Petertide - calling - Sarah Curl

Petertide is a season that carries deep personal meaning for me. Traditionally, it's the time when many in the Church of England having met vocational milestones are being ordained Deacon and Priest. Being the time of the feast day of St Peter, apostle, fisherman, failure, leader. The timing of this feels right. There’s something beautifully honest about tying our priestly calling to Peter’s story. His life wasn’t polished or perfect, and neither is ours. But Peter was called, again and again, and each time, even when he messed up, got it wrong, made a bad judgement call he followed.

I like Peter. Mostly because he wasn’t perfect. He even denied knowing Jesus, three times, no less. at a very crucial moment. He could be brash, impulsive, unruly and inconsistent. And yet, he was the one to jump out of the boat to meet Jesus walking on the water. The same Peter who sank when he took his eyes off Jesus. He was ambitious, passionate, self-motivated—full of faith one moment, then stumbling over his own fear and pride the next. We can all relate to Peter. The one who keeps showing up, even after falling down. The one who learns that the people God uses  most are often the most broken over their sin. The Peter who discovers that trials are not signs of failure but tools that God uses to strengthen our faith.

Peter teaches us that calling is rarely a one-off event. It’s something we are invited into repeatedly, through periods of doubt, through mistakes, through healing. And I suppose that’s why Petertide has come to mean so to those of us who are called into ministry. It marks those moments of calling and re-calling in our lives.

My call to ordained ministry began, unexpectedly, on the Isle of Wight when I was 24 years old. I was a single parent—my son was three—and just a few years before had experienced a powerful spiritual experience that changed everything. I had given my life to God, and soon after joined a local community church. It was there I became a worship leader and ran the youth ministry. I was passionate about serving. I loved Jesus. I loved His people. Three years later, as I prepared to move to Southampton, the church leaders prayed over me. It was a Spirit-filled, evangelical church, and as they laid hands on me, a man named Mike said: “I feel the Lord is telling me that one day you will lead a church.”

I smiled, but inwardly dismissed it. Why would God call someone like me? I carried a lot of shame. I struggled with low confidence. I didn’t see leadership in myself. But while I dismissed it, I never quite forgot it. That word from Mike planted something. And over the years, others would echo it, nudging me toward ministry. When I met my husband twenty four years ago, I told him, “Don’t be surprised if one day I train to be a minister.”  Reflecting on this I know It wasn’t a plan, it was more like a persistent whisper I couldn’t quite ignore.

And then, about seven years ago, I started feeling jealous, jealous of the clergy. That’s how I knew something was shifting. I had the itch again, and this time I couldn’t shake it. I knew I had to scratch it.

Much like Peter’s journey, my call was not straightforward. Peter was called multiple times—at the lakeside, after the miraculous catch of fish, again after his denial when the risen Jesus asked him, “Do you love me?” and then gave him the charge: “Feed my sheep.” Sometimes we forget that calling isn’t usually a dramatic moment, it’s a relationship, one that God keeps returning to, even when we try to walk away.

This Petertide marks two sacred moments in my own journey: two years ago I was ordained Deacon at Southwark Cathedral, and last year, on the 5th of July, I was ordained Priest at All Saints in Kingston. These moments weren’t the beginning of my call, they were the affirmations of it. Public, solemn, sacred affirmations.

And yesterday, in Salisbury Cathedral, I had the incredible privilege of laying hands on my dear friend Marianne as she was ordained Priest. We go back years—we worked in the same school, I was the chaplain and she was the counsellor. Our roles overlapped and so did our hearts. Together we journeyed through this often gruelling, humbling, and refining process of testing our call to ordained ministry. We supported one another through the assessments, the essays, the endless questions: Are you sure? Can you carry this? Are you willing to be reshaped, reformed, undone, and re-made? Because training for ministry is not just about theology, it’s about personal transformation.

For me, the call to ministry has never felt like a reward or an achievement. It often feels like a weight. A burden, even. The kind that makes you question: Am I enough? Can I really do this? And the honest answer is: not alone. But the grace of ordination is that God doesn’t call us to do this alone. He calls us into community, into obedience, into a lifelong process of ‘becoming’ – becoming what he wants/needs us to be.

The ordinal service for priests in the Church of England reflects that seriousness. During ordination, we stand before God and the Church to make solemn promises: to proclaim the Gospel, administer the sacraments, care for God’s people, and to live lives worthy of the calling we’ve received. We promise obedience, not just to bishops, but to the wider body of Christ, to the tradition and mission of the Church. And we do this not because we are confident in ourselves, but because we are confident in Christ, the one who calls us.

At our ordination, we are examined. We are prayed over. The bishop lays hands on us and invokes the Holy Spirit, and we are given a Bible, a symbol of the Word we are now commissioned to preach and teach. We are invited to stand at the altar and participate in the sacred mystery of the Eucharist. It’s awe-inspiring, and it’s terrifying. And yet it is holy. It is a surrender.

What’s been most surprising to me, perhaps, is that God has continued to confirm my call through the people I serve. Ministry is deeply relational. Whether I’m preaching, baptising, visiting someone in the care home or simply sitting in silence with someone who’s grieving—those are the moments when I feel the call most clearly. It’s not about titles or robes. It’s about love. Christ’s love, shared, broken, poured out like the bread and wine at the table.

Peter’s story ends not in shame, but in love. He’s restored. Commissioned. And tradition tells us he died a martyr, crucified upside down because he didn’t feel worthy to die like his Lord. That kind of humility shapes the heart of a priest. We know we’re not worthy. And yet, we are called. God’s grace is sufficient.

So here I am. And here you are, we are all Called, broken, renewed, and called again. Not necessarily into lay or ordained ministry but as followers of Jesus Christ just like Peter. And like Peter, I will spend the rest of my life learning to fix my eyes on Jesus, even when the water is rising and the wind is strong.

At Petertide, we remember not only the saints of old but also those of us still stumbling after Christ today. I want to invite you on that journey with me, when like Peter I say yes again. Yes to the call. Yes to the cost. Yes to the Christ who never stops calling.