Here I am (now, whaddaya want me to do?!)

We were on our way back from a spring break service trip to Kentucky, where we spent a rain-drenched week helping build houses with the Christian Appalachian Project. Having spent the night on our two-day trek back to Massachusetts at a hotel in Philadelphia, I dragged my weary body to the lobby to grab some free continental breakfast. The "morning people" in my group (I'm definitely not one) were already finishing off their cereal, muffins, and cups of bad hotel coffee when I arrived, but Jaime, our campus minister, stayed at the table with me so I wouldn't have to eat alone. As we chatted about the week, Jamie asked, somewhat casually, "Have you ever thought you might have a calling to ministry?" At that moment, something clicked. For just a split second, everything seemed clear. It wasn't a dramatic thing - I didn't jump out of my seat and yell "Here I am, Lord!" or prostrate myself on the ground and sigh "Speak, for your servant is listening." But in a more subtle way, in that moment, I felt myself open up to whatever it was that was pulling me. What that was, I had no idea, but somewhere deep inside, I answered it anyway.

Lately, this brief moment of clarity seems a distant memory, and I look back at my younger self, so sure and so eager to answer the call, with envy. I finished my MDiv in June, yet I feel directionless, and, lacking something concrete to orient me, I'm frustrated and restless. I find myself constantly questioning the whole concept of calling. I want to know what I'm called to do. I want clear directions from on high, blueprints for the ark, to hear the still, small voice tell me "this is your life's work, go and do it" – and then give me clear and specific directions for how to get it done.

But today's readings remind me that that's just not how it works. In the first reading, Samuel answers God when his name is called. Despite Samuel's words, "speak, for your servant is listening," the passage doesn't tell us what God said back. In fact, it doesn't even tell us that God spoke back. For all we know, Samuel didn't hear anything concrete in reply, yet we are assured that God was with Samuel, guiding his life and work. Similarly, in the Gospel reading, Andrew drops what he's doing to follow Jesus, despite not knowing, really, what he was getting himself into. I imagine that when he saw Jesus, and heard John refer to him as the Lamb of God, he had a moment like mine, where something clicked and things felt clear, though he had no concrete idea of what to expect. I know that others have answered a call without knowing what, exactly, the call is. This doesn't make me feel any less frustrated, and it certainly doesn't erase my desire to have plans laid out for me. But it does help to be reminded that, just because we don't have a clear idea of what our calling is, doesn't mean that we aren't answering it. Perhaps, like Samuel, even as I type, God is ensuring that my words will not be without effect?

Kate Henley Long is a nanny, choreographer, queer activist, writer, and wannabe TV critic. She lives with her partner in Cambridge, MA, and spends much of her time in a general state of religious and existential crisis.

The Personal Is Political

My sister got married two weeks ago. I thought I knew how the preceding weeks would play out, as my brother had gotten married eight weeks earlier. But there was one conversation leading up to this wedding (which, unlike the last one, would be a full nuptial Mass) that really did surprise me. It began rather casually: “So, are you going to take communion at your sister’s wedding?”

Almost everyone in my extended family claims “Catholic” as part of their religious identity, most with qualifiers: lapsed, progressive, recovering, conflicted, faithful, or (my personal qualifier) faithfully conflicted. We all knew the “rules” around receiving communion, and knew everyone else at the wedding would, too. In this conversation, it became evident that we all had reasons why we thought that taking communion might seem improper: not having attended Mass in weeks/months/years, lacking belief but not respect for the sacred act, or having one of those markers that may or may not disqualify you, like divorced and remarried or (me again) in a same-sex relationship.

What was causing so much hesitation, I gathered, was the very public nature of this particular Eucharistic celebration. Unlike at regular parish Masses, almost everyone in the congregation at this wedding would know us in contexts outside the Church. Being seen taking, or abstaining from, communion, could be placed by anyone observing in the context of our individual histories, opinions, and commitments. What would normally be considered a personal, spiritual matter suddenly felt public and even political. If most of those present were aware of one’s opposition to the hierarchy on certain fundamental matters, not taking communion could become a political act, a way of silently but boldly registering that complaint in the minds of those present. On the other hand, taking communion in that same circumstance could be just as political – a way of saying that one’s personal faith experience need not be dictated by the hierarchy’s rules.

This was a poignant question for me, I realized, as it would really be the first time I would take communion – or not – in a setting where almost all present knew I was gay. Not taking communion could draw attention to the Church’s unjust and exclusionary practices toward LGBT people. Taking communion could be a way of standing up to these practices, of publicly stating that this is my Church, my faith, too, and I won’t let anybody decide for me whether I am worthy of it.

I’d always thought that social action belonged in the realm of faith-between-Sundays. Mass was what we did to nourish ourselves for work in the world, not itself an arena for social action. But this conversation made me rethink this division, and helped me for the first time to integrate my strongly held feminist/activist convictions with my deeply personal experience of the Eucharist, making it evident that, as always, the personal is political. Even a small and silent act has the power to make people think and question, to reorient people in unexpected ways toward injustice in the world and injustice in our Church.

Kate Henley Long is a choreographer, writer, nanny, queer activist, and avid watcher of crime shows. She and her partner live in Cambridge, MA, and will not be having a full nuptial Mass when they get married.