I graduated from Calvin University steeped in the language of vocation, which Frederick Buechner defines as “where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet” (Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABCs). A year later, I’m in the job market for the third time and still trying to figure out a vocation.
I suppose it’s natural to desire a tremendous purpose, especially if you’re a Calvin grad. Whether our childhood dream was to be an astronaut, a movie star, or something else, at Calvin students spend four years hearing about the gifts God has given us and God’s amazing plans to use them.
But then we graduate. We get a job, more likely than not doing something that has (as far as we can tell) nothing to do with either our deep gladness or the world’s deep hunger. We work and pay rent and pray. What happens to vocation?
Spending four years talking about one’s individual role in God’s plan to restore all creation, it’s easy to develop an Anakin Skywalker complex: You are the chosen one! You will solve climate change! You will eliminate hunger!
Sometimes the thunder of our expectations blocks out the quiet voice of our actual power. By reconceptualizing vocation as something more quotidian, maybe we can get closer to what Buechner really meant—that we are called not to one momentous deed, but to an entire life.
Dorothy Day wrote in 1946 that “we can to a certain extent change the world; we can work for the oasis, the little cell of joy and peace in a harried world. … We can give away an onion” (“Love Is the Measure”).
What if it’s that simple—that we are here just to give away onions? And what if we’re also here , on occasion, to receive an onion? After all, we’re part of creation too, as badly in need of renewal as the rest.
In the book of Jeremiah, God tells his people in exile to settle in, to care for the land they’re living on, to proceed with the natural rhythms of life, to seek peace, and to pray.
We’re not here to save the world. We’re here to work and eat and love and pray and treasure those brief moments of grace we are empowered to give and receive—those moments that demonstrate God’s renewal of all things.
None of this helps me decide what jobs to apply for or where to live. But maybe I can detach all of those decisions from my sense of vocation. Whatever comes next, I’ll be praying for the grace to give and receive onions—and to let it be enough.
About the Author
Abigail Ham is a recent Calvin University graduate who currently lives in Quincy, Mass. She shares her writing and reading life at abbiehamwrites.com.
