MY OPINION ESSAYS
About Vocations
By Jean-Marie Lee
When I first sat down to write this essay on vocations, I wrote from three different perspectives. The first was from the perspective of a cradle Catholic who had a priest for a Godfather. I then wrote about my experience with discerning my own vocation. And then the final perspective was how I would reinterpret the entire Catholic institution from the ground up. None of what I wrote got to the heart of the issue of what vocations in the Catholic community are available for anyone who wants to participate. And that’s the essay you’re getting. I know you want my dirty deets, so I’ll meet you in the middle on that with a book list about some of my favorite saints' writings, modern Catholic writings, and books by plenty of religious who left the Church.
When I first heard the phrase "vocation animation," it sounded digital and plastic. My mind went straight to Mattel or a hand-drawn animation—picturing a mid-century Disney adaptation of Lilies of the Field rendered with the lush, painted forestry and emotional gravity of the original Bambi, complete with custom Sister Barbie, Sister Skipper, Fr. Ken, and Deacon Kevin dolls. Naturally, Jem was the Pope because she’s the tallest and her earrings light up.
Oh my… how mistaken I was. Plus, I had to check myself on the childish representation I gave the clerics. All Catholic religious are adult professionals, and many are highly educated with a full spectrum of degrees from educators to doctors and lawyers, while simultaneously holding theology degrees.
But looking back at why my brain even conjured up Bambi and Lilies of the Field reveals a much deeper, completely subconscious trapdoor. I was born in 1981. I loved those films as a child, but I didn't study them at all in college or my MFA program. Academia handed us clinical, curated case studies on trauma and identity like Girl, Interrupted or pristine digital narratives like Finding Nemo. Yet, when a real-world atmospheric apocalypse like Hurricane Katrina actually hit my first-floor apartment in Gentilly at age 23, my structured, expensive education completely failed to find the words. My brain bypassed the university syllabus entirely. It went backwards, tunneling down into a primal childhood memory to survive—clutching onto Bambi’s visual symphony of a forest being violently uprooted by fire and rain, only to slowly, agonizingly piece itself back together.
It also went back to the revolutionary nature of Wong Tin-Lam's 1962 classic Lily of the Valley. My mind grabbed onto how that film, even stripped of color in its native black-and-white format, managed to feel like a completely lush, glorious, and saturated piece of cinema—a stark contrast to the dusty, desert minimalism of Lilies of the Field. The subconscious doesn't care about a pristine university curriculum when you are standing in a flooded apartment; it cares about survival. It reaches for textures of raw, visual weight—the stark contrast of old celluloid and deep, painted forest canopies—because that is how the brain catalogs a world undergoing catastrophic change.
The 2026 corporate religion approach treats "animation" like a brand refresh. But when you look at the actual Latin etymology, animate doesn’t come from a marketing budget, a university syllabus, or a corporate office; it comes from anima, meaning soul, breath, or "enlightened souls." When you strip away the social media gloss and look at what grace actually is, you realize that grace can animate from anywhere, at any time, through any means possible. It doesn't need a pristine, Clorox-wiped chancery or a curated recruitment video. It happens in the messy, unscripted corners of the world, proving that true vocation isn't about fitting into a plastic mold—it is about being truly, blindingly alive.
If you step back from the on-brand brochures and look at the actual architecture of the Catholic Church, you find a massive, intricate tapestry of human calling that has evolved over two millennia.
This ecosystem moves outward from the institutional core of ordained ministry received through the Sacrament of Holy Orders. On the front lines of standard parish life are diocesan, secular priests who belong directly to a local geographic diocese, promising obedience to their bishop as they preach, hear confessions, and anoint the sick. Parallel to them are religious priests belonging to specific communities like the Jesuits, Franciscans, or Benedictines, who vow obedience to their religious superiors and live out shared charisms of scholarship or missionary work. This clerical framework is bridged to the secular world by permanent deacons—frequently married men who balance family life and secular employment while assisting bishops and priests by baptizing, preaching, and witnessing marriages.
Past the diocesan structure, the historical backbone of Catholic presence is found in vowed religious life, which splits beautifully between the hidden and the active. Contemplative orders, such as the Carmelites or Poor Clares, retreat behind monastic enclosure walls to make prayer, silence, and penance their primary apostolate. Conversely, active apostolic orders—like the Sisters of Mercy—march directly into the world's broken spaces to staff schools, run hospitals, and advocate for social justice where people are hurting.
Yet, holiness continuously spills past convent gates and chanceries into ordinary civic life through a vast, quiet network of lay movements. Secular third orders, or tertiaries, allow everyday people to associate with historical movements like the Dominicans or Franciscans, integrating a monastic rule into ordinary jobs and family dynamics. Similarly, Benedictine oblates formally attach themselves to specific monasteries to anchor their daily modern routines in ancient stability. Finally, secular institutes allow consecrated members to profess evangelical counsels while living entirely ordinary lives without a common habit—acting quietly like yeast in dough as secular artists, teachers, or doctors.
When we look at the structural reality of the Church today, the conversation around ministry often misses the ground-level human beings keeping the machinery running. Look at the priesthood— men routinely avoid medical care, physical checkups, and mental health support.
Priests are often isolated in rectories, buried under administrative red tape, and socially conditioned to bear everything alone.
Because of this, priests are in a uniquely rare and powerful position to change the culture for men. While men generally avoid emotional support and mental health care, a parish priest—standing at the pulpit or sitting across a kitchen table—has the moral authority to advocate for clinical care, breaking the stigma that tells men to stay silent and suffer in secret. If the Church wants to keep its own people human, it has to start by teaching its clergy that asking for help isn't a failure of faith.
That same need for raw, grounded reality applies to how the institution treats its calling to the physical earth. For decades, the global Church has suffered from a very specific brand of institutional vertigo. Step into a diocesan chancery and the atmosphere smells faintly of dry-erase markers, freshly printed PowerPoint decks, and industrial carpet cleaner. It’s a world run by administrators clutching tablets, discussing "synodality" and launching multi-phase strategic plans while wearing pristine, unblemished white sneakers wiped down daily to ensure not a single speck of dirt tracks inside.
Meanwhile, outside those climate-controlled boardrooms, the actual physical earth entrusted to their stewardship is burning, flooding, and shifting beneath their feet.
The global Church understands the scope of this disaster in developing regions. Driven by Pope Francis’s Laudato si’, international Catholic missionary networks are currently planting millions of trees. They are building Africa’s Great Green Wall across the Sahel to halt the expanding Sahara, reforesting the stripped canopies of the Amazon, and planting thousands of protective coastal mangroves across low-lying Pacific islands like Kiribati and the Philippines. In these vulnerable nations, planting a tree is recognized for what it is— a vital, frontline religious vocation. Yet, cross the ocean to the United States Gulf Coast, and this prophetic vocation completely evaporates into bureaucratic cowardice.
Dioceses along the Gulf Coast sink millions into high-end real estate sitting exactly six feet above sea level, arguing over liturgical semantics while younger generations walk away in droves. They treat climate encyclicals like Laudato si’ as archived PDFs rather than blueprints for manual labor. When challenged to deploy mega-investments to buy up coastal buffers and plant deep-rooted, storm-stopping native forests, the corporate administrators retreat behind a defense that is as bizarre as it is scientifically illiterate— the "projectile tree" argument. They claim they cannot plant trees on their low-lying coastal lands because, during a Category 4 or 5 hurricane, those trees will blow over and become dangerous flying projectiles.
This argument is an exercise in absolute absurdity. A Category 4 or 5 hurricane is a localized apocalypse. Its sustained 150-mph winds and 20-foot storm surges do not need trees to be lethal; the storm itself is inherently, comprehensively lethal. When a monster hurricane hits the coast, roofing tiles, vehicles, asphalt, and entire commercial buildings become airborne weapons. To refuse to plant forests because a tree might fly is like refusing to build a roof because a shingle might blow away. It completely ignores physics to mask a lack of faith.
Furthermore, it willfully misunderstands the prevention mechanisms of nature. Massive, interconnected root systems of coastal live oaks, maritime pines, and wetlands do not cause the destruction—they mitigate it. They act as a massive drag on the storm, absorbing the kinetic energy of tidal surges, anchoring the vanishing topsoil, and shielding the inland community from the very winds the administrators fear. By refusing to plant, the Church isn't preventing projectiles; it is actively stripping the coast of its only natural defense.
To survive the twenty-first century, the Church must abandon dead-weight corporate assets, stop buying sinking coastal property, and bring its international mega-scale planetary reforestation to the American shoreline. Diverting billions into purchasing failing inland farmland, depleted acreage, and eroding topsoil to plant multi-species forest belts, mangroves, and deep-root systems is the only practical path forward.
Trees are natural infrastructure—they act as sponges for topsoil, regulate local temperatures, prevent erosion, and trap carbon. More than that, planting a forest is an act of profound, calloused hope. The true pearl of great price isn't a diocesan bank account or a corporate rebrand; it is the Earth itself, restored through sweat, dirt, and a mega-scale reconquest of trees to replace all the wood Jesus Christ had to hang on.
Whether someone is called to the high altar, a cloistered cell, or a secular career informed by a third-order rule, true vocation isn't about fitting into a pristine, sanitized Instagram aesthetic. The next great movement in the Church will not begin with another brochure or a cleaner administrative policy. It will begin the moment leadership walks outside, steps into the dirt, and finally gets its Nikes completely, irreparably ruined.
The true animation of a vocation requires getting dirty. It demands that we step out of our pristine white sneakers, look past the corporate risk-assessment spreadsheets, and realize that the soul of the Church is meant to breathe life back into the dirt from which we were made.
As promised:
The Dirty Deets: A Vocation & Spirituality Reading List
(To fulfill the promise made in the opening paragraph of the essay—blending favorite saints, modern writers, pop-culture spirituality, art, and the occasional detour into what to skip—here is the curated list.)
The Bible (Specifically the Book of Ezekiel)
Strikingly intense, especially when read while sitting outside watching the aftermath of a wildfire, while random Dominican sisters from Birmingham show up out of nowhere to hand you cheddar biscuits because you were just reading about Ezekiel bread. Proof that God has a fantastic, carb-conscious sense of humor.
Joan Chittister – The Rule of Benedict: A Spirituality for the 21st Century or Heart of Flesh: A Feminist Spirituality for Women and Men
Chittister is one of the most vital, prophetic, and uncompromised voices in modern Catholicism. She takes ancient monastic wisdom and drags it straight into the burning ethical and social realities of today. Sister Joan is the spiritual equivalent of a no-nonsense elder who looks you dead in the eye, tells you exactly what is wrong with the world, and hands you a cup of hot tea while you process it. She takes ancient monastic wisdom and drags it straight into the burning ethical realities of today with a kind of fearless, razor-sharp grace you simply cannot unhear.
Richard Rohr – Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life or The Universal Christ
Essential reading for understanding how spiritual maturity requires outgrowing rigid, rule-bound institutional religion to find a deeper, more expansive encounter with grace. Fr. Rohr is a fascinating creature— he has a kind of country, basic sensibility on the surface, but his religious writing runs incredibly deep. You can't rush through his daily blog; the depth requires you to slow down completely.
Dorothy Day – The Long Loneliness & Loaves and Fishes
The undisputed "Thoroughly Modern Millie" of religious life. Day lived out a radical, sleeves-rolled-up faith that combined social justice with deep mysticism, proving that holiness doesn't require a cloister—it requires the Lower East Side. Dorothy Day’s writing is very much conversational with a side of journalism. Probably the only communism in her writing is that you feel like she is telling you the whole truth in an interview.
Catherine of Bologna – The Seven Spiritual Weapons
The book you were looking for! Written when she was a mistress of novices, this text is centuries ahead of its time. It tackles inner psychological warfare, depression, and spiritual resilience with astonishing, down-to-earth psychological grit.
Julian of Norwich – Revelations of Divine Love
Reading Julian is quite literally like eavesdropping on a saint's intimate, unfiltered prayer life with God. Her famous line—"All shall be well, and all shall be manner of things shall be well"—is the ultimate antidote to institutional panic.
Thérèse of Martin – Story of a Soul (The Little Flower)
The masterclass in finding monumental grace in hidden, utterly ordinary, micro-moments of daily life. The Little Flower is another Anne Lamott style bestie. Her story is intimate but also a breath of fresh air.
Teresa of Ávila – The Interior Castle
A brilliant architectural blueprint of the soul, mapping out how to navigate the inner rooms of human consciousness to find the divine center. I need Saint Teresa all the time. Her writing is like Sister Joan Chittister’s writing in combining high-level mystical insight with an aggressively practical, regular-person tone.
Thomas Merton – Selected Writings, plus his critiques of the Catholic Worker, and books on his mysterious death
Merton is essential for his dialogue on contemplation and action, but his complex, evolving critiques of the Catholic Worker movement—alongside the enduring questions surrounding his sudden death—show a man who lived squarely in the tension of a messy Church.
Anne Bernet / F.A. Forbes – Monica: Mother and Saint
A powerful look at a woman who dealt with a difficult pagan husband, a chaotic household, and an intensely stubborn son through sheer, relentless grit and prayer.
Ignatius of Loyola – The Spiritual Exercises
For practical discernment and treating your conscience like a well-managed engine room.
Francis de Sales – Introduction to the Devout Life
Spiritual direction for people who actually have jobs, families, and chaotic secular lives.
Saint Jane Frances de Chantal – Selected Letters of Saint Jane Frances de Chantal
Practical spiritual direction, honest human frustration with cold weather or waiting on mail from Rome, and grounded advice for navigating daily burdens with a resilient soul.
Saint Catherine of Siena – The Letters of Saint Catherine of Siena
Blistering truth-to-power correspondence.
Blessed Conchita (Concepción Cabrera de Armida) – Letters and Spiritual Writings
Deep insights into mystical theology and redemptive suffering from a married laywoman and mother.
Caroline Myss – Anatomy of the Spirit, Entering the Castle, and Invisible Acts of Power
Pop-culture spirituality done with warmth and humanity. (Skipping Sacred Contracts and the formal classes, but Myss herself at a book signing is a genuinely lovely, warm presence).
Joseph Campbell – The Hero with a Thousand Faces
The foundational map of human transformation and the spiritual journey.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés – Women Who Run with the Wolves
Wild, instinctual spiritual psychology for the soul.
Robert Bly – Iron John
An exploration of deep male psychology and initiation rites.
Maurice Tuchman (Editor) – The Spiritual in Art: Abstract Painting 1890–1985
Because abstraction wasn't just a stylistic trick; it was born as a deeply religious, metaphysical quest to paint the invisible soul.
Karol Jackowski – Forever and Ever, Amen: Becoming a Nun in the Sixties and The Silence We Keep: A Nun's View of the Catholic Priest Scandal
Jackowski takes you behind the veil with zero pretense. Forever and Ever, Amen is a sharp, laugh-out-loud time capsule of a young nun navigating the chaotic culture shock of Vatican II. She then takes that same insider clarity and turns it into a weapon for justice in The Silence We Keep, holding the Church's hierarchy relentlessly accountable for the abuse crisis with a fierce, loyal grit.
James Carroll – An American Requiem: God, My Father, and the War That Came Between Us (or Practicing Catholic)
Carroll is a former Catholic priest and a National Book Award-winning author. An American Requiem is a stunning, agonizing memoir about his departure from the priesthood, his relationship with his father (a high-ranking Pentagon general), and the moral wreckage of the Vietnam War and the Church.
Karen Armstrong – The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness
Though best known as a massive religious historian, Armstrong spent seven years as a vowed member of the Society of the Holy Child Jesus. This memoir chronicles her painful, deeply human exit from the convent, her struggles with undiagnosed health issues at the time, and how she rebuilt her intellectual and spiritual life outside the walls.
Patricia Hampl – Virgin Time: In Search of the Contemplative Life
While Hampl didn't permanently stay in a formal sisterhood, her writing brilliantly explores the tension of a modern, secular woman intensely drawn to cloistered monasticism, navigating the borderlands between lay life and the ancient desire for silence and God.
A Note on Saint Augustine – Not Yet
I’m not recommending any Saint Augustine yet. Maybe later. Right now, I find his writing a little like listening to an arrogant teenager trying to have a battle of wits with his teacher. I simply haven't read enough of Augustine to see how he ultimately works through all of that, and until I do, I can't really tell you what I think of his writing. So for now, I’m recommending his mother.
Saint John of the Cross – Dark Night of the Soul — Also Not Yet
I’m also not recommending Dark Night of the Soul. I know this is one of the great classics of Catholic mystical literature, but I find that its language can come uncomfortably close to romanticizing psychological suffering when read through the experience of mental illness. And I know too well the blatant humility it takes to walk through actual darkness and come back toward light.
Mental illness should not be romanticized. There is something more complicated here that I’ll probably write an essay about later, particularly because Catholic tradition itself contains a counterweight to the idea that suffering should simply be spiritualized. The Book of Sirach explicitly honors physicians and medicine: “Honor physicians for their services, for the Lord created them.” It goes on to say that when you are ill, you should pray to God and allow the physician to do his work (Sirach 38:1–15).
That distinction matters to me. A mystical “dark night” and mental illness are not automatically the same thing, and I don't think one should be used to romanticize the other. Maybe I'll return to John of the Cross later. For now, I'm leaving him on the shelf.
Posted on: August 9, 2026