Why I'm Called to be a Priest

Since writing about the ordination process here, a few friends have been surprised that I felt called to be a priest. I thought it’s time to tell the story.

My childhood was a mix of Salvation Army, Methodist, Church of England, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. By my teens, church and God were bad words in my household. Yet when my FSHD began, long before we knew what it was, the little red New Testament from secondary schools became a lifeline. Thirteen years passed. I tried Alpha courses and was repeatedly asked to leave. I didn’t fit the mould. Eventually, I found a church home. I started writing. This blog began, I explored my faith, and tried understanding the God who called before its 2013 relaunch into lifestyle, parenting, disability, and home schooling.

I first sensed God calling me to priesthood in 2010. It wasn’t dramatic or a voice. It was a feeling. A certainty. A knowing that couldn’t be argued. Others reinforced it, including the priest at that church. It seemed set.

Then 2011 happened. My marriage ended. My world turned upside down. My mum died the year after. I became an alcoholic. I was sectioned and misdiagnosed with personality disorders instead of ASD. Everything fell apart.

I kept my faith, but I doubted my calling. I couldn't embrace it. I felt unworthy. Preaching and teaching were the parts that felt right, but my life didn’t seem to match the image of a priest. How could a disabled, divorced, recovering alcoholic, home‑schooling two little boys, with mental health issues ever be a priest? I wasn’t a perfect Christian. My friends even called me the best worst Christian. Then, with Scripture being used to tell disabled people they were unfit for service, the more I degenerated, the less possible it felt.

Yet my calling never faded. It stayed like a pulsing lighthouse. When Hannah and I started dating, I told her early on. It didn’t run away. She embraced it fully.

Then COVID hit. The church needed people who understood online spaces. That was us. Blogging taught us social media and online communities. Our late priest, Sue, asked us to run the church’s Facebook and Instagram. We did. It exploded. Thirty thousand people worldwide saw what our little English church was doing monthly. We just did what we knew. God showed us how small the world is compared to Him.

One Sunday, during worship, after sharing what God had done online, I felt God saying, “You’re ready now.” Not because I’d become perfect. That above personal still existed. If anything, it was worse. I was now in a relationship with another divorced person navigating a blended family. Nevertheless, something has shifted. God had been preparing me. He stripped away unneeded aspects, sanded down rough edges, and polished others in that decade, showing me who I was and who He needed me to be.

Disability played a huge part. For years, churches tried healing me. Removing the gift God gave me. My disability, however, became the very thing that connected me to those who are shut indoors, isolated, overlooked, or forgotten. Online community became a lifeline. Blogging showed me that. A simple “good morning” post can be pastoral care. Social media isn’t a noticeboard. It’s a neighbourhood. People want belonging, not content.

The next turning point came when disabled and neurodivergent people started coming to church. Half our congregation is disabled or neurodiverse now. Brokenness is what Jesus carried. He still holds His wounds. I realised I could hold mine too. Brokenness isn’t a barrier. It’s a bridge. He showed me how being the best worst Christian brought others in.

I started mentioning my calling more. Testing the waters. People worried about my health as “my life was hard enough.” That changed when David, a priest helping us during the “Simon” drama, put me forward for it.

Even then, I sold myself short. I applied to be a deacon, not a priest. Years of didability comments made me doubt what I could do. I’d been told for years to explore lay ministry because it was “easier”. Even the bishop said it back in February. That’s not what I’m called to. Disabled priests have always heard this. The Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report names it clearly. Ableist assumptions about what disabled people can and can’t do. Yet God kept saying, “Priest.” The Carousel Conversations results came in. They said priest too.

I’m theologically minded. I love Scripture and teaching the truth of what was written, not the misinterpretations that get misused. I feel called to find the rejects. The disabled. The neurodiverse. The broken. The ones who think churchor God isn’t for them. Church is an ecosystem. Fresh expressions, like Messy Church, cathedrals, or online communities. I speak for those who feel lost those spaces.

The Ordinal says priests are to proclaim the word of the Lord, teach, shepherd Christ’s flock, search out the poor and lonely, be servants, and be messengers and stewards. That’s where I fit. Despite feeling unworthy, my brokenness isn’t a disqualification. It’s preparation.

I didn’t wait for God. God waited for me. He spent sixteen years calling me. The least I could do is pick up and answer that call.