How often do we really think about what it means to be called? Today’s reflection reminds us that callings are invitations, not commands, and asks, “What will you do when you hear God’s call?”

February 9, 2025: Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

‍Isaiah 6:1–2a, 3-8

Psalm 138:1–81

Corinthians 15:1–11

Luke 5:1–11

Callings

A reflection by Lori F. Ranner

Recently, a friend told me of an interview that ended in failure - not because he didn’t get offered the job, but because the hiring administrator proved unable to distinguish between work and vocation. Perhaps this was unintentional, mused my friend, perhaps not; it was the latter possibility that he suspected, that he found so depressing, and which ultimately caused him to pass on the opportunity.

Everything was going well until the interview turned to the subject of compensation. The administrator, who up until this point had been extremely enthusiastic, proposed a salary which was absurdly small in relation to my friend’s experience, qualifications, and local standards at comparable institutions. When he tried to politely indicate the disparity, she smiled and said in all seriousness, “Well, of course, it’s a Catholic institution, and so we consider teaching not just a job, but a vocation!” As if having a vocation was justification for being exploited!

This incident got me thinking about the nature of vocations. If it should be obvious that vocations aren’t a license for employee abuse, then what are they, actually? What are they good for?

At its simplest, a vocation is a calling, straight from the Latin root voco: to call, summon, or name. In the current USCCB high school Theology curriculum, there’s a whole semester dedicated to vocations in the strict sense - pertinent to vowed religious - and in the general sense of life callings. In the Catholic world, it’s a big deal - but what does it really mean, to be called? Pondering this question, I’ve tried to isolate a few inherent qualities that callings share, which might help us to discern by their presence or absence if a calling is true, false, or still evolving: if where we think we should be headed is actually the right place, given who we are.

First of all, callings are personal. The physical act of calling always has a specific target - one person (or animal), or many. That is why the biblical imagery of a prophet “crying out in the wilderness” is so disquieting: this is the vision of desperation, a call directed at emptiness, at the dark (John 1:23, Is.40:3). In the wilderness, there is no one to hear. A prophet cries out, even when he is surrounded by people with stopped ears and cold hearts, on the off chance that someone will listen. Many prophets go to their graves still shouting into the void.

A call is also persistent. Clearly, someone wants your attention; why would they stop until they’ve gotten it? We’ve all had those moments where, subject to some passing folly, we imagine our lives very differently. This is how we feel in the first throes of love: suddenly we are people for whom everything is possible. Then reality sets in, and we understand that even with our beloved, there are limits. We adjust, we ruefully abandon the fantasies we’d been constructing; we learn to live with the other and our shared store of imperfections, and the harsh demands of fate.

Callings, however, are not like that. They are not ephemeral, linked to some rose-colored view of the universe that dissipates as quickly as it was born. Callings survive both the good times and the bad, the check of reality, and - most importantly - the advice of reasonable people, urging us to be reasonable, too. Callings don’t leave you hanging, even when you want them to; they come back; they wake you at three in the morning like a cold hand on your shoulder and an urgent voice, Get up! You are wanted.

Callings are powerful.

Most often they catch us unawares, deeply involved in what seem to us to be equally pressing matters. Callings take no notice of our affairs; callings insist on being heard. Any artist knows this feeling: it often comes off as selfishness, and maybe in a sense, it is. When the idea hits, there’s no use trying to avoid it. Music, writing, painting, dance: they are all outrageously greedy in their demands. The art comes first, and the rest suffer what they must. Sometimes this works out okay for the artist, but more often it does not. Just because your life is falling apart doesn’t mean that the ideas will stop coming, and give you a bit of time to reorganize your priorities. If anything, they come faster and cry even louder to be heard. Callings are like that.

Whether or not it is explicitly “religious,” every calling is also transcendent, in the sense that it has origins outside ourselves, our circumstances, our expectations, and the expectations of others. They develop according to a logic which defies human understanding, and reach us with no operator’s manual attached. Callings are never what we expect. A veteran of the Second World War once observed that in battle there’s no use worrying about getting shot, because “it’s never the bullet you’re worried about that gets you.” So it is with callings: if nothing else, we can be sure that it’s probably not the one we imagined (or dreaded) for ourselves.

Undoubtedly, callings are a tricky business. This Sunday’s readings give us examples in abundance of what a calling is, and what to do when it finds you. Isaiah, for instance, is woken up from a peaceful slumber by his calling. From there, things only get worse. When he protests that he’s not the right guy for this, he’s not suitable, too sinful, etc. - unclean! - the voice calling him has a simple solution. Whether or not Isaiah is on board, he’s going to be purified, his putatively unclean lips touched with a burning ember. I don’t know about you, but even if that imagery is figurative, it is still agonizing. Not only does that ember cauterize: it scars him for life. The calling itself leaves a wound, because callings are painful. They cause confusion, doubt, hurt, anger, sorrow, regret. Callings, however, like Isaiah’s voice in the darkness, don’t care for all that.

Through that pain, Isaiah becomes purified, yes, but more importantly, he becomes inspired to speak, not just for himself, but for the eternal truth that calls him. Callings hurt because they insist that we stretch ourselves in new ways. To answer such a challenge takes courage; to commit takes even more. But the further you go in following a call, the further you see ahead, and looking back at the road you’ve travelled thus far spurs you to keep moving.

I’ll go, answers Isaiah, send me. How often do we shrink from our callings? Not just the big ones, but the little everyday voices that remind where we belong, and what we need to be doing. Callings, like us, come in all shapes and sizes. How frightening is it, to say I will speak up and do for when no one else will, wherever God is in need of human voices and hands. We become God’s translators of divine love into a human language that anyone can understand. There’s another element of callings, too: the poignant vulnerability of a God who depends on our choice to carry out our callings or reject them.

In both his complaints and ultimate acceptance of God’s call, Isaiah gives witness that callings are not one-way streets, and our psalm today develops this theme even further. When the psalmist calls, God answers. As with Isaiah, God knows our needs in extremis before we do, and provides for them in abundance - if we’re willing to take what’s on offer. Here’s the thing, though: God’s support isn’t always what we think it will be. It’s sent constantly, and lovingly, through messages and messengers that often go unrecognized, because they don’t fit our familiar patterns. Yet in every calling, God is very near.

Paul gives us the ultimate proof of exactly how near God lies, if any proof is wanted: Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. Why else would we commemorate them every Sunday in the Creed?

At first glance, Paul’s self-designation as “least of all the apostles” rings a bit of false modesty. But stay with him a few lines, and he shows us exactly where this is leading: “by the grace of God, I am what I am.” Even for the least suitable candidate like himself, there is hope. Why? Because, astonishingly, we are intentionally and lovingly made, as we are, even in our weakness. I do great things, like Paul, “because of the grace of God that is in me.” God works through our frailty. As imperfect beings called by God, we become a fragile conduit of hope.

In today’s Gospel, Luke spotlights the commencement of Jesus’ teaching ministry - not the moment he receives his calling, but the moment he starts sharing it with friends.

Jesus shows up unexpectedly in the lives of the first apostles. Like any great storyteller, Luke knows that the best stories don’t start at the beginning; they start in medias res, right in the heat of the action. Callings operate according to their own mysterious timetable, not ours.

At first, Peter, Andrew and the others pay Jesus little mind. After a long, fruitless night spent fishing, are they annoyed by the appearance of this itinerant teacher? Curious? Complacent? Whatever their reaction, they’re definitely busy washing out their nets, tending to their earthly responsibilities - but then Jesus asks them to switch gears. This is key: Jesus needs their help to do something that he cannot do alone. He asks them to lend him a boat that he can anchor a little ways offshore, away from the crowds that have followed him. Is Jesus feeling hemmed in, perhaps, or overwhelmed? Even the Savior needs personal space, sometimes. Is he experimenting with acoustics? Maybe Jesus is tired: Luke tells us that once the boat is anchored, he sits down.

Jesus is no sailor; therefore at least one of the fishermen has to be there beside him, making whatever Jesus has in mind a reality. It might have been a funny enough sight to the casual onlooker: one guy teaching from a boat while the bemused fishermen look on, and the groupies pressing right up to the waterline, craning and jostling for a better view. There’s another detail in this picture, however, that is quite touching: those who come to hear Jesus are the ones on dry, stable land. Jesus is the one struggling to keep his balance, perhaps, or to project his voice, on the water. Jesus, trying to balance the needs of the crowd with his own.

Perhaps what happened next was just a teaching tool; perhaps it was a gesture of thanks, Jesus suggests that fishermen put out their nets one more time. Surely, at this point, the fishermen laughed. What does this landlubber know? Maybe out of desperation, they decide to take him up on it - and the results are beyond their wildest expectations.

Here’s another funny thing about callings: when we let go of our preconceptions, wonderful things happen. Callings require openness on our part - even when what is asked of us seems to be absurd and irrational by human standards. When everyone tells us to move on, God’s call tells us to stay put; when everyone says it’s madness to strike out into the unknown, God’s call whispers, your path is out there, waiting for you. Callings defy all expectations. When we answer God’s calling, we have no idea what’s going to be next.

Jesus then instructs them, “Go out into the deep water” - maybe (especially) because it’s something the fishermen are uneasy about doing. Callings can be scary; they can be downright terrifying, as Jesus knew better than anyone. They ask us to give up what we know for what we don’t. What if Jesus didn’t yet know what would happen when they entered the deep waters? What if he was praying for it all just to go well? After all, being sinless isn’t the same as never making mistakes. Like so many other pivot points in Jesus’ life, this one could have gone wrong.

It’s also worth noting, however, that what Luke emphasizes is not the reward of the catch (that almost seems incidental), but that the fishermen were willing to trust Jesus - after an overwhelming failure on their own. Think of the fishermen’s frame of mind at this point: justifiably tired, bitter, anxious, angry, and depressed - yet, they are able to put it all aside and try again. Maybe they were impressed with Jesus’ teaching; at least the ones on the boat with him had to have heard something of what he said. Regardless, it must have seemed completely pointless, this request: the nets were already washed, and everyone just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Callings are unreasonable, like that. Yet, it is exactly in the midst of our chaos and God’s unreasonableness that the miracle occurs.

In the contemplation of callings, it’s worth dwelling on the big catch itself. Sometimes callings result in rewards, like this one, that are too big for us to handle alone. Notice that the people Jesus calls are already collaborators, working in partnership to do what none of them could do by themselves. Callings are cooperative, even if we think we’re the only one hearing voices. Together, the fishermen save the catch. For a human being who answers God’s call, it is necessary to resist the temptation to play messiah, the favored one, set apart and privileged as bearers of the message, or laborers in the garden in the way that others aren’t. We need each other to get the work done.

The fishermen are astonished - but at what, exactly? Is it just the phenomenal catch? Is it the apparent foreknowledge (or at least confidence) of Jesus? Is it that they are the witnesses to this wonder? Simon admonishes Jesus, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Could it be that Simon perceives his encounter with Jesus for the life-changing event that it is, and is trying to wriggle out of what might be in store? Get out of here, Jesus, he seems to say, what do you take me for? I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m an ordinary, flawed human being in my comfortably ordinary life; I don’t need any fireworks, especially not the kind you’re selling. So it is with us, when confronted by our callings: our most frequent answer is something much akin to Simon’s: Thanks but no thanks, it’s not for me. We want the predictable - but callings are full of surprises.
   
The Gospels are stuffed with Jesus’ zippy one-liners, and here Luke gives us one of his best: “Follow me, and I will make you catchers of people.” Now, this version isn’t quite as witty as the “fishers of men” that we hear most often - but it has a few advantages. Not only is it more inclusive, but it also gets a little closer to the meaning of the Greek original, ζωγρῶν, which implies that the thing caught is not meant to be killed and eaten, like fish - but needs to be taken alive, consciousness intact. This “catching” that Jesus calls the fishermen to undertake is no hunt for sustenance, but a very different kind of operation. The word also carries the connotation of enthralling or entrancing - this time not with cruel hooks or nets, but with words and deeds of love.

Most importantly, perhaps, this line shows us Jesus at his most appealing: warm, humorous, and eminently approachable. We have a little glimpse here of the personality that made such an impression on those who met Jesus and decided they wanted to know more.

We, too, should hear what Jesus tells the fishermen, as they are about to embark on the journey of their lives: “Don’t be afraid.” Because in God’s calling, we are always companioned by our caller. Jesus remains with us, to help us as he helped the new disciples, to get the job done. Callings require courage - but not solitude, and not blind trust, either. God expects us to answer with our eyes wide open, and our hearts full of questions. The questions are maybe the most important - and the most enriching - gift a calling has to offer.

Luke’s whole story is not centered on Jesus, but the apostles; it is their coming-out story, if you like, that is celebrated here, when they own not only their true identity, but their potential for greatness - and commit to the very rocky path of its realization. Ultimately, callings are not commands, but empowerment. They are built on free will, and human ability to choose.

What will you do when you hear God’s call? A calling is nothing if not an open door. It is for us to decide: do we enter, or do we keep walking?

Lori Frey Ranner is a New Orleans native. She holds a double B.A. in History and Classics from Loyola University New Orleans and an M.Phil. in Byzantine Studies from the University of Oxford (Keble 1996) with a concentration in Ecclesiastical History.                              

‍Her area of academic specialization is Latin and Greek ecumenical relations in the period following the Fourth Crusade. Between 1999-2014 she held the post of lecturer at Loyola New Orleans in the Departments of History and Classics. She currently teaches Latin Ancient Greek and World Religions at Ursuline Academy.

She is married and mother to three children. In her random bits of free time she is writing one novel editing a second and turning a third into a podcast.