As we began our two-hour Calculus class, he pulled out various religious icons and set them on his desk; nearly everyday this happened We weren’t friends as much as perpetual classmates, and this was our last year of high school. Often our outspoken opinions clashed and we were on opposites ends of the religious spectrum; me being the cookie-cutter Christian girl, who sincerely believed, and he the odd ball who pulled his faith from a variety of religions. The Autumn of 2001 was hardly a time when religious diversity was encouraged, and this perpetual classmate took flack for even the inclination that he might not be a Christian.
Somehow this hyper-conservative Christian found herself defending the right for a person to express their faith in whatever way they choose, even in the face of tragedy and fear.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on calling over the my first semester in seminary.
(A note on the word calling: I know it’s a hard word for some, I usually try not to use it; the world has enough cynicism without me invoking another round with my vocabulary. However, for me it most aptly sums up what I am trying to convey: a sense of God-given purpose.)
Most of my discussion on my own sense of calling over the past four months have centered around my life after my religious fall, the sense that I have felt to help those who have suffered at the hand of a damaging religion. Over the past few months, however, I’ve begun to remember moments like this, where I went to defend the desire in people to seek God, whatever that looks like.
This has been the thread throughout my life, my calling; to sincerely seek God and help others seek him too, in whatever form God takes.