“Called Beneath Her Mantle: A Seminary Acceptance on the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel”

On July 16, the Church commemorates the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel—a day soaked in mystery, devotion, and maternal tenderness. For centuries, it has been a day set aside to honor Mary not only as the Mother of Jesus, but also as the patroness of contemplatives, mystics, and all who dwell in the shadow of the holy mountain—those who seek God in silence, in hidden places, and in the deep interior of the soul.

This past July 16, I received a call that would mark a threshold moment in my life: I was accepted into seminary.

To many, it might appear to be a matter of timing or paperwork. But I see it differently.

I believe Heaven chose this date for a reason. And Mary, the Mother of all seekers, wrapped me in her mantle and whispered gently, “Yes. Now is the time. Walk forward, my son.”

The Mountain Behind Me

Like many who walk the winding road to ministry, my path has not been smooth. I have climbed emotional and spiritual hills, navigated the valleys of heartbreak, loss, and rebuilding. I’ve wrestled with the weight of calling, the silence of God, and the noise of self-doubt.

I’ve lived a life formed by both love and suffering—two great teachers in the school of Christ. From my earliest days, I’ve sought the holy in the hidden, the sacred in the shattered. I’ve been both prodigal and prophet, student and teacher, wanderer and home-builder.

But something in me has always longed for deeper waters, for ancient wells. For sacraments that do not merely symbolize, but transfigure. For a Church that does not merely instruct, but welcomes. For a ministry that does not merely preach, but heals.

The Mountain Before Me

Mount Carmel, biblically, is the place where Elijah called down fire from Heaven and showed Israel the living God. But for the Carmelite tradition, it became something quieter—a symbol of the inner mountain, the place where the soul ascends through prayer, humility, and surrender.

To be accepted into seminary on this feast is, for me, a signpost from God and from Mary that my journey is not about prestige or titles, but about transformation. It is not about becoming someone “holy” in the eyes of the world, but about becoming empty enough to carry the love of Christ to others.

I am not climbing this mountain to be seen.

I am climbing because I’ve been called.

Beneath Her Mantle

Our Lady of Mount Carmel is often depicted handing the scapular to Saint Simon Stock—a symbol of protection and grace. For me, this image now feels personal. I picture Mary gently placing that mantle over my shoulders, saying, “Go into the world. Be a sign of love that does not exclude. Be a priest not of power, but of presence. Be a voice for those the Church has forgotten.”

Her mantle is not armor. It is not a badge. It is a cloak of compassion, woven from her own “yes” to God. And it is under that mantle that I will study, pray, and grow. It is under that mantle that I will offer the sacraments. And it is under that mantle that I hope to shelter others who are weary, wandering, or wounded.

A Ministry of Love

My seminary formation is not merely about theology. It is about learning how to serve. It is about becoming more fully human, more fully surrendered, more fully aligned with Christ, the wounded healer. The One who breaks bread with outcasts, touches the untouchable, and whispers hope to those whose hope has died.

I feel called to build bridges—between faith and doubt, tradition and renewal, heaven and earth. I feel called to an inclusive sacramental ministry rooted in ancient wisdom and open arms.

And on this mountain of formation, I will not walk alone. Mary walks with me. So do the saints. So do all of you who believe in the power of love to transfigure the world.

Conclusion

So yes, I was accepted into seminary on the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

But more than that, I was claimed by a mystery greater than myself.

To those discerning your own calling, I offer this: Pay attention to the feast days of your life. God writes in liturgical rhythms. Mary appears in timing and tenderness. Your vocation is not a ladder to climb—it is a mountain to surrender to.

And sometimes, at the top of that mountain, there is no thunder. There is no fire.

There is just a mother’s voice saying, “I’ve been waiting for you.”