Reflections from a Postulant in the Episcopal Church
When I first stepped into the formal discernment process, I thought I knew what I was saying yes to. I figured there’d be some paperwork, some meetings, maybe a spiritual autobiography or two. But I wasn’t prepared for the feeling that every part of me — my story, my calling, my theology, even my personality — would be put under a microscope.
And not just by committees or clergy. The real vulnerability has come in offering all of that to people who are trying to listen for what the Holy Spirit might be saying about me. About my call. About my readiness.
It’s disorienting. Holy, but disorienting.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I caught myself thinking (okay, maybe complaining to God):
“Why does everything feel like a test?”
The Wilderness Comes After the Call
What’s wild is how normal this apparently is — at least biblically. You’d think being called by God would come with clarity and direction, but it often seems to come with… waiting. Wandering. Confusion.
Moses gets his burning bush moment, and then spends decades with a people who don’t want to follow him (Exodus 3–4, Numbers 14). Jesus is baptized, hears “you are my beloved,” and then the Spirit immediately drives him into the wilderness to be tested (Mark 1:9–13). Paul is struck blind by the voice of Jesus, and then disappears for years before reemerging in ministry (Galatians 1:15–18).
Apparently, this is just how God works sometimes. First comes the call. Then comes the wilderness. (Yay.)
When the Spirit Moves, Paperwork Doesn’t Always Follow
The very first nudge toward discernment didn’t come with a checklist. I was attending a diocesan event — just blending in — when the bishop casually pulled me aside. No meeting scheduled, no committee assembled. Just a moment.
“You can start discerning now,” he said.
And I did.
No paperwork. No plan. Just… vibes. It was weird and holy and surprisingly liberating. I met with my priests, asked big questions, and spent that first year listening.
Then, a year later, came the official process. The one with forms, essays, deadlines, interviews, psychological evaluations — you know, all the fun stuff.
And suddenly, what had started as a whisper from the Holy Spirit began to feel like trying to pass a standardized test you didn’t study for, about your own soul.
Postulancy Is Not a Certificate of Arrival
What I didn’t realize — and what nobody really told me — is that getting the letter from the bishop saying “you’re a postulant” doesn’t mean discernment is over. It means it’s just beginning in a new way.
The joke of it all is that you spend months (sometimes years) going through formal discernment to become a postulant… only to realize you’re still in the thick of it. You’ve crossed a threshold, not a finish line.
I still have questions. Some are theological. Some are practical. A lot of them are deeply personal, and not the kind you can wrap up in a tidy answer. But I’m learning to stay in the tension. To live with the discomfort of being seen, evaluated, and spiritually sifted — not because anyone is trying to trap me, but because they’re honestly trying to discern.
And part of that tension — for me — is not letting the process strip me of the parts of myself that God never asked me to sacrifice.
I’m a rule follower by nature — hardcore — especially when the rules are just. I’ll follow them to the letter without complaint. But I’m not interested in playing priest dress-up to look the part. I don’t think God calls us into this life to perform piety. I think God wants us to enjoy life — and that joy should come with us into ministry.
So yes, I have fun hair. I have every color of Converse in the liturgical calendar. I laugh loudly, and I hope I never stop.
And I don’t think God — or anyone involved in this process — wants to take that away. But the truth is, this process can be so intense, so structured, so full of evaluation, that it’s easy to let your personality dim. To become more palatable. To dial yourself down just enough to not feel quite so stared at.
But here’s the thing: that won’t get you through.
I promise you — the bishop, the Commission on Ministry, and frankly every future parish — they will smell insincerity a mile away.
You can’t fake your way through a call. And you shouldn’t want to.
Not a Trap, But a Refining
There’s a line in Galatians that’s been sticking with me lately:
“Before faith came, we were imprisoned and guarded under the law… the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came” (Galatians 3:23–24, NRSV).
I used to hear that and think it sounded harsh. But now I wonder if Paul was trying to say something about the way structure and scrutiny are part of how we grow. Testing, in the biblical sense, isn’t a trap — it’s a refining.
Maybe all this discernment — the evaluations, the essays, the awkwardly vulnerable conversations — isn’t about proving anything. Maybe it’s just the Holy Spirit’s way of making space for something new to take root.
Some days, I feel steady in all of this. Other days I feel like I’ve wandered into the deep end of a pool I didn’t realize I was in. (And I forgot my floaties.)
I’m learning to lean into the uncomfortable space between laity and ordained, between old Ericca and new. It’s quiet here. It’s strange. And it doesn’t always come with a map.
And then — just as you’re beginning to settle into that space — you finish the formal part of discernment with the Commission on Ministry. The very people who just spent hours listening to your story, asking hard questions, and helping you name your call… disappear, at least for a while.
They knew you so acutely. And then they’re just gone.
Weird, man.
My bishop likes to point out that even after forty years in the wilderness, the Israelites still wanted to go back. Back to Egypt. Back to what was hard but familiar.
I get it.
There are days when going back seems easier than going forward. But there’s nothing for me back there.
So for now, I keep going. Even when it still feels like a test.
Stay pesky, friends.
In Christ,
Ericca
The Pesky Postulant 
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