What would possess you to give up a promising career in broadcast journalism to go back to school and train to become a priest?" Good question - and one I've been asked by bemused friends, family and colleagues more times than I can count since deciding some 10 months ago to do precisely that. And for someone who up until now has made his livelihood talking on the radio, I've found myself struggling to come up with words capable of articulating this thing they dub "My Calling."

I can easily forgive people for thinking I'm nuts. At 27, I'm trading a cool job that's secure and high-profile and pays well in a growing industry for one that's the complete opposite of those things. "Cool" isn't a word used to describe clergy. Job security and salary depend on how full the collection plate is. And with few exceptions, the church is hardly what you'd call a growth industry.

The denomination into which I would be ordained, the Anglican Church of Canada, is facing possible financial ruin due to lawsuits stemming from abuse suffered by Aboriginal children in residential schools operated by the government and churches.

Truth be told, I'm still not sure how I got to this point. I was raised in a Christian-but not what you'd call religious-home. I said my prayers, went to Sunday school, attended youth groups and, like just about every other teenager, I eventually left the church.

But the church never left me.

For as long as I can remember, there has been (I don't know how else to describe it) a tug somewhere inside. As a child, it was a gentle pull on the sleeve, felt when I heard Bible stories for the first time. In adolescence, the pull grew into a more insistent yank when, say, I'd hear a particularly gifted preacher. Even when I left the church for a couple of years, the pull was still there.

By this year, it was strong enough that I left my job reporting on politics in Quebec City to enter the Anglican seminary in Montreal, where I've begun studies.

My arrival at this point has been relatively slow and gradual. There has been no Road-to-Damascus conversion experience on my journey. It has been more a series of gentle revelations and affirmations that my talents are intended for a purpose greater than covering the most recent tempest in a teapot on Parliament Hill or reading the morning headlines between the latest hits from Britney Spears and The Moffatts. Though perhaps less spectacular than some others, callings, I've felt God's real presence throughout.

Since coming out of the ecclesiastical closet, I've been encouraged by the number of men and women I've met who are in the same boat: sometimes inexplicably drawn to the ministry, people who have fought it and realized it's a fight they couldn't win, people who see the crying need to fill a growing spiritual void and spread a badly needed message of hope.

Many of them make my leap look unremarkable. A case in point: the recently consecrated Episcopal bishop of Los Angeles, who used to play centre for the Denver Broncos.

Perhaps that's also part of my calling reminding people it's "normal" to have faith and that being a faithful Christian (or Jew, or Muslim, or whatever) doesn't mean being a zealot; reminding people that we eat, drink, party; swear, love, hurt, work like everyone else; reminding people that, as in my case, we deliver the news, good and bad. Or, in the case of the Lord Bishop of L.A., deliver a good tackle.

This article first appeared in Maclean's Magazine. It is reprinted here with the author's permission.