There is a myth—one I clung to for a long time—that spiritual awakening must happen alone. That the path to God is a solitary mountain trail, marked only by personal revelation, private pain, and internal surrender. For much of my journey, I believed that the deeper I went into Spirit, the further I had to retreat from people.
And to some degree, solitude was part of my path. I’ve known what it is to weep alone on a floor, to question everything I was taught, to pray for a voice that would guide me through the fog. But if I’m honest, some of that isolation wasn’t mystical—it was protective. It was a way to avoid the vulnerability of being seen.
Because I had been hurt in community before. And yet… it was also community that healed me.
When I Walked Alone
After my first marriage ended, I felt like a spiritual failure. I had gone through seminary. I had been on fire for ministry. But now I was divorced, ashamed, unsure if I even had a place in the Church anymore. I began to withdraw—not only from people, but from the parts of myself that still longed to lead, to teach, to serve.
Then I moved. Started over. Again. My second marriage came with its own complexities, and for a while, I tried to build a spiritual life behind closed doors—just me, a few books, and God. I thought if I could just get strong enough on my own, maybe I’d be ready to re-enter community.
But healing doesn’t happen in theory. It happens in relationship.
The turning point came after the end of that second marriage—and then, shortly after, the death of one of my best friends. My world cracked open. And in that raw grief, I could no longer pretend I was meant to do this alone.
Community as Mirror
It was around this time that I started attending cacao ceremonies and sound meditations. Not as a leader, but as a participant. I needed to be held. To be in spaces where I didn’t have to explain myself, or defend my past. Just show up. And in those circles, something unexpected happened: I was seen.
I remember one moment vividly: during a sound bath, I felt a surge of grief rise in me—grief I had buried for years. I wanted to get up and leave, to hide. But the facilitator met my eyes, placed a hand on my shoulder, and simply nodded. That moment of silent permission cracked something open. It said, “You don’t have to be perfect to be here. Just be real.”
That was the mirror.
Others began reflecting back to me the parts of myself I had forgotten—the wisdom, the resilience, the capacity to hold space. And in doing so, they invited me to remember not only who I was, but who I was becoming.
The Messy Beauty of Spiritual Community
Community hasn’t always been easy for me. As someone who once felt like an outsider in both traditional church and New Age spaces, I often wrestled with belonging. I questioned: Do I fit here? Is it okay to bring both Christ and the chakras into this space?
And the truth is, sometimes people didn’t understand. I’ve been judged for being too spiritual, too Catholic, too mystical, too emotional, too open. But I’ve also found people who said, “Thank you for naming what I thought no one else felt.”
Through forming relationships in the spiritual community—especially within the Shrine of Holy Wisdom and the Solaya Fellowship I’ve begun to nurture—I’ve come to see that what makes us different is often what makes us most necessary. The real community doesn’t need you to conform. It wants you to contribute—from the depth of your truth.
Spirituality Must Be Embodied, and Embodiment Happens in Relationship
One of the most transformational moments of the last few years didn’t happen during a retreat or ritual. It happened in my garage, with my daughter and son nearby, singing bowls surrounding us, the smell of incense in the air.
We weren’t doing anything elaborate—just breathing together, laughing, connecting. And in that moment, I felt the presence of God as strongly as I ever have.
This is what community can be: not just sacred spaces set apart, but sacred moments shared.
Being with others—vulnerable, real, open—teaches us to love in practice, not just in theory. It reveals the parts of us that still seek healing. It demands humility, compassion, and presence. And in that messiness, something holy happens.
What I’ve Learned About Sacred Leadership Through Community
I’ve learned that I’m not called to lead from above—but from within. Sacred leadership isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being willing to hold the space while others discover theirs.
When I gather people for ceremony, for prayer, for spiritual reflection, I don’t come as a guru. I come as a witness. A father. A brother. A soul on the path with them.
What matters most isn’t how polished the ritual is. What matters is whether people feel seen. Whether they leave feeling more connected to their own truth. Whether they remember that they are sacred.
And the only way I could learn that was by first allowing others to do that for me.
Closing: We Are the Sanctuary
If you’ve been hurt by community, I want you to know—I have too.
If you’ve longed to belong but feared judgment or rejection, I get it.
If your heart still aches for real connection, for a place where your spirituality and your humanity are both welcome—you are not alone.
The role of community in spiritual growth isn’t about performance or perfection.
It’s about presence.
We need each other—not to fix one another, but to witness each other back into wholeness.
And that is why I create spaces now.
That is why I open my home, my heart, my practice—to those who are seeking what I once desperately needed.
Because I believe we can build something beautiful.
Something real.
Something sacred.
Not a church in the old sense—but a sanctuary of souls.
A fellowship of becoming.
Together, we grow.
Together, we remember.
Together, we rise.
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