The word ‘vocation’ comes from a Latin root which means ‘to call’, and it reflects the sense of an inner calling or meaningful task which must be accomplished in the world. Although vocation does not necessarily involve a recognized profession or the accruing of money, it needs to involve the heart in order for us to feel we have really found our place in life. It also needs to be manifested outwardly for us to feel we have achieved what we were put on earth for. For some, vocation might involve climbing to the top of one's profession; for others it might involve the quiet but equally committed act of raising a child, or making one's garden beautiful. We all need some sense of vocation, whether it is expressed through a job or pursued quietly outside ordinary working life. Yet we are often bewildered about how to find our vocation and, if we do, how to make it concrete. Vocation may arise from inner inspiration, or it may evolve from external necessity which drives us onto a path which we discover only later is absolutely the right one. Myth offers us examples of both, as well as what to do and what not to do as we make our way in the world.
Never give up trying
The Celtic tale of Lugh's entry into the halls of the Tuatha Dé Danann is a delightful lesson in the importance of perseverance if we are to find our right place in the world. Vocation may be a calling from within, but it requires adaptability to the outer world as well as inner commitment. Lugh is a Mercurial figure – part divinity and part trickster – and in this story his chameleon-like versatility reflects a most important quality for those intent on finding their path in life.
ne day, a great assembly was held at Tara, where the Tuatha Dé Danann, the people of the goddess Danu, were wont to meet. King Nuada was celebrating his return to the throne by a feast. While the feast was at its height, a stranger, clothed like a king, came to the palace gate. The porter asked him his name and errand.
‘I am Lugh,’ the stranger replied. ‘I am the grandson of Diancecht by Cian, my father, and the grandson of Balor by Ethniu, my mother.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the porter impatiently, ‘but I did not ask your genealogy. What is your profession? For no one is admitted here unless he is a master of some craft.’
‘I am a carpenter,’ said Lugh.
‘We have no need of a carpenter. We already have a very good one; his name is Luchtainé,’ said the porter.
‘I am an excellent smith,’ said Lugh.
‘We do not want a smith. We have a very good one; his name is Goibniu,’ said the porter.
‘I am a professional warrior,’ said Lugh.
‘We have no need of one. Ogma is our champion,’ said the porter.
‘I am a harpist,’ said Lugh.
‘We have an excellent harpist already,’ said the porter.
‘I am a warrior renowned for skillfulness rather than for mere strength,’ said Lugh.
‘We already have a man like that,’ said the porter.
‘I am a poet and tale-teller,’ said Lugh.
‘We have no need of such,’ said the porter. ‘We have a most accomplished poet and tale-teller.’
‘I am a sorcerer,’ said Lugh.
‘We do not want one. We have numberless sorcerers and druids,’ said the porter.
‘I am a physician,’ said Lugh.
‘Diancecht is our physician,’ said the porter.
‘I am a cup-bearer,’ said Lugh.
‘We already have nine of them,’ said the porter.
‘I am a worker in bronze,’ said Lugh.
‘We have no need of you. We already have a worker in bronze. His name is Credné,’ said the porter.
‘Then ask the king,’ said Lugh, ‘if he has with him a man who is master of all these crafts at once, for if he has, then there is no need for me to come to Tara.’
So the porter went inside, and told the king that a man had come who called himself Lugh Ioldanach, which means ‘The Master of all Arts’, and that he claimed to know everything. The king sent out his best chess-player to play against the stranger. Lugh won, inventing a new move called ‘Lugh's enclosure’. Then the king invited him in. Lugh entered, and sat down upon the chair called the ‘sage's seat’, kept for the wisest man.
The champion, Ogma, was showing off his strength by pushing a flag stone so large that four-score yokes of oxen would have been needed to move it. The stone, huge as it was, was only a portion broken from a still greater rock. Lugh picked it up in his hands and put it back in its place. Then the king asked him to play the harp. Lugh played the ‘sleep-tune’, and the king and all his court fell asleep and did not wake until the same hour the following day. Next Lugh played a plaintive air, and they all wept. And then he played a measure which sent them into transports of joy.
When the king saw all these numerous talents, he realized that one so gifted could be of great help to his people against their enemies. So he took counsel with the others and lent the throne to Lugh for thirteen days. And Lugh became the war leader for the Tuatha Dé Danann.
‘Master of all Arts’ may be too vast a collection of talents for any human to aspire to, and usually such total mastery is not required when we apply for a job. But the story of Lugh tells us that we may need to acquire a variety of skills if we are to find a place in our constantly changing world. This ancient Celtic tale is strangely practical and up-to-date, because it presents us with the importance of acquiring knowledge of many related subjects – even if we aspire to work at only one. The idea of specializing and becoming good at just one thing may have been appropriate decades ago; the job market then was different, and the computer age had not begun. Now the world is changing with incredible rapidity, and we may need the Mercurial all-roundedness of Lugh if we are to beat the competition and make our way towards our worldly goals.
Lugh is also persistent, and this quality is vital if we are to make our aspirations real. He does not go away in a hurt sulk when first rejected, nor does he get angry or arrogant; he simply counters each refusal with another offer. He knows that he must convince the king, not that he is the best harpist or warrior or carpenter, but that he is capable of doing any of these jobs and is therefore worth several other people in terms of the resources he has to offer. His confidence lies in his knowledge of himself and his training in many different arts. In short, he can convince everyone of his worth, including the king, because he believes in himself; and this belief is based not on some self-aggrandizing vision, but on solid practical experience. In this most pragmatic of myths, we are presented with a vivid description of what we need to arm ourselves in the world outside and how we need to present ourselves to those from whom we seek favor. One can almost hear the king weighing up the cost-effectiveness of hiring one man who is capable of doing the jobs of six. Lugh is a thoroughly modern deity, well aware of market forces. There are many deeper and more profound issues concerning the pursuit of a vocation, which we will explore through other myths; but the story of Lugh can teach us that our journey must begin with our feet firmly on the ground.
A lesson in how to prosper
This tale from East Africa has much to teach us about the invisible laws which must be honored if we are to find what we are seeking in the world. One brother gets it wrong, while the other gets it right – not because he is cleverer or stronger, but because he responds to the needs of those he meets along the way.
here was a man who had two sons. The elder was called Mkunare, and the younger Kanyanga. They were so poor that they did not own a single cow. Eventually Mkunare proposed that he should go up to Kibo, one of the two peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro, because he had heard it said that a king ruled up there who was generous to the poor. Thus he hoped to fulfill what he felt to be his vocation, which was the salvation of his family and his people.
Mkunare took a supply of food – all that could be spared – and set off up the mountain. After a while he met an old woman who was sitting beside the path. Her eyes were so sore that she could not see. Mkunare greeted her.
‘Why have you come to this place?’ said the old woman in reply.
‘I am looking for the king who lives at the top of the mountain,’ said Mkunare.
‘Lick my eyes clean,’ said the old woman, ‘and I will tell you how to get there.’
But Mkunare was too revolted by her sore eyes to lick them, and he went on his way. Further up, he arrived at the country of the Konyingo (the Little People or Wee Folk), and saw a group of men sitting in their king's cattle compound. These men were very small, the size of young boys, and Mkunare mistakenly assumed that they were children.
‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Where will I find your fathers and big brothers?’
The Konyingo replied, ‘Just wait here until they arrive.’
Mkunare waited until evening, but no one came. Before nightfall the Konyingo herded their cattle into the compound and slaughtered an animal for the evening meal; but they did not give Mkunare any of the meat. They said that he must wait until their fathers and big brothers arrived. Tired, hungry and disappointed, Mkunare set off again down the mountain, and again passed the old woman sitting beside the path. But, even though he tried to persuade her, she would tell him nothing about what had happened to him. On his way back, he lost his way in uninhabited country and did not get home for a month. Thus, he failed in his quest and told his kinsmen that there were people on the top of Kibo with large herds of cattle, but being mean, they gave nothing to strangers.
Then Kanyanga, the younger brother, decided to go up the mountain in a second attempt to ease his family's poverty. After a while he, too, met the old woman sitting beside a path. He greeted her and, when she asked why he had come up there, he told her he was looking for the king who lived on top of the mountain.
‘Lick my eyes clean,’ said the old woman to Kanyanga, ‘and I will tell you how to get there.’
Kanyanga took pity on her and licked her eyes thoroughly.
‘Keep climbing,’ the old woman told Kanyanga, ‘and you will come to the settlement of the king. The men you will see there are no bigger than boys, but don't jump to the conclusion that they are children. Address them as members of the king's council and greet them respectfully.’
Further up, Kanyanga arrived at the cattle compound of the Konyingo king, and greeted the little men there respectfully. They took him to the king, who listened to his plea for help and ordered that he be given a meal and a place to sleep that night. As a return for their hospitality, Kanyanga taught the Konyingo the incantations and medicines which protect the growing crops against insects and other pests, and also those which invisibly bar the paths against invading enemies. The Little People were so pleased with these new methods that they each gave Kanyanga an animal out of their herds; and he set off down the mountain, driving his cattle in front of him and singing the Herding-song. And so Kanyanga prospered, as did his kinsmen; but people composed a song about his elder brother Mkunare which is still sung:
‘O Mkunare, wait till the fathers come.
What right have you to despise the Little Folk?’
Mkunare, like many people, knows what he wants. He wishes to prosper and help his family and kinsmen, and to do so he needs the favor of someone who is in a position to help him. Also, like many people, he is so preoccupied with achieving his goal that he fails to notice what is really going on around him, and does not respond with compassion to someone less fortunate than himself whom he meets along the way. Because he is repelled by the old woman and does not look carefully at the little Konyingo to discover whether they are really boys or men, he receives no help and must return home with empty hands. Thus we, too, may be so focused on what we want as we set out in life that we lose our capacity to remain aware of what confronts us in the immediate present. And in failing to live here and now, we may risk the loss of the goals we so long to achieve.
The old woman whom Mkunare meets is one of life's unfortunates, but she also possesses some very important information, without which Mkunare cannot hope to get what he seeks. We might interpret her as an image of those less well off than ourselves, who, through bitter experience, have acquired wisdom we need. Or we may see her as a symbol of the painful and unfair side of life, which must be faced if we are to understand the world we live in. However we interpret her, the message is clear: refusal to respond to her request results in a fatal ignorance of the real facts, and thus in failure. Figures such as this old woman are common in myth. Sometimes they are portrayed as poor, sick or elderly people seeking a favor, sometimes as animals needing help; and when they appear, they invariably reward whomever responds to their plea with some vital knowledge or implement which ensures future success. It is possible that we all meet such situations as we move through life, yet so often we fail to recognize the importance of what we are facing, and cannot show the necessary compassion.
Mkunare's second mistake, arising inevitably from his first mistake, is that he addresses the Little People with disrespect because he thinks they are children. Because they do not match up to Mkunare's image of what a king's councillors should look like, he ‘talks down’ to them. In much the same way, we, too, may find ourselves judging others solely by their appearance and treating them with disrespect, never realizing that they may, in fact, hold the key to the goals we are so avidly pursuing. And even if these Little People were children, children too merit respect as individuals; if they are wise enough to know how to herd cattle, they are worthy enough for Mkunare to speak to them with civility. Instead, he dismisses them, and they make him pay for his lack of courtesy. In return, Mkunare learns nothing from all this, but afterwards tells everyone that the Konyingo are too mean to share anything with him. Such a negative and cynical view of other people is often the result not of others' meanness, but of our own stupidity.
Kanyanga, unlike his older brother, is not blinded by either callousness or superficiality. He pities the old woman and gives her what she needs; if he is revolted, nevertheless his compassion proves stronger. Licking the sore eyes of a nearly blind old woman is a striking image which suggests giving unstinting comfort to someone else's pain and disillusionment. Thus Kanyanga is warned about the Little People, and does not mistake them for children. But he goes further than merely following good advice; he responds to the generosity of the Konyingo with generosity of his own, teaching them everything he knows. This act is not calculated to gain a reward; it is given from the heart. Thus he succeeds in bringing home wealth in the form of cattle. The message here is clear.
Going too far too fast
The sad Greek myth of Phaëthon reveals many of the aspirations and difficulties of the young person seeking to find his or her place in the world; and it issues a stark warning against trying to go too far too fast. Perhaps more importantly, it also teaches us that attempting to copy an admired parent is not always a wise way to discover one's vocation.
orne by shining pillars, the palace of Apollo the sun-god rose glittering and brilliant in the heavens. To this beautiful place came Phaëthon, Apollo's son by a mortal woman. Phaëthon saw his divine father seated on a vast golden throne, surrounded by his retinue: the Days, the Months, the Years, the Centuries, the Seasons and, moving gracefully to and fro, the Muses making sweet music. Apollo noticed with surprise the beautiful youth who stood gazing at the glory around him in silent amazement.
‘Why have you come here, my son?’ Apollo asked.
‘On earth, men are making mock of me and slandering my mother Clymene,’ replied Phaëthon. ‘They say that I only pretend to be of heavenly origin and that, in reality, I am only the son of an ordinary, unknown man. So I have come to beg of you some token which will prove to the world that my father is indeed Apollo the sun-god.’
Apollo rose and embraced his son tenderly. ‘I shall never disown you in the face of the world,’ he told the young man. ‘But if you need more than my word, I swear by the River Styx that your wish shall be granted no matter what it may be.’
‘Then make my wildest dream come true!’ said Phaëthon. ‘For one whole day let me guide the winged chariot of the sun!’
Fear and sorrow shadowed the god's shining face. ‘You have beguiled me into speaking rash words,’ he said sadly. ‘If only I could retract my promise! For you have asked something of me which is beyond your strength. You are young, you are mortal, but what you crave is granted only to the gods, and not to all of them, for only I am permitted to do what you are so eager to try. My chariot must travel a steep path. It is a difficult climb for the horses, even when they are fresh at dawn. The middle of the course lies at the zenith of the sky. I myself am often shaken with dread when, at such a height, I stand upright in my chariot. My head spins when I look down on the earth so far beneath me. And the last stretch of the way descends sharply and requires a sure hand on the reins. Even if I gave you my chariot, how could you control it? Do not insist that I keep my word to you; mend your wish while there is still time. Choose anything else that earth and heaven have to offer. But do not ask this dangerous thing!’
But Phaëthon pleaded and pleaded, and Apollo had, after all, given his sacred oath. So he took his son by the hand and led him to the sun-chariot. The pole, axle and the rims of the wheels were all of gold, the spokes of silver, and the yoke glittered with precious stones. While Phaëthon stood marvelling, dawn wakened in the east. Apollo ordered the Hours to yoke the horses and he salved the face of his son with a magic ointment to enable him to withstand the heat of the flames.
‘My son, spare the goad and use the reins, for the horses will run of themselves,’ he said. ‘Your labour will lie in slowing their flight. Keep away from both the South and North Poles. Do not drive too slow, lest the earth catch fire, nor too high, lest you burn up the sky.’
The young man scarcely heard his father's advice. He leaped into the chariot, and the horses bounded up the course, breaking through the mists of morning. But soon they felt their burden was lighter than usual, and the chariot reeled and floundered through the air and swerved aimlessly while the horses wheeled from the beaten paths of the sky and jostled each other in savage haste. Phaëthon became frightened; he did not know which way to pull the reins, nor where he was, nor could he curb the animals. When he looked down at the earth, his knees shook with terror. He wanted to call the horses but he did not know their names. Chill with despair, he dropped the reins, and instantly the horses leaped sideways into unfamiliar regions of air. They grazed against drifts of cloud, which kindled and began to smoulder. They rushed towards the fixed stars, and the earth grew chill and cold and the rivers turned to ice.
Then the horses plunged downwards towards the earth. The sap was dried out of plants, and the leaves of the forest trees shrivelled and burst into flame. The world was afire, and Phaëthon began to suffer from the intolerable heat. He was tortured with fumes and blasts of ashes cast up by the burning earth. Smoke as black as pitch surged around him. And then his hair caught fire. He fell from the chariot and whirled through space like a shooting star until, far below, the arms of the ocean swallowed him up at last.
His father Apollo, who had feared and then witnessed this sight of destruction, veiled his radiant head and brooded in sorrow. It is said that this day brought no light to the world; only the great conflagration shone far and wide.
Phaëthon, like many an energetic and unreflective youth, wants to be somebody important in the world. He is hurt by others' mockery; they claim he is the son of nobody, not the child of the radiant sun-god. How often do we hear young people boasting about who their parents are, hoping to borrow some of their elders' success and position before they have earned it themselves? And equally often we may hear the children of those who have achieved little in terms of material success, ashamed of their humble origins, boasting of an imaginary lineage in order to claim the admiration of those around them. Phaëthon is neither malicious nor a fool; but he is not mature enough to take his time and work towards the day when success and recognition can be the fruits of his own efforts and abilities. He is seeking his place in the world, searching for a true vocation or calling; but he is impatient to reap the rewards before he understands his abilities and limits.
Apollo, who in this story is a loving and concerned father, wants to do all he can to help the young man find his feet. So he rashly promises anything the youth might desire, perhaps partly to compensate for neglect. This is the mythic equivalent of letting one's son borrow the Porsche before he has got his driving licence, or allowing him to become a partner in the family business before he has demonstrated any knowledge or skill. Many fathers feel deeply guilty because they spend so much time away from their families and, when faced with their children's hurt, they try to make things right again by offering material rewards beyond the child's capabilities. When Phaëthon asks for the sun-chariot, Apollo, the god of foresight and prophecy, can see well enough the tragic outcome. He warns Phaëthon that he is not strong enough for the task, nor is the task one to which any mortal is entitled. Yet he cannot renege on his sacred oath. He must pay dearly for his mistake, made partly from love and partly from an effort to assuage guilt.
Phaëthon, like so many figures in Greek myth, is afflicted with hubris. He wants to be godlike and will not accept his mortal limits. So too may we aspire in the world, wanting to be great and famous, wanting to be wealthy and powerful, oblivious of our human limits and stubbornly refusing to reflect coolly and realistically on just what we are good at and what we may be unfit to do. The challenge of finding a vocation tests us on many levels, whether we face this challenge in youth or in mid-life when we may seek to change paths and move in a more fulfilling direction. One of the greatest of these tests is the fraught issue of recognizing where our talents lie and finding the humility to see when we will simply not make the grade. Some people do not aspire high enough and fail to develop real abilities, sometimes because of insecurity or restrictive circumstances beyond their control. Some aim too low because of laziness. Others, like Phaëthon, want to emulate someone else because they wish to shine and be seen as special; yet they may not possess the particular combination of qualities necessary to achieve the goal. And if they fail to understand this, they may subject themselves to a great deal of sorrow and humiliation.
We are seduced by the apparently glamorous lives of the famous, and terrified by the prospect of living pointless banal lives without offering anything which will be remembered by future generations. Much of the impulse to carve a special place in the world springs from a deep, albeit unconscious, awareness that life is short and we must take what opportunities come our way, for they may not come again. Phaëthon's impossible dream is perfectly understandable, given the increasing sense of meaninglessness and boredom which besets so many in the modern world. Yet even with the threat of insignificance facing us all, we need to find the courage and humility to recognize that overweening ambition, without training, skill or a sense of real vocation based on real talents, can be a dangerous path. Whether Phaëthon's ruin is taken as an image of financial disaster generated by grandiose dreams, or as an image of professional humiliation generated by aiming beyond the reach of one's talents, this myth tells us, in no uncertain terms, that the sun-chariot is beyond our reach. In the arena of the world we may aspire, rightly and with hope, to become nothing more or less than our human selves.