The Catholic Church is hardly the center for the young, brilliant and inspired these days. As Camardo's peers and even some family members assert pressure on her to abandon her holy promises, dioceses around the country are cutting back and consolidating Masses. The church is researching and reaching desperately for answers and solutions in one of its most dramatic vocational crises in history.

"But this is my calling," says the popular, upper-middle-class Duke graduate, referring to her commitment to a life of poverty, chastity and obedience. Joining religious life is a long journey, however, and she recognizes that she can still change her mind.

Last week, Camardo entered her novitiate year, the third and final year of religious life before she takes her first, temporary vows. She lives with eight women between the ages of 50 and 80, and one 27-year-old, at the Sisters of Charity of Leavenworth, Kan. There are no exact figures, but there are probably fewer than 100 nuns under 40 in the United States.

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Camardo is radical, by any standards. Her room in the "Motherhouse" -- a wing of a huge brick building that houses retired and infirm sisters -- is decorated only by a portrait of Dorothy Day, the Catholic, Communist, feminist activist who anticipated Liberation Theology by 30 years. She writes letters to Congress and protests the School of Americas, the government organization that trains foreign soldiers in anti-guerrilla warfare. She votes Democratic, no matter the candidate's stance on abortion. In fact, she dropped out of her school's pro-life association, uncomfortable with its demonstration tactics. And she believes that it's downright un-Christian to discriminate against gays, as the major tenet of Catholicism holds that every person has an inherent dignity. "I won't use the Bible to justify oppressing others," she says. "The way Scripture works, you can use it to justify anything you want without taking into regard the historical context of the time it was written."

Camardo knows her views on the Bible aren't popular among traditional Catholics and admits that, in the end, she will submit to the law of the church. But if she's so frustrated with some of the church's stances, why would she become a nun? Why can't she devote herself to social work on her own terms? Why must she acquiesce to standards she rejects? And why be celibate? At first, this last question is only half-answered:

"I have yet to meet a man who shares the same commitment to caring. And it's hard to imagine that ever happening," she says. She is referring to her two main exes: Ken, her high school sweetheart, now a high-powered yuppie, and Sean, a man she met while studying for her novitiate in Denver. Sean sounded like the more promising match. A former priest candidate, he remains committed to social justice through God. But even he put unrelenting pressure on her to spend time with him, and she found herself again torn between her ideals and a partner.

"I am committed to social work," she says. "And I don't want to compromise my values in any way for a relationship."

Camardo's ex-boyfriends may be tortured by the prospect of her vows, but not exactly surprised by them. During college, this straight-A student spent most of her free time tutoring Hispanic fourth-graders in English, clearing fields of leftover crops to be brought to food pantries and bringing Communion to Catholic hospital patients. During her sophomore year, she helped build a school in a tiny village in Honduras. As a senior, she was elected vice president of her "alternative" sorority. She and her secular sisters focused on philanthropy, AIDS and building a women's community. This sisterhood wasn't outwardly about God, but it wasn't about hazing and fashion, either.

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