I still remember the white Volkswagen.
In the village where I grew up, surrounded by hills and rocks, it was the only vehicle that regularly carried people to Mass. It bounced along poor roads, carried the elderly, the sick, and the hopeful, and sometimes served as the closest thing we had to an ambulance. It belonged to the sisters. At the time, I did not have words for what I was witnessing. I only knew that wherever those women went, the Church arrived with them.
Only later did I understand that what I was seeing was not simply generosity or kindness, but a form of life the Church herself recognizes as essential — consecrated life, the Gospel taken seriously. .
Consecrated life rises from the very beginning of the Church, from that moment when the first disciples heard Christ’s call to “leave everything” and follow him. From the start, some men and women felt drawn to respond with particular freedom and intimacy, embracing poverty, chastity, and obedience as a way of configuring their entire lives to Christ.
As a young person, drifting away from the practice of the faith, I did not yet know this theology. What I knew was Sister Agnes.
She was a Sister of St. Louis who never scolded me or tried to frighten me back into the Church. Instead, she listened. She invited. Over seven years, she repeated what seemed like a very small request: “Come with me to this funeral.” That quiet, persevering invitation slowly reopened the door of faith, a door I had thought was closed.
Looking back, I now see that her way of accompanying me was a lived expression of the evangelical counsels. Her poverty was visible in a simple, shared life. Her chastity was expressed as a love that was real, patient, and completely non-possessive. Her obedience showed itself in her availability — always ready to go where she was needed, without drawing attention to herself.
A priesthood that would later blossom stands, in part, on that hidden fidelity.
As I grew in faith, I began to notice that Sister Agnes was not an exception. She belonged to something much larger — a vast, quiet body of men and women across the world who had made the same radical choice to belong entirely to Christ.
Consecrated life is sometimes spoken of as if it were a sector or a specialty within the Church. But lived from the inside, it feels more like a people — a kind of nation within the People of God. Not a nation defined by territory or language, but by profession of the evangelical counsels and a shared desire to live the Gospel without compromise.
In many places, consecrated men and women outnumber diocesan clergy. They teach, heal, pray, accompany, bury the dead, and remain when circumstances would make leaving understandable. Their presence forms a living network of prayer, service, and witness woven into the very fabric of the Church.
Nowhere did I see this more clearly than in Africa.
In countries like Nigeria, consecrated life often flourishes amid political instability, economic hardship, and social insecurity. Communities live close to poverty, insecurity, and at times violence. Access to healthcare, education, and even food can be fragile. And yet, it is precisely in these conditions that the evangelical counsels take on their sharpest clarity.
Poverty is not an idea; it is lived alongside the poor. Obedience is not abstract; it means remaining faithful amid pressures from family structures, ethnic loyalties, or political powers. Chastity becomes a prophetic sign in societies marked by brokenness and exploitation, offering a healed vision of love rooted in Christ.
I have seen religious remain in regions affected by instability when others fled, continuing to run schools, clinics, and pastoral centers. Their presence became a living catechesis on Christ the Good Shepherd who does not abandon his flock.
It was only later, through study and formation, that I encountered the documents of the Second Vatican Council. It struck me how familiar they felt.
The Council spoke clearly: consecrated life belongs undeniably to the Church’s life and holiness. It is not an ornament or an optional extra, but an inner principle that helps the entire People of God live their universal call to sanctity.
Reading those words, I recognized what I had already seen in villages, convents, novitiates, and formation houses. Vatican II did not invent consecrated life’s importance; it named it, affirmed it, and placed it firmly at the heart of the Church’s mission.
The early monks and hermits withdrew into the desert seeking God alone. That desert, I have learned, is interior.
Every consecrated person is invited into that inner desert — a space of poverty, silence, spiritual combat, and availability. Even in active ministry, the desert remains: resisting comfort, letting go of control, choosing presence over efficiency.
As a priest, and now in leadership, I continue to return to that desert. It is there that vocation is purified, ambition stripped away, and mission clarified.
This is why the mission of the Society of St. Peter Apostle is so close to my heart.
The Society exists to support the formation of priests and consecrated persons in young Churches — the very places where the Gospel is often lived most radically and at greatest cost. Without formation, there would be no Sister Agnes, no sisters at hospital bedsides, no quiet presence in forgotten villages.
Those who support the Society are not simply funding institutions. They are making possible stories like mine. They are ensuring that the Church will continue to have men and women willing to give everything to Christ so that nothing and no one is lost.
It is natural to wonder what the next century will bring. Will poverty, chastity, and obedience still be understood in cultures that prize autonomy and comfort?
When I think of Sister Agnes, of my grandmother’s final days accompanied by religious sisters, of that white Volkswagen carrying people to Mass, the answer comes. As long as there are rebellious teenagers, lonely hospital rooms, and villages the world does not notice, consecrated life will remain necessary.
The Gospel will continue to find its way — sometimes quietly, sometimes on four worn tires — into the heart of the world. And your prayers and your support will make the generous yes of those religious women and men reach a little bit further.
*The author is the Vice President of the Society of St. Peter Apostole, one of four Pontifical Mission Societies.
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