In this Sunday's Gospel, Jesus walks along the Sea of Galilee and calls out to Simon and Andrew: "Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men."

And then this line that stops me every time: At once they left their nets and followed him.

At once.

No strategic planning session. No pros-and-cons list. No "let me talk to my wife and get back to you." They just... went.

It's jarring to our modern sensibilities. We're planners. We're risk-assessors. We like to know where we're going before we take the first step. The idea of dropping everything immediately feels reckless. Irresponsible, even.

But I've been sitting with a question this week: What if the bigger risk isn't saying yes too quickly? What if it's missing the invitation altogether?

Here's what I've been realizing: the call rarely comes the way we expect.

We wait for the dramatic moment. The voice from heaven. The unmistakable sign. We want certainty before we move.

But more often, the invitation comes through people. A friend who asks a question. A spouse who believes in a dream you haven't spoken out loud yet. A son who says, "Dad, will you start running with me?"

That last one is my story. Eighteen months ago, Andrew invited me to run with him. It wasn't a burning bush. It wasn't an angel appearing in the night. It was my son, concerned about both of our health, asking me to try something new.

I could have said no. I had plenty of reasons. I was 46. I'd never been a runner. I didn't know the first thing about training or shoes or pacing. The nets of comfort and routine were familiar. Safe.

But I said yes. And everything changed.

Not just physically - though that too. Something shifted in me. The willingness to be a beginner again. The humility of not having all the answers. The joy of running alongside my sons, breath for breath, mile for mile.

And now I find myself wanting to extend that same invitation to other dads. To say: "Come run with me. It's not too late. You don't have to know what you're doing. Just start."

I think this is how the Holy Spirit most often operates. Not in isolation, but in community. Not through dramatic interventions, but through the ordinary words of people who care about us.

Jesus called the apostles directly, yes. But even then, he used his voice, his presence, his humanness. He walked up to them where they were working and spoke an invitation they could accept or refuse.

The call still comes that way. Through human voices. Through invitations we almost miss because we're waiting for something more spectacular.

Suzanne has been that voice for me more times than I can count - believing in dreams I hadn't fully articulated yet, seeing potential I couldn't see in myself. My sons have been that voice. Friends and mentors have been that voice. Even strangers, sometimes, saying exactly what I needed to hear exactly when I needed to hear it.

The question isn't whether God is calling. The question is whether we're listening for his voice in the people around us.

Back to the Gospel: Simon and Andrew left their nets at once.

The nets weren't bad. Fishing was honest work. It provided for their families. It was what they knew, who they were. "Simon the fisherman" wasn't just a job description - it was an identity.

But the nets were also what kept them anchored to the shore.

I've been thinking about my own nets. The comfort of a career I've built over 30 years. The identity of being a leader in my field. The security of knowing what I'm doing and being good at it.

These aren't bad things. But are they keeping me anchored when Jesus is calling me out onto the water?

This is the question I think we all have to sit with: What's holding us back from an immediate response? What are we gripping so tightly that we can't reach for what's being offered?

Maybe it's fear of being a beginner. Maybe it's the weight of other people's expectations. Maybe it's the voice that says "you're too old" or "you're not qualified" or "who do you think you are?"

Maybe it's just the comfort of the familiar, even when the familiar has stopped fitting.

Here's where it gets convicting for me.

If the Holy Spirit works through people - if Jesus calls us through human voices - then we're not just meant to receive invitations. We're meant to become them.

This is what I think about when I think about the diaconate (and Deacon Life). Deacons are meant to be bridge-builders, connectors, people who invite others into encounter with Christ. But how many people even know what a deacon is or does? How do we extend the invitation if we're not visible, not speaking, not present where people are?

This is what I think about with Emmaus Disciples. The whole vision is accompaniment - walking alongside people on the journey, just like Jesus did on the road to Emmaus. Being present. Asking questions. Breaking bread. Inviting people into deeper relationship with Christ not through programs but through presence.

This is what I think about when I lace up my running shoes. Every dad who sees another dad out there running, struggling, starting over - that's an invitation. That's a witness. That's someone saying "it's possible" without saying a word.

We receive the call. And then we become the call for someone else.

I don't know what invitation is sitting in front of you right now. Maybe it came through a conversation you've been replaying in your head. Maybe it came through a spouse or a friend or a child who sees something in you that you don't see yet. Maybe it's been there for a while, waiting for you to pick it up.

The apostles didn't have all the information. They didn't know where Jesus was leading them. They didn't know it would cost them everything and give them everything.

They just knew someone was calling. And they responded.

At once.

What would it look like for you to do the same?

This reflection is based on the Gospel for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Mark 1:14-20).

What invitation have you been sitting on? I'd love to hear about it - reply to this email and let me know.