I’m going to start with a suspicion based on this time in the afternoon… I suspect that most of you know how to show up.

I’m going to take my suspicions a little further…

Most of us here also know how to carry responsibility. We know how to hold vision. We know how to keep things moving. We know how to answer to a calling.

But could it be that many of us have learned how to do all of that while slowly disappearing from ourselves in the process?

So maybe the question we need to ask at a conference on calling is not, “What more am I meant to do?” But, “Am I whole while I do it?”

Because calling can shape the world, but it can also shape us.

I must be honest and say I feel tired. And in a way, I sense a collective tiredness. Perhaps you’ve felt it too… The tired I’m referring to is not physical. But on our insides.

Perhaps it’s a tired from holding space. A tired of carrying weight. A tired of being steady for everyone else. And over time, responsibility can divide us.

We keep things together out there. While things quietly come apart in here.

We function. We perform. We produce.

But somewhere underneath it all is a longing. Not just for rest. Not just for relief.

But for wholeness.

Now there is an ancient Hebrew word I’m sure you know well: shalom.

Shalom is often translated as peace. But shalom is not just calm. It’s not just the absence of conflict. Shalom is what happens when things are as they should be. When relationships are aligned. When justice holds. When what belongs together is not torn apart.

Shalom is peace when things are integrated. It’s peace when the world holds together.

In Scripture, the prophet Isaiah does something striking with this word. He repeats it. Shalom, shalom. In Hebrew, repetition doesn’t just amplify something. It deepens it.

Shalom can describe peace when life fits. But shalom, shalom describes peace when life doesn’t. It’s often translated as “perfect peace”. Not perfect because circumstances are resolved. Perfect because the self is no longer divided.

Shalom is peace when creation holds together; Shalom, shalom is peace when you are held within it. There is a difference. Peace vs perfect peace or wholeness.

One is harmony in the world. The other is steadiness in the soul. One depends on alignment. The other depends on anchoring.

Isaiah says this peace belongs to the one whose mind is stayed – steadfast, oriented, anchored. Not because the world is stable. But because their trust is anchored.

This is not self-improvement. It is participation in the life of God.

For many of us entrusted with responsibility, we know how to create shalom externally. We build systems. We reconcile conflict. We carry vision. We keep things from falling apart.

And then sometimes it happens… That we fall apart. Quietly. Slowly. Almost invisibly.

What if the greatest threat to our calling is not failure — but fragmentation?

What if fragmentation looks like: Saying yes when your body is whispering to slow down. Carrying vision while neglecting your own formation. Being spiritually articulate but emotionally unavailable. Being needed by everyone and unknown to yourself.

Is it possible to answer a call and lose your centre? Is it possible to serve faithfully and live divided?

I know it is possible. I’ve lived it.

There was a season in my own life when everything looked meaningful on the outside. The work was good. The people were being served. The rhythm was full.

And then on one random, ordinary day I realised something unsettling. I was present in the room, but I was completely absent in myself. Not burned out. Not collapsing. Just split.

Split between what I was doing and who I was becoming. Fragmented.

And perhaps that’s the quiet crisis. Calling without wholeness becomes performance. Calling without wholeness becomes maintenance. Calling without wholeness eventually becomes exhaustion.

Because calling is not simply something we do for God. It is something we do from within God.

So what about calling rooted in shalom, shalom? In perfect peace? In wholeness?

Well that becomes presence.

And presence changes rooms. Presence changes systems. Presence changes people. Not because it is louder. But because it is integrated.

Scripture does not suggest that wholeness is something we postpone until the work slows down. Or until the season shifts. Or until responsibility lightens.

Shalom, shalom is not a future reward. It is a present invitation.

Wholeness in the middle of it all. Wholeness in the messiness of life. Wholeness under pressure. Wholeness when outcomes are uncertain. Wholeness when the work is, and will probably always remain, unfinished.

You then no longer try to hold everything together. Because you experience you are being held. And that changes how you carry what you are called to carry.

And from that place you are. From that place you can be. From that place you can act. From that place you answer your call.

In a world that rewards fragmentation – productivity over presence, speed over depth, impact over integration – to live whole may be the most radical expression of calling.

So perhaps the invitation here is not simply, “What is God calling me to next?” But, “Where is God calling me to be made whole?”

Shalom is peace when the world holds together. Shalom, shalom is peace when you experience being held even when it doesn’t.

In closing, perhaps calling is not only about what we carry into the world, but about what and Who carries us. Not only about what we build, but about who we are becoming as we build it.

May your calling never separate you from your own soul. May it draw you deeper into the life of God who holds all things together.

Shalom.

Shalom.