The Sacrament of Staying: When “Calling” Gets Tangled with Identity
Christians have made an awful lot out of the word calling.
We use it to explain our jobs, our ministries, our passions, our degrees, our service, our next steps, and our sacrifices. We say we are “called” to this church, this field, this vocation, this role, this burden, this work. And sometimes I think we use that word because it sounds holier than the truth we are trying to explain.
At least I know I have.
When people do not understand why I work in ministry, or why I would go back to school, or why I keep saying yes to things that look exhausting or inconvenient or maybe even a little irrational from the outside, calling becomes the easy answer. It sounds cleaner than trying to explain that God has woven together burden and joy and gifting and ache and love in me in a way I cannot fully untangle for someone else. It sounds more spiritual than saying, “I care deeply about this.” It sounds more acceptable than saying, “Something in me comes alive here.” And maybe that’s part of the reasoning: I haven’t slowed down enough to find the words, and to sit with the deep feelings surrounding what it means to live out of your gifts and your passions in a way that seeks to honor God and others over self.
So, I say calling.
But the older I get, and the longer I’m in ministry – be it volunteer, vocational, or non-profit, the more I wonder if we have taken that word and made it carry more than it was ever meant to.
The truth is, the way many of us use the word "calling" is not the way Scripture most often uses it. In the Bible, calling is far more often about being called by God into life with him. Called to belong to Christ. Called to holiness. Called to faithfulness. Called to live as his. It is much less about what we usually mean when we say we are “called” to a certain vocation or role.
And yet, in Christian circles, we use it that way all the time. We have folded it into our Christian vocabulary so tightly that it can start to sound like Bible language even when what we really mean is something closer to passion, burden, desire, gifting, or even just the way God has slowly shaped us over time.
I do believe God leads us. I believe he forms us. I believe he develops strengths and passions in us. I believe he opens doors, plants burdens, and sometimes places opportunities in front of us that fit the very way he has made us. I believe there are ways he draws us into service, ministry, work, study, care, leadership, and love that are real and holy and deeply personal.
But maybe the deeper calling is always first a calling to him.
And maybe vocation, service, ministry, schooling, caregiving, writing, teaching, leading, parenting, helping, and all the rest are not the thing itself, but the place where that deeper calling gets lived out.
“But Stacy, why does it even matter?” It matters because there is a world of difference between being called to Christ and being attached to a role.
One is identity rooted in belonging.
The other is identity rooted in usefulness.
One says, “I am his, and therefore I will go where he leads.”
The other says, “I am this kind of person, and I need to keep being this kind of person in order to know who I am.”
A role can be holy and still become dangerous if it becomes the place we look for selfhood.
That one lands a little too close to my Enneagram 2’s front door for me.
Because if I am honest, there are times I do not just love the work. I love what the work lets me believe about myself. That I’m needed. That I’m helpful. That I’m faithful. That I’m purposeful. That I’m worth something because I am doing something.
And that is where things get tangled.
Because when identity gets wrapped around usefulness, staying is no longer just about obedience. It is about self-protection. If the role changes, if the season shifts, if the work gets too hard, if I have to step back, it can feel like more than a practical loss. It can feel like losing a piece of myself.
I think that is why so many of us struggle when the work no longer feels life-giving.
It is easy to stay when the thing we are doing feels beautiful, fruitful, and energizing. It is easy to stay when there is joy, momentum, and a visible purpose. It is easy to talk about passion when the fire is hot.
But what about when the work becomes repetitive?
What about when the ministry gets heavy?
What about when the service feels costly?
What about when the thing you love starts to feel like labor in ways you did not expect?
What do we do when our human nature wants to run from the hard thing, even if it is the very place where God has been forming us?
I don’t think every hard thing is something we are supposed to stay in. Some seasons end. Some doors close. Some assignments are complete. Some places become unhealthy, unsafe, or simply no longer ours to carry. Staying is not always the holy choice. Sometimes, leaving is the faithful one.
But hard is not always a sign to go, either.
Sometimes, hard is just what it feels like to be human and obedient at the same time. Sometimes, hard is refinement. Sometimes it is redirection. Sometimes it is exhaustion. Sometimes it is grief. Sometimes it is simply the reality that meaningful things often require more from us than we expected.
That is why I don’t think the question is only, “Is this still life-giving?”
That question matters, but it can’t be the only one. Because some of the holiest seasons of our lives are not energizing. They are not shiny. They are not exciting. They do not feel full of constant affirmation or visible fruit. Sometimes they feel like obedience in work boots. Sometimes they feel like prayer without fireworks. Sometimes they feel like showing up again to the ordinary thing God has placed in front of us.
The better question may be, “Is God still meeting me here?”
Is there still obedience here?
Is there still love here?
Is there still a quiet yes here, even if it is buried under weariness?
Is he still doing something in me here, even if it is not dramatic?
And maybe another important question is this: Am I staying from peace, or from fear?
Am I remaining because God is asking me to remain? Or because I do not know who I am without this role, this responsibility, this place where I have learned to feel useful?
That one stings a bit.
Because it is possible to stay for all the wrong reasons. It is possible to keep serving because we do not know how to stop. It is possible to keep saying yes because no has become frightening. It is possible to remain in a place long after our hearts have begun hardening, simply because usefulness has become part of our identity.
And that brings up another hard question: how do we stay without becoming resentful?
Because that happens too.
We can stay physically while leaving emotionally. We can keep showing up while our souls quietly slip out the back door. We can keep serving with our hands while bitterness slowly builds in our hearts. In case you haven’t heard of the term, that’s called ‘quiet quitting,’ and I don’t think it is a thing that reflects faithfulness or even kindness to those we work or serve with, or kindness to ourselves.
Resentment usually grows where truth has not been told. Where grief has not been named. Where boundaries have not been honored. Where we have expected ourselves to be machines instead of people. Where we have kept giving and giving and giving, hoping the work itself will give back to us what only God can.
Remaining without resentment means tending the soul, not just managing the task.
It means being honest with God.
It means grieving what has changed.
It means admitting when we are tired.
It means letting go of the fantasy version of the work.
It means remembering that we are loved apart from what we produce.
This is where Jesus’ words about abiding matter so much to me. His invitation was never to impress him with how indispensable we are. It was never to prove our devotion by running ourselves into the ground. It was to remain in him. To abide. To stay close.
That is different.
Because when staying flows from abiding, it is softer. It is steadier. It is less performative. It is less about proving we are the kind of person who can carry impossible things, and more about receiving what we need from the One who actually sustains us.
And maybe that is what faithfulness looks like when the passion cools but the responsibility remains.
Maybe it looks quieter than we imagined.
Maybe it looks like steadiness instead of intensity.
Maybe it looks like love without adrenaline.
Maybe it looks like honoring what is ours to carry today without demanding that every season feel exciting or new.
Passion is beautiful. I am grateful for it. It often gets us started. It helps us see what we care about. It can be one way God reveals how he has made us. But passion was never meant to carry the whole life of discipleship. At some point, almost everything meaningful asks more of us than excitement can provide.
And maybe that is where the sacrament of staying begins.
Not in dramatic certainty.
Not in polished explanations.
Not in using the word ‘calling’ to justify ourselves to people who will never fully understand.
But in the quieter and truer reality that before I was ever useful, before I was ever needed, before I was ever productive, before I was ever in a role that made sense of me, I was his.
Called to belong.
Called to abide.
Called to trust.
Called to remain.
And maybe that is the deep invitation underneath all of it. That through ministry, schooling, caregiving, writing, serving, leading, parenting, helping, and every other place where love gets lived out, God is still doing what he has always done. Drawing us closer to himself.
Maybe the real question is not whether I can perfectly explain my ‘calling.’
Maybe the better question is whether I can stay close to Jesus in the places where he has formed me to love and serve.
Not forever, necessarily.
Not without discernment.
Not without honesty.
Not without rest.
But with open hands.
With less performance.
With less need to justify myself.
With less fear that if the role changes, I will disappear too.
Because the sacrament of staying is not about glorifying exhaustion or pretending every hard thing is holy. It is about recognizing that sometimes God meets us not in the dramatic leap, but in the daily decision to remain present, surrendered, and near to him in the very places where our love is being tested and made true.
