The Mystery of the Caller: Fear, Awe, and Beauty in the Islamic Mary’s Vocation

Students often perceive calling as a clear, linear process, expecting a definitive moment of clarity. However, doubt is intrinsic to vocation, as revealed in Maryam’s narrative from the Qur’an, emphasizing the importance of understanding the “caller.” Accepting a calling often involves navigating through fear and uncertainty, ultimately leading to spiritual strength and clarity.

In my teaching and mentoring, I am always struck by how students think about calling as a linear process. They often expect their callings to emerge in a “eureka” moment, when everything comes into sharp focus and their futures becomes apparent. Yet through my work, I have come to see doubt as integral to vocation, as our callings can also lead to mystery, awe, and even fear. As many of us work through these feelings, we come out on the other side stronger in our faith, with a more certain sense of what we are called to do. 

In my new book The Islamic Mary: Maryam Through the Centuries, I learned that the Islamic tradition was drawn to the moment of Maryam’s (Mary’s) call specifically when she is told that she will have ‘Isa (Jesus). As the Qur’an narrates, the Angel Jibril (Gabriel) approaches Maryam to share the news of her miracle, but at first she does not recognize the “caller” and is, in fact, afraid and taken aback (19:17-21). Her fear of the unknown illustrates a dynamic of calling that David Cunningham explores in his essay, “‘Who’s There?’:  The Dramatic Role of the ‘Caller’ in Vocational Discernment.” As Cunningham explains, studies in vocation often focus on somebody being “called” without necessarily focusing on the identity of the caller, its source, or means of calling. In particular, he emphasizes the “mystery” inherent in vocation and how finding one’s vocation often involves uncertainty and ambiguity. 

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Grace, Vocation, and Leaving the School that I Loved

A robust vision of Christian vocation requires that we embody the teachings of Jesus, not in a perfect world but in the context of ambiguity, even in the context of a Christian school that inevitably straddles a fallen world and the world of Christian faith.

Part of a series of autobiographical reflections written by Richard T. Hughes.

It was 1970, the year before my doctoral graduation. The job market for professors was tight, so tight that I sent letters of inquiry to 140 schools scattered all over the country—large schools and small schools, state schools and private schools, colleges and seminaries. The constraints of the job market had left me desperate. It didn’t much matter to me where I taught. I just wanted a job.

Of those 140 letters, only 60 institutions saw fit to reply, and the letters I received were amazingly uniform. In fact, I could hold each envelope up to the light and count the paragraphs. There were always three: Paragraph #1: Thank you for your inquiry. Paragraph #2: Unfortunately, we have no openings. Paragraph #3: But we will be happy to keep your letter on file. I knew that the “file” that each letter referenced was the large round “file” that sits on the floor. To say I was discouraged is an understatement.

And then grace appeared in the form of a telephone call from the provost of Pepperdine’s new Malibu campus which would open in 1972. He had gotten my name, he said, from a friend, and would I be willing to fly out for an interview? After the discouraging responses (and the non-responses) to my 160 letters, the invitation to interview at Pepperdine—an invitation that essentially came out of the blue—struck me as a God-send, an act of unmerited grace. Yet, I quickly discovered that embedded within that grace was a note of deep ambiguity. 

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