her, hers 'round him,
they blind the wingèd eyes of cherubim.

No pain forgotten, nor no grief glossed o'er,
but offered, taken, shared in evermore.
Unfathomable sorrow, endless joys
together singing ever in one voice.