When I read the headline from a digital news outlet — “Fewer Vermonters report religious affiliation in nationwide survey” I wasn’t surprised. I’ve seen it myself: the empty pews, the quiet chapels, the slow fading of faith from daily life. But seeing it in print hit me differently. It wasn’t just a statistic, it felt like looking in a mirror.

In one of his heartfelt and challenging letters, Bishop John McDermott called the Green Mountain State a
“mission field.” And I believe that if Vermont is a mission field, then so am I.

At first, I took it as a pastoral challenge: bring people back to church, offer them Christ, revive what has been lost. I heard it as a summons to serve and to evangelize. But over time, I realized it was more than that. The mission is not only out there, it is within me too. I came here thinking I’d bring Christ to others. But I keep finding He’s already here, waiting for me.

There’s a kind of quiet in Vermont that doesn’t let you hide, not from yourself, and not from God. Without the noise of crowds or the comfort of applause, you’re left face-to-face with what really matters: your faith, your calling, your soul. And to be honest, that can be difficult.

Let me admit something I don’t often say: I’m not comfortable with the topic of holiness, especially when it involves myself. I’ve given talks on it, quoted the saints, and encouraged others to pursue sanctity in classrooms, retreat houses, and seminars back in my home country. But here, in the slow rhythm of parish life, holiness is no longer something I can speak about from a distance. It’s something I have to live, often poorly, sometimes reluctantly, always imperfectly.

I’m learning that holiness doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need an audience. It grows quietly, in fidelity, in patience, in small acts of love repeated day after day.

Most of my ministry here is hidden and unspectacular: Masses with only a few people, a conversation in a parking lot, a visit to someone grieving. No one writes about those moments. Yet they shape me.

Mother Teresa’s words stay with me: “God has not called me to be successful, but to be faithful.” Saint Thérèse of Lisieux reminds me that sanctity is found in small things done with great love. And Thomas Merton offers a quiet reassurance: “The desire to please God does in fact please Him.” Some days, those reminders are all I have.

I’ve also been reflecting on Pope Leo XIV’s “Dilexi te,” where he reminds the Church that love for the poor is not just duty but a path to holiness. Charity sanctifies both the one who gives and the one who receives. In loving the poor, we meet Christ, who first said to each of us: “I have loved you.” That kind of love has a way of showing up in the quiet corners of life.

I see it echoed in literature too. In “The Brothers Karamazov,” Dostoyevsky gives us Elder Zosima, a quiet monk whose holiness is rooted in humility and mercy. He warns: “Active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared with love in dreams.” Real love costs something. It’s messy, inconvenient, and rarely neat. It asks for presence, not polish.

Flannery O’Connor, in her strange and honest way, wrote that “people think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross.” Her characters often stumble into grace through pain or failure. Her stories remind me that vocation isn’t about feeling fulfilled, it’s about surrendering to God’s will, especially when it disrupts our plans or our pride.

Both O’Connor and Dostoyevsky point to the same truth: holiness isn’t about achievement. It’s about fidelity, a daily, lifelong yes to love.

The Second Vatican Council said it clearly: “All the faithful of Christ, of whatever rank or status, are called to the fullness of the Christian life and to the perfection of charity” (Lumen Gentium, 40).

Holiness isn’t reserved for those in collars or habits. It’s for everyone. I see that truth every week in my parish.

I see it in our religious education teachers who give their Sundays to share the faith. In those who quietly stock the food pantry. In parishioners who bake for coffee hour or bring Christmas gifts and school supplies for children they’ll never meet. In altar servers, lectors, choir members, and extraordinary ministers of holy communion — some of whom bring the Eucharist to the homebound and nursing homes. In the folks who sweep the parish hall, help the elderly across the ice, or stay behind after a fundraiser to wash dishes no one else notices.

None of these people would call themselves holy. But I see it, the perfection of charity lived without fanfare.

As we approach 2026, which Bishop McDermott has named the “Year of Vocations,” I pray we see vocation not just as a path for seminarians or religious, but as a call for everyone. One’s vocation may unfold in a classroom, a home, a hospital bed, or a quiet office. It might be lived in retirement, in caregiving, in parenting, or in the perseverance of someone who suffers silently. No matter the setting, the call is the same: holiness.

God’s not asking us to be impressive, just steady, faithful, and kind in the small things no one sees.

This mission field is not something I’m conquering. It’s something quietly converting me. I may never see headlines about revival, but I see holiness growing quietly all the same, and for me, that’s enough.