My Vocation

We rarely notice how quickly it happens. We meet someone for the first time, or even reconnect with someone we have known for years, and almost reflexively the question emerges: “What do you do?” It is meant to be harmless, even a polite way of opening conversation, of situating a person within a recognizable framework. Yet embedded within that simple question is an assumption so ingrained that we seldom challenge it: that who we are can be adequately expressed by what we do.

For most of my life, I answered that question as expected. I would say that I was a scientist, an analytical chemist working in pharmaceutical research. It was an accurate answer. It reflected decades of education, discipline, professional achievement, and meaningful contribution. It spoke to long hours in laboratories, collaborations with colleagues, publications, and the satisfaction of solving complex problems. It described how I provided for my family and how I engaged the world intellectually. But, it did not answer the deeper question.

Vocation is not what we do. It is who we are.

This realization did not come easily, nor did it come early. Like many, I spent decades conflating identity with occupation. This confusion is particularly strong in our culture, where productivity, achievement, and professional success are often treated as the primary measures of a person’s worth. It is no surprise that young adults, especially those in their 20s and 30s, struggle with this distinction. At that stage of life, the question “What do you do?” often feels indistinguishable from “Who are you?” The pressure to define oneself through career can be overwhelming.

Even within the Church, where the language of vocation should point us toward a deeper truth, there has sometimes been a subtle shift toward function rather than identity. We speak of vocations to the priesthood, diaconate, religious life, or marriage, but we can unintentionally reduce these to roles, to things one does, rather than expressions of who one is. Ministry becomes activity. Service becomes task-oriented. The risk is that vocation is interpreted as a job within the Church rather than a participation in the very life and mission of Christ.

My own journey reflects this tension.

I have spent the greater part of my professional life as a scientist. There is something profoundly beautiful about the scientific vocation when it is rightly understood. Science, at its best, is a disciplined pursuit of truth. It requires humility before reality, patience in the face of complexity, and a willingness to be corrected by evidence. In this sense, it resonates deeply with the Christian intellectual tradition. To study the natural world is, in some measure, to study the handiwork of God. And yet, even as science shaped how I think and perceive, it did not define who I am.

To say “I am a scientist” is, in one sense, true. It reflects a set of skills, experiences, and ways of engaging the world. But it is also incomplete. It risks reducing a person to a function. It overlooks the deeper layers of identity that transcend any particular role or career.

The same can be said of the ministry of a deacon.

Ordination to the diaconate is not simply the acceptance of a set of responsibilities such as preaching, assisting at the altar, performing baptisms, witnessing marriages, or engaging in works of charity. These are important, but they are not the essence. The diaconate is not something I do; it is something I am. It is a sacramental configuration to Christ the Servant. It is an ontological change, a reorientation of identity toward service rooted in the very life of Christ.

This distinction matters.

If being a deacon were merely a set of functions, then it could be reduced to activity or something to be scheduled, measured, and perhaps even set aside. In this regard, formation itself is too often misunderstood. But if it is who I am, then it permeates everything. It shapes how I see others, how I listen, how I respond to suffering, how I teach, how I accompany. It informs my work, my interactions with parishioners and families, my engagement with complex moral questions, and my own spiritual life.

The same is true of being a husband and a father.

These are not roles that can be turned on and off. They are not job descriptions. They are identities grounded in relationship, love, and commitment. They involve sacrifice, growth, failure, forgiveness, and grace. They shape the core of who I am in ways that no professional title ever could.

Beneath all of these titles there is something even more fundamental: I am a beloved creation of God. This is the foundation of all vocation. Before any achievement, before any role, before any recognition, there is the simple and profound truth that we all are created in the image and likeness of God. This identity is not earned. It is not dependent on success. It cannot be lost through failure. It is given.

This truth becomes especially important in moments of transition.

For many, retirement is one such moment. After decades of defining oneself through work, the cessation of that work can create a kind of identity vacuum. The question emerges, sometimes quietly and sometimes with great force: If I am no longer what I did, then who am I?  If identity has been rooted primarily in occupation, this question can be deeply unsettling. It can feel like a diminishment, even a kind of loss of self. There can be a sense of drifting, of no longer having a clear place or purpose. But this reveals something important. If stepping away from a job feels like losing oneself, then perhaps identity was too closely tied to that job in the first place.

In my own experience, retirement has not been a loss but a transition: a reorientation. I am the same person today as I was before I retired from scientific work. The habits of mind, the curiosity, the analytical perspective all remain. I still “think like a scientist,” even though I no longer receive a paycheck for doing so. That part of me has not disappeared; it has simply taken a different place within the larger whole of my life.

What has changed is not who I am, but how certain aspects of my identity are expressed.

In fact, retirement has created space. Space for deeper engagement in ministry. Space for teaching and writing. Space for spiritual direction, for accompanying others in their journeys of faith and discernment. Space for prayer, reflection, and growth.

Rather than having “one foot in the grave,” as the cultural narrative sometimes suggests, this stage of life can be understood as an invitation to “jump with both feet” into a new dimension of vocation. It is not about winding down, but about re-focusing. It is not about losing purpose, but about rediscovering it in a deeper way.

This perspective requires a shift in how we understand vocation itself.

Vocation is not static. It is dynamic. It unfolds over time. It is not a single decision made once, but a continual response to God’s call in changing circumstances. Our core identity remains “a beloved child of God;” but the expressions of that identity evolve.

This is why the words attributed to Pope Francis are so powerful: “I am a sinner who has been looked upon by the Lord.”

There is a profound humility in that statement, but also a profound clarity. Identity is not rooted in titles or achievements, but in relationship with God who sees, who calls, who loves. To be “looked upon by the Lord” is to be known and chosen, not because of what one has done, but because of who one is.

This reframes everything.

It means that vocation is less about constructing an identity and more about receiving it. It is less about proving oneself and more about responding to a call. It is less about accumulation of titles, accomplishments, or recognition and more about transformation.

In this light, even failure takes on a different meaning.

If identity were based on success, then failure would be devastating. But if identity is rooted in being loved by God, then failure becomes an opportunity for growth, humility, and deeper reliance on grace. It becomes part of the journey rather than a threat to it.

The same can be said of suffering, of uncertainty, of the many moments in life that resist easy categorization or control. These are not interruptions to vocation; they are often the very places where vocation is most deeply lived.

As I reflect on my own life of years in science, ministry and roles as husband and father, I see not a series of disconnected chapters, but a single, unfolding call. Each dimension has shaped and informed the others. My scientific background informs how I approach ethical questions. My ministry shapes how I engage with people in moments of vulnerability. My family life grounds everything in love and relationship. None of these alone defines me. Together, they point toward something deeper.

So how might I answer the question now: “What do you do?”

I have spent my life seeking truth: in the laboratory, in the classroom, and in the moral questions that arise in life. I have loved and been loved as a husband and father. I serve as a deacon, striving to bring Christ to others through Word, sacrament, and charity. I accompany others in their search for meaning, dignity, and hope. I am a man still learning, however imperfectly, how to listen to the voice of God and to follow where He leads.

But even that answer, as full as it may be, still points beyond itself.

Because ultimately, vocation is not something that can be fully captured in words. It is something that is lived: day by day, choice by choice, response by response. It is found in the quiet moments of prayer, in the difficult conversations, in the acts of service that go unnoticed, in the willingness to begin again after failure, in the courage to step into the unknown. It is found in the simple but profound act of saying “yes” to God, again and again.

And so, my prayer remains simple: 

Lord, let me hear Your will for me, and give me the courage to follow.

Not once, but always.

Because vocation is not a destination. It is a relationship. And it is in that relationship with the One who calls that we finally discover who we truly are.