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  • Preparing My Heart for the Acolyte’s Path

    Preparing My Heart for the Acolyte’s Path

    On August 15th, I will kneel before the altar and be ordained to the ancient Order of Acolyte—an order that has quietly endured through the centuries, often unnoticed but deeply significant. This moment comes not as a formality, but as a threshold: a sacred invitation to deeper service, devotion, and transformation.

    It is no coincidence that this ordination falls on the Feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos and the Feast of Holy Wisdom—two celebrations that speak directly to my heart and my path. The Dormition, or “falling asleep” of Mary, invites us into the mystery of surrender: of letting go into the arms of Divine Love, of trusting the unseen, of becoming vessels for what is greater than ourselves. And Holy Wisdom, known as Sophia in our tradition, reminds us that true knowledge begins not in books or rituals, but in the still, listening heart. These two feasts together remind me that the journey of faith is one of both reverent silence and radiant service.

    As I prepare for this ordination, I’ve been reflecting on what it truly means to serve at the altar—not just as a ceremonial assistant, but as someone who helps create a space where heaven and earth meet. The Acolyte’s role is not about being seen. It is about being present. It is about carrying the light, preparing the sacred vessels, and embodying stillness amidst the movement of liturgy. It is about offering my hands to help make the mystery visible.

    I remember the first time I served as an altar boy, nearly 25 years ago. I was young, nervous, and enchanted by the bells, the incense, the rhythm of prayer. I didn’t understand much then—but I knew I was close to something holy. And now, decades later, that same holy longing has returned, fuller and more mature, asking not just for admiration but for embodiment.

    This preparation hasn’t only been external. It has stirred something inward—a longing to align more fully with who I am called to be. I’ve been praying more slowly. Listening more deeply. Holding silence longer. Letting the gestures of liturgy imprint themselves on my body, not as choreography, but as prayer in motion. Every step toward the sanctuary feels like a step inward as well, into the mystery of God and into my own calling.

    For those who have supported me—mentors, friends, companions on the path—I carry you with me. Your prayers, encouragement, and witness have helped prepare this ground. And to those who may feel far from faith, or outside the bounds of traditional church: please know that this ordination isn’t about hierarchy or exclusion. It’s about widening the circle of love. It’s about being a bridge between the sacred and the everyday.

    On August 15th, I will say “yes” again—to service, to mystery, to the slow unfolding of the sacred in the ordinary. I offer this “yes” not just for myself, but for all those still searching, still aching, still wondering if they belong.

    You do. We all do.

    And the Light we carry is meant to be shared.

    With hope and devotion,

    Joseph Martinka

    Candidate for Holy Orders

    Shrine of Holy Wisdom, Tempe, AZ

  • A Reflection on Acceptance into Seminary

    A Reflection on Acceptance into Seminary

    “Called Beneath Her Mantle: A Seminary Acceptance on the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel”

    On July 16, the Church commemorates the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel—a day soaked in mystery, devotion, and maternal tenderness. For centuries, it has been a day set aside to honor Mary not only as the Mother of Jesus, but also as the patroness of contemplatives, mystics, and all who dwell in the shadow of the holy mountain—those who seek God in silence, in hidden places, and in the deep interior of the soul.

    This past July 16, I received a call that would mark a threshold moment in my life: I was accepted into seminary.

    To many, it might appear to be a matter of timing or paperwork. But I see it differently.

    I believe Heaven chose this date for a reason. And Mary, the Mother of all seekers, wrapped me in her mantle and whispered gently, “Yes. Now is the time. Walk forward, my son.”

    The Mountain Behind Me

    Like many who walk the winding road to ministry, my path has not been smooth. I have climbed emotional and spiritual hills, navigated the valleys of heartbreak, loss, and rebuilding. I’ve wrestled with the weight of calling, the silence of God, and the noise of self-doubt.

    I’ve lived a life formed by both love and suffering—two great teachers in the school of Christ. From my earliest days, I’ve sought the holy in the hidden, the sacred in the shattered. I’ve been both prodigal and prophet, student and teacher, wanderer and home-builder.

    But something in me has always longed for deeper waters, for ancient wells. For sacraments that do not merely symbolize, but transfigure. For a Church that does not merely instruct, but welcomes. For a ministry that does not merely preach, but heals.

    The Mountain Before Me

    Mount Carmel, biblically, is the place where Elijah called down fire from Heaven and showed Israel the living God. But for the Carmelite tradition, it became something quieter—a symbol of the inner mountain, the place where the soul ascends through prayer, humility, and surrender.

    To be accepted into seminary on this feast is, for me, a signpost from God and from Mary that my journey is not about prestige or titles, but about transformation. It is not about becoming someone “holy” in the eyes of the world, but about becoming empty enough to carry the love of Christ to others.

    I am not climbing this mountain to be seen.

    I am climbing because I’ve been called.

    Beneath Her Mantle

    Our Lady of Mount Carmel is often depicted handing the scapular to Saint Simon Stock—a symbol of protection and grace. For me, this image now feels personal. I picture Mary gently placing that mantle over my shoulders, saying, “Go into the world. Be a sign of love that does not exclude. Be a priest not of power, but of presence. Be a voice for those the Church has forgotten.”

    Her mantle is not armor. It is not a badge. It is a cloak of compassion, woven from her own “yes” to God. And it is under that mantle that I will study, pray, and grow. It is under that mantle that I will offer the sacraments. And it is under that mantle that I hope to shelter others who are weary, wandering, or wounded.

    A Ministry of Love

    My seminary formation is not merely about theology. It is about learning how to serve. It is about becoming more fully human, more fully surrendered, more fully aligned with Christ, the wounded healer. The One who breaks bread with outcasts, touches the untouchable, and whispers hope to those whose hope has died.

    I feel called to build bridges—between faith and doubt, tradition and renewal, heaven and earth. I feel called to an inclusive sacramental ministry rooted in ancient wisdom and open arms.

    And on this mountain of formation, I will not walk alone. Mary walks with me. So do the saints. So do all of you who believe in the power of love to transfigure the world.

    Conclusion

    So yes, I was accepted into seminary on the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

    But more than that, I was claimed by a mystery greater than myself.

    To those discerning your own calling, I offer this: Pay attention to the feast days of your life. God writes in liturgical rhythms. Mary appears in timing and tenderness. Your vocation is not a ladder to climb—it is a mountain to surrender to.

    And sometimes, at the top of that mountain, there is no thunder. There is no fire.

    There is just a mother’s voice saying, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  • Marian Dogmas & Titles Comparison Chart

    Marian Dogmas & Titles Comparison Chart

    Doctrine / TitleRoman CatholicEastern OrthodoxIndependent Catholic (e.g. Old Catholic, CACA, OSST)
    1. Divine Motherhood (Theotokos)✅ Defined at Council of Ephesus (431)✅ Affirmed at Ephesus; central to Orthodox theology✅ Affirmed; considered foundational
    2. Perpetual Virginity✅ Dogma: Virgin before, during, and after Christ’s birth✅ Strongly affirmed in liturgy and theology✅ Widely affirmed, though some communities may not require strict assent
    3. Immaculate Conception✅ Dogma (Ineffabilis Deus, 1854)❌ Not dogma; many affirm her purification at the Annunciation✅ Often affirmed spiritually, but not always held as dogma
    4. Assumption of Mary✅ Dogma (Munificentissimus Deus, 1950)✅ Celebrated as Dormition; bodily assumption is affirmed in tradition✅ Widely affirmed; often celebrated liturgically
    5. Co-Redemptrix / Mediatrix / Advocate☑️ Promoted in popular devotion; not dogma❌ Rejected as overly scholastic; Mary intercedes but not as “co-redeemer”☑️ Varies: CACA/OSST may affirm as devotional titles without making dogmatic claims
    6. Immaculate Heart of Mary✅ Promoted in liturgy and private devotion❌ Not a formal devotion; emphasis is on her role in Christ’s life✅ Affirmed in many Independent traditions influenced by RC spirituality
    7. Mary as Queen of Heaven✅ Feast of the Queenship of Mary (Aug 22); biblical & theological basis✅ Honored as Queen in icons/hymns (e.g., “More honorable than
  • A Concise Primer on Apostolic Succession & Sacramental Life Beyond Rome

    A Concise Primer on Apostolic Succession & Sacramental Life Beyond Rome

    1. What Is Apostolic Succession?

    Apostolic succession is the historic-theological claim that the authority Christ entrusted to the Twelve Apostles—especially to teach, sanctify, and govern the Church—is transmitted by the laying-on of hands (ordination) from bishop to bishop in an unbroken line.
    Key elements

    ElementMeaning
    Physical signImposition of hands with an ordination prayer calling on the Holy Spirit (cf. 1 Tim 4:14).
    IntentionTo ordain as the Church intends (service of Word, sacrament, and pastoral oversight).
    ContinuityThe new bishop must be consecrated by at least one (normally three) bishops already validly in the line.

    2. Churches Claiming Valid Succession Apart from Rome

    CommunionSuccession SourceRome’s Current AssessmentNotable Features of Sacramental Life
    Eastern OrthodoxFrom early patriarchates (Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch, Jerusalem)Valid orders & sacraments (Unitatis redintegratio 15)Identical seven sacraments; leavened Eucharistic bread; chrismation for infants.
    Oriental Orthodox (Coptic, Armenian, Syriac, Ethiopian, Eritrean, Malankara)Ancient patriarchal lines that separated after Chalcedon (451)Valid (Joint statements since 1980s acknowledge real priesthood)Use of anaphoras such as St Basil or Addai & Mari; miaphysite Christology.
    Assyrian Church of the EastFrom Seleucia-Ctesiphon (traditionally St Thomas)Valid; 2001 Vatican guidelines permit intercommunion in some circumstancesCelebrates the Eucharist without the Words of Institution in the anaphora of Addai & Mari.
    Old Catholic Union of Utrecht
    (post-1870)    		Roman-Catholic bishops (notably Archbishop Küng of Utrecht)Valid orders but illicit; ordination of women since 1990s breaks communion with some partnersSeven sacraments; vernacular liturgies; open communion.
    Anglican CommunionMedieval English succession; break in 16th c.Invalid (Apostolicae curae 1896) – Rome judged intention/form defective; dialogues continue (ARCIC)Two main sacraments (“dominical”); women bishops in many provinces; diverse Eucharistic theologies.
    Independent/
    Continuing Anglican & Independent Catholic Groups    		Lines from Old Catholic, Duarte-Costa, or vagante bishopsCase-by-case; technically valid if rooted in a valid line and proper form/intention retainedWide variation: some maintain Catholic sacramental praxis; others innovate substantially.

    3. Sacramental Theology Outside Roman Jurisdiction

    TopicOrthodox & OrientalOld CatholicAnglican (High Church)
    EucharistReal change of the Gifts after epiklesis; usually termed metabole, mystery rather than “transubstantiation.”Accept Trent’s substance-language but stress Eastern emphases; open communion policy.Anglo-Catholics affirm Real Presence; others hold receptionism or memorial views.
    Confirmation/
    Chrismation    		Administered with Baptism (infants) by priest using Myron consecrated by a bishop.Usually post-baptism by priest or bishop; retains Western sequence.In most provinces it remains a bishop’s act; theology varies.
    PenanceIntegral to pastoral life; formula of absolution parallels Roman form.Private confession optional but encouraged.Ranges from obligatory (Anglo-Catholic) to rarely practiced.
    Marriage & Holy OrdersMarriage is a sacrament only when consummated; ordination open to married men (not after episcopal consecration).Allow remarriage after divorce in some cases; ordains women (since 1996).Many provinces ordain women and allow same-sex marriage; others do not.

    4. Recognition, Communion & Practical Pastoral Issues

    • Catholic Use of Non-Roman Sacraments
      • Emergency/need: Catholics may receive Penance, Eucharist, and Anointing from valid Eastern priests when access to a Catholic priest is impossible (CIC §844).
    • Orthodox Reception of Roman Faithful
      • Some jurisdictions require (re)chrismation; others accept Catholic baptism/confirmation outright.
    • Intercommunion
      • Limited “Eucharistic hospitality” agreements exist with Old Catholics (e.g., between Utrecht and German RC dioceses for mixed marriages).
    • Ecumenical Dialogues
      • Orthodox–Catholic: Joint International Commission (since 1979) affirms essential commonalities (e.g., Ravenna 2007).
      • Catholic–Oriental: Christological agreements (e.g., Common Declaration with Coptic Pope Shenouda III, 1988).
      • ARCIC: Anglican–Roman statements recognize a “substantial agreement” in Eucharist and Ministry though differences remain.

    5. Key Take-Aways

    1. Validity ≠ Communion – Rome acknowledges many non-Roman ordinations as valid while still considering them illicit or incomplete.
    2. Diversity in Practice – Sacramental life is shaped by different canonical, liturgical, and cultural contexts, yet rooted in shared apostolic faith.
    3. Ecumenical Momentum – Formal dialogues increasingly bridge gaps, especially with Eastern Churches, offering practical pathways for shared sacramental participation in special circumstances.

    Selected References for Further Study

    1. Unitatis Redintegratio (Vatican II Decree on Ecumenism), 1964
    2. Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Dominus Iesus, 2000
    3. Orientale Lumen (John Paul II), 1995
    4. ARCIC: Agreed Statement on Ministry and Ordination, 1973; Clarifications, 1994
    5. E. Lanne, “Validity of Orthodox Orders”, Irenikon 50 (1977): 426–447
    6. W. Henn, “Old Catholic Theology”, in Handbook of Christian Theology, ed. Migliore, 2015
    7. A. Denysenko, The Orthodox Church in Ukraine: A Century of Separation, NIU Press, 2018 (succession in national Churches)
    8. Joint International Commission for Theological Dialogue between the Roman Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church, Ravenna Document, 2007
    9. R. Williams & W. Kasper, “Mary: Grace and Hope in Christ” (ARCIC) 2005 – ministry & communion implications
    10. J. T. O’Connor, The Hidden Manna: A Theology of the Eucharist, Ignatius Press, 2005 (chap. 12 on Eastern perspectives)

    These works provide solid entry points for anyone wishing to delve more deeply into apostolic succession and sacramental life beyond the Roman Catholic orbit.

  • Balancing Fatherhood and Faith: Sacred Lessons from My Children

    Balancing Fatherhood and Faith: Sacred Lessons from My Children

    There came a time in my life when the call to serve God through the Church grew louder than the noise of my own doubts. Drawn by a longing I couldn’t explain, I entered seminary—a sacred space where I would spend three formative years immersed in prayer, study, and spiritual formation. Those years were not easy, but they were holy. They shaped me deeply, breaking open old wounds and revealing hidden strengths. And while I didn’t remain in seminary, I did not leave unchanged. What I received there—wisdom, discipline, devotion—became the foundation for the most important ministry of my life: fatherhood. As the dad of two incredible children, I’ve come to realize that the lessons I once sought in chapel silence now echo in car rides, bedtime talks, and the quiet moments when my kids unknowingly remind me what it means to live with faith, hope, and love.

    It came swaddled in hospital blankets, with wide eyes staring up at me as if they already knew everything I had forgotten. It came with midnight cries, sticky fingers, whispered bedtime prayers, and fierce, wild love. It came in the form of my daughter and my son—my greatest teachers, my living sacraments.

    The First Altar: The Home

    Faith doesn’t always look like kneeling in pews or chanting sacred words in ancient tongues. Sometimes it looks like making pancakes on a Sunday morning when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes it’s staying calm during a meltdown, or holding space for a teenager’s silence when they can’t yet speak the ache they carry.

    Our homes can become temples, if we choose to see them that way. And our children—though loud, messy, and ever-transforming—are often the ones who keep our altars real. They pull us down from lofty theology and root us back into the incarnational truth of faith: love must take flesh to mean anything.

    Divine Reflection in Tiny Eyes

    Each of my children has mirrored something back to me that I needed to reclaim.

    My daughter—wise beyond her years—has shown me what resilience looks like in the face of challenge. Her fierce independence and deep emotional insight have reminded me not to dismiss my own inner child or silence my intuition for the sake of being “logical” or “strong.”

    My son—gentle, expressive, full of wonder—has reawakened in me the innocence of faith. The way he notices beauty in a sunset, a bird’s song, or a funny shape in the clouds brings me back to God in the most natural way possible: through awe.

    They teach me that spiritual depth is not about escaping this world. It’s about embracing it—fully, tenderly, and with great care.

    Sacrifice as Sacred Offering

    Being a father means giving up a lot of things—quiet mornings, spontaneous trips, uninterrupted thoughts. But I’ve come to realize that these “sacrifices” are not interruptions to my spiritual journey. They are the spiritual journey.

    Every time I lay something down for the sake of love, I am participating in the same sacred pattern that underlies the life of Christ: kenosis, or self-emptying.

    This is not martyrdom in the unhealthy sense. It’s devotion. And like all true offerings, it transforms both the giver and the receiver.

    Too often, we confuse sacrifice with self-erasure—believing that to love others well, we must disappear, diminish, or suppress our needs entirely. But holy devotion doesn’t ask us to become less of ourselves. It asks us to become more fully aligned with the heart of love. True devotion is not rooted in resentment or obligation; it flows from a place of sacred willingness—a choice made again and again to show up, to give, to love, even when it costs something. And in doing so, it changes us.

    I’ve seen this most clearly in fatherhood. The moments when I’ve set aside my comfort to sit with a hurting child, to offer presence instead of solutions, to listen instead of lecture—those are the moments I’ve felt the veil thin between the ordinary and the divine. In choosing to give with love, I am not emptied—I am expanded. And my children, in turn, receive not just my time or my help, but my being. That kind of giving creates a mutual transformation: I become more grounded, more compassionate, more attuned. And they become more secure, more open, more seen.

    This is the sacred paradox of devotion. It doesn’t deplete—it deepens. It doesn’t erase identity—it reveals the truest self, hidden beneath layers of ego. It is the kind of offering that mirrors the Christ-path—not in theatrical suffering, but in quiet, daily surrender to love.

    When My Faith Faltered, My Children Led Me Back

    There have been seasons when I doubted everything—when religion felt rigid, when prayer felt dry, when God felt distant. And in those times, it was often my children who reintroduced me to the Divine in a way no doctrine ever could.

    A hug. A question. A burst of laughter. A drawing left for me on the table. These were the sacraments that softened my heart and reminded me why I still believe in love, in beauty, in redemption.

    Sometimes they even speak truth without knowing it, like prophets unaware of their own mantle.

    Becoming a Father and a Priest

    Now, as I walk this unfolding path toward priesthood within a more mystical and inclusive expression of the Church, I don’t see my roles as competing—but as complementing.

    Fatherhood grounds my faith in the real. It keeps me accountable to the values I preach. It reminds me that any authority I may hold must be rooted in compassion, not control.

    And my faith, in turn, helps me father (and step father) with greater grace. It invites me to trust the bigger story. To offer my children not just protection, but vision. To raise them in freedom, not fear. To remind them that they are sacred.

    The Final Lesson: Love Is the Liturgy

    My children don’t need me to be perfect. They need me to be present.

    They don’t need dogma. They need love that listens, love that laughs, love that gets back up when it falls short.

    And in that, I see the very heart of God.

    So if you’re a parent walking the tightrope between your spiritual calling and your everyday responsibilities, know this: you’re not failing—you’re being formed. You are not torn in two—you are being braided together by grace.

    Our children may not use the language of theology, but they are often the truest catechists of all. And when we let them lead us back to simplicity, back to joy, back to love—we find ourselves, again, in the holy.

    Blessings on your path, and may you always recognize the sacred in the everyday.

    – Joseph Michael

  • A Manifesto for Sacred Leadership

    A Manifesto for Sacred Leadership

    Introduction

    There is a revolution stirring—not in the streets, but in the souls of those who can no longer lead from systems that suppress the sacred. We are the ones who have walked through fire, not to be consumed, but to be clarified. We’ve tasted religion’s beauty and its shadow. We’ve been burned by false authority and yet still feel the pulse of something holy calling us deeper.

    This post is my personal manifesto—born not in theory, but through lived experience. Through fatherhood and formation, heartbreak and healing, I’ve come to understand that true leadership does not begin with titles or traditions. It begins with sovereignty—the inner alignment with God’s voice within us that no institution can grant or revoke.

    What follows is not a set of rules, but a flame.
    May it ignite something ancient in you.
    May it remind you of the sacred leader you already are.

    I will lead from my essence, not my ego.

    There was a time when I thought leadership meant being strong, certain, and in control—qualities that had been modeled for me in both church and society. But life, with its unexpected initiations—divorce, grief, the vulnerability of fatherhood—stripped away those illusions. I came to understand that true strength comes from essence, not ego. My essence knows how to listen, how to serve, how to stand in truth without needing validation. Every time I let go of the need to impress or prove something, I come back into alignment with who I really am—and people respond to that presence more than any polished performance.

    I will honor my humanity as a vessel of the holy.

    There was a long stretch of my life where I thought holiness meant perfection. I tried to live up to unrealistic ideals—spiritually, emotionally, even physically. But perfectionism led me only to burnout and shame. It was during one of the darkest seasons of my life, after the collapse of a marriage and the loss of a dear friend, that I realized God was not asking me to be perfect. God was asking me to be real. Now, when I make mistakes, I reflect and repair—but I don’t self-abandon. I see that my tears, my laughter, my flaws, and my healing journey are the holy things. My humanity is not in the way—it is the way.

    I will not shrink to keep others comfortable or puff myself up to be taken seriously.

    For most of my life, I oscillated between playing small so I wouldn’t be judged, and inflating myself so I could be seen. As a teacher, a spiritual seeker, and a man on the path, I often felt I had to choose between authenticity and acceptance. But neither shrinking nor posturing gave me peace. What did? Speaking the truth of who I am—even when it made others uncomfortable. Saying yes to priesthood formation, even when I feared I didn’t “fit the mold.” Owning my intuitive gifts, my sound healing, my sacred sexuality, and my calling, all at once. Now, I stand in the middle: grounded, not grasping—anchored, not apologizing.

    I will cultivate my inner flame through prayer, ritual, embodiment, and truth-telling.

    This isn’t just poetic language—it’s the path I walk every day. My inner flame dims when I neglect the sacred rhythms: breathwork, silence, movement, ritual. It reignites when I sit at my altar, when I play the singing bowls and feel vibration clear my chest, when I speak honestly in spiritual direction or pour my thoughts into a journal. Cultivating this flame is non-negotiable now. It’s what allows me to father from presence, to serve with clarity, and to stay resilient amid the chaos of the world. Truth-telling, especially to myself, is the spark that keeps that fire alive.

    I will create safe, sovereign spaces for others to remember who they are.

    This is the heart of my calling. Whether I’m guiding a sound meditation, mentoring a seeker, or simply sitting in sacred conversation, I want people to feel safe enough to unfold. I’ve known what it feels like to be in spaces where you have to hide parts of yourself to belong—especially in rigid religious settings. That’s why I’ve redefined leadership to mean sanctuary. I am building communities, offerings, and containers where all of you is welcome—your grief and glory, your confusion and clarity. You are safe here. And not just safe—you are sovereign. My work is to reflect that back to you.

    I will serve the Mystery, not the machine.

    When I first considered re-entering formal spiritual life through the Church, I feared the return of the “machine”—systems that grind down the soul in favor of appearances and dogma. But in discovering the Catholic Apostolic Church of Antioch, and in walking the path of independent spirituality, I have come to see that I can still serve something sacred without surrendering to soulless systems. I serve the Mystery now—the Living God, the Breath, the Sophia, the Christ within. My rituals are intimate. My prayers are raw. My theology is open-handed. I no longer serve out of fear or obligation. I serve out of awe.

    I will live as a priest of the everyday, blessing the sacred in all things.

    I used to think priesthood happened only at the altar—during Eucharist, or in formal robes. But now I see priesthood as a way of being. I am a priest when I hold my son close and whisper encouragement into his ear. I am a priest when I bring cacao into the room and open a circle in reverence. I am a priest when I sweep the floor in silence, feeling Spirit move through the mundane. This is not about titles or ordination alone—it’s about how I show up in the world. My life is the liturgy. My love is the blessing. Every breath, a holy act.

    Moving forward

    The Flame of Sovereignty is not a destination—it is a daily devotion. It is the quiet courage to live from the inside out, to let your life become the altar upon which love is offered, truth is spoken, and presence is made holy. I did not come to this way of being through ease or certainty, but through fire, failure, and fierce grace. And in that fire, I found not just myself—I found God again. The kind of God who lives in laughter and silence, in children’s eyes and sacred rituals, in the aching beauty of becoming. If this flame burns in you too, tend it. Share it. Let it light the way—not just for yourself, but for the world that is waiting to remember how sacred it truly is.

  • The Mystical Traditions That Shape My Journey

    The Mystical Traditions That Shape My Journey

    Some of us are born into religion. Others are born with the ache for God that no religion can fully contain.
    I am both.

    My journey has been anything but linear. I have walked through churches, classrooms, deserts of doubt, and sanctuaries of silence. I have studied scripture and screamed into the void. I have raised children, grieved best friends, lost myself in the search for meaning—and slowly, found my way back through the mystical path of direct encounter with the sacred.

    Each of these traditions offered me not a new label, but a key. Together, they unlocked something ancient in me: a deeper knowing of God, self, and purpose. And through them all, I have been reshaped—not into someone new, but into someone whole.

    1. Christian Mysticism: Union, Not Just Belief

    I was raised in the Christian tradition. I knew the creeds, the prayers, the posture of faith. But something always felt… incomplete. I followed the rules, went through the motions, and tried hard to be “good enough”—even as a child. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the God I longed for lived somewhere beyond the church walls.

    My early adult years were marked by striving—through seminary, through ministry, through trying to earn love by doing all the right things. But when my first marriage ended, when the illusion of a perfect life cracked wide open, I realized I didn’t need a God of rules—I needed a God who knew me. Who could sit with my heartbreak without judgment.

    That’s when the mystics found me.

    Julian of Norwich’s words—“All shall be well”—began to echo in my heart. The dark nights of John of the Cross felt more honest than any Sunday sermon. And the Gospel of Thomas? It broke me open. It spoke of a Christ who lived inside me. Not above me. Not beyond me. In me.

    Christian mysticism became my re-entry point—not into religion, but into relationship. And not just with God, but with myself.

    2. Gnostic Wisdom: The Flame Within

    When I first read the Gnostic texts, I wept.

    Here were voices I had never been told I was allowed to hear—Mary Magdalene speaking with authority, Jesus teaching through parable and paradox, the Divine Feminine showing up in wisdom, not wrath.

    For most of my life, I’d been trained to distrust my inner knowing. I was taught that obedience was safer than intuition. But in the aftermath of my second divorce and the grief of losing a best friend, I could no longer live disconnected from my own soul.

    Gnosticism didn’t just validate my inner voice—it called it holy. It told me that the Kingdom is not coming from the sky—it is already within me. I started seeing the Divine in the cracks, in the questions, in the chaos.

    The more I trusted that flame within, the more alive I became. And the more I healed.

    3. Earth-Based Spirituality: God in the Ground

    Moving to Oregon in 2014 was, in many ways, a return to the body. The forests, the rain, the rhythm of the earth—it was like I could finally breathe again. After so many years of mental overthinking and theological debate, I started to feel something ancient rise in me. I began to listen to the land.

    Earth-based spirituality taught me to slow down. To pay attention. To greet the sun, to bless the moon, to honor the turning of the seasons not just as calendar events, but as soul markers.

    It was in nature that I began to rebuild my faith—not through doctrine, but through dew on morning grass and the howl of wind through pine. I held cacao for the first time and wept without knowing why. I sat in ceremony and felt the presence of ancestors I couldn’t name.

    This was the God I had been missing—the one who lives in dirt and trees and tears. The one who didn’t need me to be fixed. Just present.

    4. Sound, Breath, and Energy Traditions: Healing As Sacred Alignment

    I always knew sound was part of my calling—I just didn’t know how. From singing as a child to performing at Carnegie Hall, music had always been a thread in my life. But it wasn’t until I picked up crystal singing bowls in 2025 that I felt something awaken.

    The tones didn’t just fill the room. They rearranged me. They cleared grief I hadn’t spoken aloud. They opened me to a kind of healing that words couldn’t reach.

    As I trained in sound healing, explored breathwork, and studied the chakra system, I realized something radical: my body had been speaking the language of God all along. I just hadn’t learned how to listen.

    I used to think healing meant fixing. Now I know it means realigning—body, spirit, heart, and soul. And through sound, breath, and energy work, I’ve found a way to bring the sacred back into the body… not as a temple to be feared, but as a sanctuary to be loved.

    5. Esoteric Catholicism and the Independent Sacramental Path

    There was a time I thought I could never return to Church. The shame, the rigidity, the feeling that I had to choose between spiritual depth and personal truth—it kept me away.

    But then, I found the Catholic Apostolic Church of Antioch.

    It was like being welcomed back to the table—but this time, with my whole self intact. Here was a tradition that honored both the mystical and the liturgical. That saw priesthood not as hierarchy, but as service. That allowed space for divorced men, seekers, mystics, and healers to belong.

    When I began discerning priesthood again, I knew this was the only path that made sense. Not because it was perfect—but because it left room for mystery. Here, I can pray the rosary and chant with bowls. I can speak of Christ and Sophia in the same breath. I can offer sacraments and hold ceremony under the stars.

    This path isn’t about reclaiming the Church of the past. It’s about becoming the Church I needed all along.

    Becoming the Bridge

    I am not a purist. I am a pilgrim.

    I do not walk just one road—I walk between them. I have sat at many fires. Prayed in many tongues. Loved God in many forms. And each tradition has stripped me, shaped me, and set me free in its own way.

    I used to fear that I didn’t belong anywhere.
    Now, I know: I belong everywhere Spirit is welcome.

    I am the bridge between ancient and new, masculine and feminine, Catholic and cosmic. I am a father, a mystic, a sound healer, a priest-in-formation, a lover of beauty and a bearer of truth.

    And if you, too, are walking a path that doesn’t fit in a box, let this be your permission slip:
    You are not scattered. You are braided together by Spirit.

    Closing: The Journey Continues

    I don’t have it all figured out. I don’t need to.

    The mystical path has taught me to surrender to the unfolding, to honor both the ache and the awe. To let my questions be prayers and my presence be enough.

    These traditions—the ones that have held me, broken me, and called me home—are not my answers. They are my companions.

    And as long as I keep listening, the journey will keep teaching.

  • The Role of Community in Spiritual Growth

    The Role of Community in Spiritual Growth

    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.