Seminarian writes about discerning God’s call

I have always been captivated by the story of Saint Paul’s conversion. Paul is on his way to Damascus when he encounters the Lord in a dramatic way: he hears the voice of Jesus and is knocked to the ground by a bright light. I am captivated by the dramatic nature of Paul’s calling, the certainty he received from it and the way his life changed as a result. I wanted the same type of calling and certainty from God about my life and my vocation and often prayed to be “knocked off my horse” just like Saint Paul.

In the latter part of my undergraduate studies at Notre Dame, I was in the throes of these prayers.  I had bounced around different majors and landed in accounting but was uncertain about where my life might be leading post-graduation.  I was in a great relationship from back home, but also had thoughts about the vocation to the religious life and priesthood, so I was not certain where that relationship would lead.  I was moving ahead in my life, but was not sure where.  So I prayed to God for a big, dramatic, clear sign.  Spoiler alert: I still have not received it.

In the midst of all this, I had the chance to study abroad in Rome.  One day as I was walking through the city, I popped into a random church. Tucked away in the back of the church, I happened upon a painting that had to be a sign from God: Caravaggio’s The Conversion of Saint Paul. It would have been incredibly easy for me to miss —I was not planning on going to the church and the painting itself is in the back of one of the side chapels.  But this was it!  This was the sign I was praying for!  God had not knocked me off the horse, but had given me this as an answer to my prayers.  I was through the moon excited.

But as soon as I left the church, I began to doubt and my uncertainties came back.  It was a coincidence, I thought, empty of meaning.  It was not dramatic enough, I could not know exactly what that sign meant, God did not speak clearly, etc. Doubt after doubt came back. After such certainty in the moment, I felt like I was back at the beginning.

So throughout the semester in Rome, I revisited the church and the painting and began to notice things.

Caravaggio’s depiction of Saint Paul’s encounter does not happen in a public, crowded road, like I always imagined.  It is private, in the dark, possibly even in a stable, with only a partially hidden stable hand present.  Neither the horse nor the stable hand seem to be as surprised as Saint Paul, suggesting perhaps they are not even aware that something is happening. And finally, Saint Paul’s expression and gesture is one of surprise, bewilderment, and mercy, all at the same time. Caravaggio’s depiction points to a conversion experience that is deeply internal, personal, and not as clear as I had always thought.

So then I revisited the account from the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 9:1-22).  In Acts, Saint Paul is indeed knocked to the ground and blinded by the light; he does hear the voice of Jesus, but he cannot see what his message means until he is taken to Ananias, the priest. The clarity of purpose and vocation that we remember in the Conversion of Saint Paul actually took time and the help of another to attain.

So what did this all mean for me?  Not much at the time, to be honest.  I still wanted certainty from God and would have liked it immediately, but I did not get clear answers to my prayers and so I followed a searchers path. I taught with the Alliance for Catholic Education (ACE) program after graduation and then worked in public accounting after that. Two very different paths.  But reframing my understanding of Saint Paul’s conversion encouraged me to be more patient in my overall discernment.  Instead of looking for huge signs that were apparent to everyone, I paid more attention to the small things that might only be apparent to me. Conversations and interactions with friends, students and co-workers, the books and articles I was choosing, paying attention to what got me excited and what caught my eye, noticing times when I was thinking about God, all these things became moments that could “knock me off my horse” and onto the path that God wanted for me. I also tried to enlist the help of others—my family, friends, rector, mentors, just like Paul did with Ananias—so that I could see how I might be blind to the ways that God was active and present in my life.

Ultimately my discernment led me to the seminary with the Congregation of Holy Cross, and, God-willing, will lead me to Final Vows with Holy Cross in August 2018 and ordination as a priest in May of 2019. I would say, most importantly, though, this journey opened my eyes and ears and heart to the ways that God was speaking in my life. I prayed for the dramatic, but found the subtle instead.  I asked for clarity and certainty, but was surprised by the invitation to endless possibility.  And where I thought that God had been silent, I realized he had been speaking the entire time.

Brogan Ryan, CSC, is a fourth year temporarily professed seminarian in the Congregation of Holy Cross. He is currently serving as an assistant rector for the best floor (the third) of Keough Hall.