We are now well and truly in the build-up to my Stage 2 discernment panel (the Bishop’s Advisory Panel). It’s looming on the horizon—close enough to feel real, but just far enough away to let my brain run through a thousand “what if” scenarios.
If I’m being honest, the “low hum” of anxiety has officially turned into a bit of a drumbeat.
It’s a strange season. You spend years in the Church of England discernment process working towards this specific weekend. You read the books, you write the essays, you pray the prayers. But when you are finally staring down the barrel of the event itself, the theology books don’t feel like much comfort.
What is a comfort, though, is knowing that God isn’t just in the event of Stage 2, or Stage 1, he is throughout this process, throughout life and he is certainly here in the ‘waiting room’ with me.
The Fear of the Mask
My biggest wobble isn’t actually about the interviews. I can talk about faith; I can talk about the church.
My worry is the neurodivergent mask.
For those of us with Dyslexia or ADHD, we often navigate the professional world by “masking”—holding it together, mirroring social cues, and suppressing the chaos in our heads. We can usually do that for an hour’s meeting. We can do it for a morning service for example.
But Stage 2 is residential. It’s 48 hours.
The reality is, I can’t keep the mask up for two days straight. My social battery will run out. The fidgeting will start. The brain fog might descend over dinner. The fear, of course, is that when the mask slips, I won’t look “vicar-shaped” enough. I worry that my authenticity will look like incompetence.
But... I Trust Him
However, in the middle of the nerves and the packing lists, there is a quiet, steady realisation that has settled in my gut: I trust God.
I really do.
I have done the prep. I have filled out the forms (oh, the forms!). I have had the conversations. There is nothing more I can “do” to influence the outcome. And actually, that’s a relief.
If God wants me in ordained ministry, He is perfectly capable of communicating that through a panel of selectors, even if I stumble over my words or forget someone’s name at breakfast.
My prayer lately hasn’t been “God, help me pass.” It’s been “God, help me be me.” Because if they don’t see the real me—neurodiversity and all—then they can’t discern the real call.
The Silence After the Noise
I’m also bracing myself for the other side of those 48 hours. We often focus on the event, but I know the waiting game that follows is going to be its own challenge.
Leaving the intensity of a residential and dropping into the silence of the “two-week wait” for the Bishop’s phone call is going to be tough. I know my brain will want to replay every conversation on a loop, analysing every mistake, every word and every movement, wondering if I could do more.
But that’s a problem for “Future Me.”
For now, I’m just taking it one day at a time, trusting that the God who called me onto this path is walking right beside me—mask or no mask.