One might be justified in questioning the veracity of my vocation (from the Latin word vocare, “to call”) to be a lawyer upon learning of the circumstances attending the call. I remember them vividly.
It was the middle of the night. I was lying awake, whether tossing or turning I can’t recall. But feeling terrified? Anxious? Uncertain? Yes, yes, yes.
I knew I was getting married. Not imminently, as I had only just begun to date my future wife—who happens to be my current wife, who also happens to be my only wife, just to be clear—but there was no doubt in my mind that we would eventually be married. And that fact changed my approach to everything.
At the time, I was a junior in college studying English, philosophy and Catholic studies. I prided myself on choosing a financially nonviable course of study. I believed my path was the pure path of the mind. I would be an intellectual, a scholar, a writer. One who sat upon mountain tops and pondered. I understood that the market for the skill set I sought was slim to nonexistent. But in my mind, that was a fact in its favor.
I derided and stuck up my nose at my friends who were pre-law, pre-medicine or pre-business. It was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for one of my fellow students who had a legitimate career path to receive my approval. In my youth, I failed to recognize my own deadly pride and gnostic tendencies. I earnestly believed that the pure realm of ideas—whatever that is—is an infinitely higher realm than the world of flesh and blood and bones and mud. I was terrified of the mundane, the banal, the everyday ordinariness of most of reality. I hoped to escape that through the persistent pursuit of immaterial ideas, whether through novels or philosophy or abstract theology. Money, the selling of goods and services, people’s physical or legal ailments, putting food on one’s table, gas in one’s car and heat in one’s house—all that was beneath me.
But when I considered this path in the context of a marriage, my worldview was upended. It was one thing if I was content for the entirety of my worldly possessions to consist of books by Aquinas, Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard and Wittgenstein. But could I really invite my beloved into such a life? What would my choices mean for our future—and our future family?
Thus my cold sweats in the middle of that January night. What should I do, O Lord? Then—in a fit of inspiration, or panic-induced revelation—it came to me. I would become a lawyer!
As simple as that, the decision was made. I fell asleep and woke up the next day a new man.
I awoke the next morning with the realization that I didn’t know any lawyers and did not really know what they did. I grew up in small-town North Dakota. We didn’t have a courthouse or a cop or a lawyer, and we liked it that way. The only thing I knew about lawyers I had gleaned from watching “Matlock” and “The Practice.” But during high school, I had also been an avid public speaker, an active member of Future Farmers of America, and participated in 4-H, drama, music and speech.
I reasoned that if I combined my knowledge of law from TV shows with my love of public speaking, I could develop a plan: I’d be a trial lawyer, spending my days in front of juries. In my mind, a trial was just another speaking competition. And if there was—and is—something I like even more than scholarship and the world of ideas, it’s competition. And winning.
If I had taken two steps down the ladder of intellectual snobbery, I had probably taken three or four steps up the ladder of pride and self-conceit. The world of ideas had simply been replaced by the idea I had of myself. And the idea I had of myself was one of success. Of great competency. Confidence in my ability to convince another or a group of others that my position was right. I hated to lose. I had always been an accomplished student, an award winner in whatever extracurricular activity I did (save basketball). And I reasoned that I’d simply continue that in law. I’d get the highest grades and a coveted clerkship and an important job doing important things. And I’d keep winning.
But what I failed to see back then, and during most of my law school days, is that lawyers have clients who are human beings with real-life problems. Lawsuits aren’t competitions. Lawyers don’t get trophies for winning a case. You don’t stand before a jury trying to convince them that God exists, or that utilitarian philosophy is bunk or that language does reveal something about essence. Instead, lawyers are advocates who must stand in the shoes of their clients, clients with concrete, incarnate legal problems. More than just advocates, lawyers are counselors.
It has taken me nearly 10 years of practicing law to even begin to understand that term: counselor of law. But of late, the Lord appears to want to hammer this idea into my skull.
From Pages to People
Today I am an appellate attorney. I love this niche area of practice. In some ways my work as a lawyer is closer to my original vision for my life than I could have thought possible. Give me 1,000 transcript pages and unlimited access to an online legal research database and lock me in a windowless office for a week or two, and I’m happy. I love research and writing. I enjoy pondering legal issues and thoroughly considering them from every angle. I am proud of my ability to craft succinct, clear, persuasive legal arguments. Writing a brief is about as much fun as one can have as a lawyer.
But my work also constantly reminds me that there is no such thing as an abstract legal issue, that the practice of law is about real people. And the Lord keeps sending real people with real problems to knock on my office door, pulling my mind out of the appellate heights. To help me see that, God has given me the privilege of seeking to understand these problems from others’ perspectives. I am learning that being a lawyer is not primarily about coming up with the best legal arguments. It is about being a counselor. A listener. An empathizer. And an advocate.
These folks do not usually become my clients. They come to me because I am the only person they know who is a lawyer. And they know me because of my family’s mission to build Christian community with the poor and marginalized, including through foster care, weekly communal dinners and creating a house of hospitality.
At times I am simply able to point them in the direction of pro bono or low bono resources. Other times I can help them understand their legal challenges and their options going forward. But most importantly, I can listen and empathize with those who come my way. Women in abusive relationships trying to navigate divorce and child protection proceedings. Employees terminated from jobs. Teen fathers being investigated by law enforcement. Individuals charged with crimes.
Many times, there is not much practical assistance I can offer. I wish I could do more. I wish I could change their often dire circumstances. Those in need of legal counsel are usually going through one of the hardest times in their lives. Stress, anxiety, fear, the overwhelming sense of helplessness and lack of control—these feelings are all common. Being a counselor of law requires some of the same skillset as a clinical counselor. In my experience, empathy and patient listening are key. On multiple occasions I have listened to a mother crying on the other end of the phone, trying to empathize with her feelings of helplessness as she prepares to send her children for another required weekend visit with her abusive ex-husband. And sometimes all I can do is agree that it’s not fair. As much as I’d like to, I can’t change her legal circumstances. But I can say her sharing her life with me has broadened my understanding of my own vocation.
We in the legal profession are privileged. We have had access to training and opportunities that most will never have. I believe the law is, must and can be a force for great good. We live in a fallen world. Good law and fair legal processes can help. But the law can also become a hurdle and a burden, especially for those who are poor and disadvantaged.
A lawyer’s right to practice law brings with it a duty to assist those in need. That doesn’t mean that we can or should represent every person who comes to our doors. We need to practice discernment. But how we respond to those we cannot help in legal matters can still make a difference. We must at least lend our ear to those in need. Can that be the cup of cold water we offer back to Jesus? Or will we be like those disciples who time and again tried to send away the poor, the sick, the lame and those who chased after Jesus, crying out for help? Jesus always had the time for them.
Today, I love being an appellate attorney. I still love ideas, the joy of diving deep into a challenging legal issue and the thrill of obtaining a favorable judicial ruling. And I believe that my passion for my work pleases the Lord. This is how he made me. But I am also convinced more each day that my call to be a lawyer is not just for my own good, or even the good of my wife, but is also for those in need. As a lawyer, I still feel God’s presence in the pages of my books and the papers on my desk, but I also see it more clearly in the people before me.
