Indeed, we are a fearful people in fearful times; however, we fear the wrong things. We fear financial insecurity and we fear our children’s foolhardy decisions and the consequences they will reap. We fear for our children’s failure, which will prevent them from rising above others.
Meanwhile, we should instead pray that they would learn to serve others. At the same time, we don’t fear enough for our own salvation, and we feel little compulsion toward obeisance.
We live in fear of our world and its inhabitants when we should only fear God. We forsake God’s eternal kingdom nearly every day for fear of what that would demand of us today. We fear God’s calling that might strip us our worldly goods and pleasures far more than we fear the consequences of ignoring the call—and thus we cling with every fiber of our being to the very life and things that put our soul in danger.
Picture those occasions when the homily addresses the religious vocations: you can see all those parents shifting about uncomfortably, or sitting unnaturally still and erect, willing the priest’s words to bounce off them and their family, hoping that this cup may pass them by, that these words won’t linger to haunt their nights, nagging them into some kind of action.
They mentally cross their fingers that the priest’s impassioned pleas won’t work their prayerful magic upon their own children—all while sincerely agreeing that it should be someone’s children.
What lies behind this reaction is of course fear, but we must calm down for a moment and put this fear aside. After all, granting that we want our children to live a Christ-centered life, whether through a religious calling or not, we owe it to ourselves, our God, and our faith community to examine the logic of our fears. The way we can do that is by comparing the religious life we would “save” our children from, to the one we would otherwise choose for them: Does the religious life entail more tumult and torment than the lay person’s life? You be the judge after considering the following points.
Exposing the Fallacies in Our Fears
Let’s look at some assumptions or implied arguments fueling our fears of the religious versus lay calling.
-Argument one: the biggie for parents—that the religious vocation insures a life of loneliness.
No parent wants his or her child to be lonely. Arguably, clerics once enjoyed much more fraternity and companionship when their numbers were greater, and there is no replacement for the intimacy of family. However, while the religious life may be lonely, there are ways to minimize the loneliness; besides, few of us interact with as many people as priests do on a regular basis.
Or consider this: who has not witnessed loneliness even in those surrounded by others, even among those who work in vibrantly social settings? There are lonely mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, teachers and doctors. The truth is that loneliness is a product of much more than simply one’s calling and lifestyle.
-Argument two: the religious vocation calls one to celibacy—and thus demands too much.
This may seem to reiterate argument one, but the two are not necessarily intertwined: one may be lonely whether celibate or not; and one may be celibate, lonely or not.
The commitment to celibacy is difficult for most people and virtually impossible for many. Moreover, we want our children to experience this amazing gift from God as we have. On the other hand, relationships freed from the undercurrent of sexual tension engender sincere friendship. We all know the chaos and destruction wrought by unhealthy sexual relationships—fraught with confusion, emotional torment, and psychological wear and tear—not to mention spiritual corruption.
Then consider the odds against long-term relationships and marriages: most studies put the divorce rate even among Catholics at 20-25%; for those not practicing a religion, rates rise significantly.
Further, it may come as a surprise to some that we are ALL called to a life of celibacy and chastity rivaling that of the clerical vocations: if single, we are called to refrain from extra-marital relations; if married, we are called to chastity in thought, word, and deed that preserves us inviolate for our sacramental spouse; for most of us, I suspect, the call to remain chaste in thought, word, and deed presents as many challenges as it does for a priest.
In fact, to limit our conception of celibacy and chastity to the Holy Orders is to ignore the teachings of the Church. (See Vat. II doc Lumen Gentium, especially chapter 4, sections 31 and 33 for elaboration)
-Argument three: we don’t want our children to miss out on “life” and “success.”
This vague concern points back to the loneliness issue, but also ties into our desire for our children to experience their “true potential” and pursue “success.” What we choose not to acknowledge, however, is that we often view our children’s outward success as a measure and reflection of us, and our success as parents. More dangerous still is any quantifying or qualifying of success inevitably involves society’s notions of what that means, and quickly we see the inherent ambiguities and contradictions in that pursuit.
-Argument four: surrendering material assets leaves one vulnerable if the religious life doesn’t “work out.”
Most of us want our children to be well off, or at least “comfortable” enough to provide for themselves and their family. We fear, naturally, that if our kids forsake their assets, they will find themselves vulnerable: what should happen if they reconsider their path and leave the religious life? What resources will they have to make their way in the world? Aside from the fact that not all religious orders require a vow of poverty or demand a life of asceticism, there are no easy answers to these questions; on the other hand, they are not much different from the struggles of the layperson.
The more important question to ask, though, is whether we lay Catholics have found security and peace in the path we chose, considering the relentless pursuit of money, property and goods, and the accumulation of reserves. For one thing, we know down deep that the security and stability these trappings offer are largely an illusion: there is no true security from disease, death, and even unhappiness.
If we are completely honest, we must admit that these things are ultimately unimportant, and further, that they lead us to neglect our spiritual security more than anything else. Second, the concern for wealth and security leads naturally to competition for more “stuff” and more achievements that we can parade, even if subtly, which boiled down amounts to materialistic corruption.
With money and means come stress and anxiety. We become preoccupied with how to make our money grow or last rather than how to obtain salvation. The absence of wealth and goods, of property and means, on the other hand, becomes a blessing in disguise: gone are the worries and fears over depreciation of property and goods, gone is the anxiety of loss and theft, of comparison to others’ goods.
-Argument five: the religious life involves too much hardship.
Somewhat of a catch-all for the previous arguments, but worth addressing on its own. We fear for the hard life our children might inherit if they become “too religious”—though this, too, we might not admit. We imagine the rigorously austere religious life, and we want to spare our children this “extreme” sacrifice and service. But strangely, we don’t stop to wonder: why aren’t we equally alarmed if they pursue a life of rigorous scholarship, a demanding and consuming medical or legal career?
Surely, these pursuits take a toll psychically, socially, physically, and even spiritually. Why aren’t we equally anxious about their almost inevitable suffering through the trials of love? So it would seem ignorant at best, hypocritical at worst, to discourage the religious life in order to protect our kids from hardship.
What remains is our unease—even fear—of the permanence of religious vows and the irrevocable devotion that may eventually lead one to feel “trapped.” For this concern, there is no answer but Faith—and trust in the process one goes through before making that final commitment. After all, if one undertakes the journey toward ordination or the acceptance of vows with an eye always on an “escape hatch,” then that in itself should indicate a wrong path.