Some days I feel deeply called — rooted, grounded, anchored.
Other days I want to scrape everything back to the bone and ask God, “Okay, but what did You really mean?”
And honestly? I think both are holy.
We talk about calling like it’s a tidy path forward, a sturdy sentence etched in stone. But anyone who has lived inside a real calling knows that sometimes it feels more like peeling paint — layers added over time, some intentional, some accidental, some from seasons you thought you’d outgrown, and some from moments that never belonged there at all.
Every once in a while, something inside you whispers:
Strip it down. Start again. See what remains when the noise is gone.
I used to feel guilty for that impulse.
Like wanting to “wipe the slate clean” meant I wasn’t faithful enough, grateful enough, committed enough.
But lately?
I’m realizing that urge is not the absence of calling — it’s the maintenance of it.
Callings accumulate dust.
Purposes gather extra meanings you never asked for.
Life layers on expectations, projections, applause, criticism, and well-meaning advice that clog the clarity of what God first sparked in you.
And when the weight of all that buildup gets too heavy, your spirit does what any honest craftsman would do:
It reaches for the scraper.
The work of discernment is sometimes the work of demolition.
Not destructive for the sake of chaos — but dismantling the pieces that don’t belong in order to protect what does.
And here’s the part I had to learn the hard way:
Wiping the slate clean doesn’t mean starting over or pretending you learned nothing along the way.
It doesn’t mean erasing the journey or ignoring the experiences that shaped you.
A clean slate isn’t a reset — it’s a reckoning.
Because just like everything else that grows and breathes, a call transforms us… and it transforms itself.
It bends, expands, contracts, sharpens, and softens over time.
What you lived through doesn’t lose value — it adds weight and clarity.
It shapes the call, not by replacing it, but by revealing what it’s becoming.
And this is where today hit me hardest:
I show up every Sunday and ask myself why I’m doing this.
Why four more years of school?
Why train for a system of worship that might not even exist by the time I’m done?
Why keep investing in structures that feel like they’re shifting right under my feet?
But today… I got some perspective
It has never been about the systems.
It has everything to do with endurance.
With learning how to be led and lead inside constant change.
With trusting that the Spirit trains us for the world we’re actually going to serve — not the one we assumed would be waiting.
And strangely — that puts me in a sweet spot.
Because as gutsy (and honestly, ridiculous) as it feels to stay inside an academic system built on a form of worship that barely exists anymore…
I have feet in both paradigms.
One planted in what has been, one planted in what’s forming.
I get to help build what’s coming while still understanding the bones of what came before.
Not easy.
Not clear.
But weighty.
And essential.
Maybe the call isn’t to memorize a system, but to move with a God who keeps reshaping what ministry even looks like.
Maybe the real preparation is learning how to stay faithful when nothing stands still.
I think God honors that.
A willingness to say,
“I’m in — but I want to be in for the right reasons.”
“I’ll keep going — but I need to return to the core before I take another step.”
And I’ve learned that when I strip everything back — the roles, the expectations, the noise — what remains is always startlingly simple:
Grace.
Presence.
A nudge toward people.
A hunger to show up with something real.
And this quiet, stubborn knowing:
You’re supposed to be here.
Keep going.
The urge to wipe the slate clean isn’t failure.
It’s faithfulness refusing to be faked.
It’s your spirit choosing honesty over performance.
It’s you saying,
“I’d rather be grounded than impressive.”
And maybe that’s the real calling underneath it all —
not the title, not the role, not the path,
but the courage to keep returning to what is true.
Even if it means scraping everything back to the bones again.
Even if it means starting over in the same direction.
Even if it means admitting that purpose needs tending, too.
If you’ve been feeling that urge — the instinct to clear the clutter and get back to the pulse of who you are and why you’re here — you’re not broken.
You’re listening.
And that’s the beginning of every holy thing.
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