Category: Love

  • Would Christ Have Come Even Without the Fall?

    Would Christ Have Come Even Without the Fall?

    Joseph Martinka — Spiritual Hub

    Would Christ Have Come Even Without the Fall?

    Reading the Gospel Through the Aramaic Lens and the Witness of the Fathers

    Introduction: Why This Question Matters to Me

    In my ongoing studies of theology and sacred language, I’ve been delving deeply into the Aramaic understanding of Jesus—the living context of his words, prayers, and teachings. This exploration has begun to reshape how I perceive the entire Christic message. Reading Scripture through Aramaic eyes reveals meanings that the Greek, Latin, and English translations can sometimes veil: faith as embodied trust, forgiveness as release, sin as disharmony, and the Kingdom as the active presence of God within and among us.

    From within this renewed lens, one profound question has stayed with me:

    If Adam and Eve had not sinned in the Garden, would Christ still have become incarnate?

    This inquiry is not merely speculative; it touches the very heart of divine intention, creation’s purpose, and the nature of Love itself. The reflections below seek to explore this question honestly, drawing upon the Aramaic Gospels, the early Church Fathers, and the broader mystical Christian tradition—to uncover what the Incarnation truly means, beyond the boundaries of sin and redemption.

    Summary (for skimmers)

    Many Latin-Western theologians (following Augustine and Aquinas) taught that Christ’s Incarnation was necessary because of human sin. Yet the Eastern tradition, several major Fathers, and the Franciscan (Scotist) school present a deeper vision: the Incarnation as God’s original intention—the cosmic “Yes” of Divine Love, not merely a rescue plan.

    The Aramaic worldview amplifies this mystical truth: faith as trust/alignment, “forgiveness” as release, the “Kingdom” as God’s present reign, and Christ as the unique manifestation (Iḥidaya) of Divine Oneness. In this light, even if Adam and Eve had not sinned, the Word’s embodiment would still stand as the natural fulfillment of creation.

    Why Aramaic Matters: Returning to Jesus’ Everyday Tongue

    Jesus spoke Aramaic, the living Semitic language of first-century Palestine. The earliest full Aramaic New Testament, the Syriac Peshitta, preserves a worldview closer to that of Jesus and his first followers.

    When read through this lens, the Gospel becomes less juridical and more relational, less abstract and more experiential:

    • John 1:1 (Peshitta): “In the beginning was the Miltha.”
      The Aramaic Miltha means manifestation, essence, creative word, not simply a spoken term. It implies the Divine Presence actively expressing itself through all creation.
    • John 3:16 (Peshitta): God gives His Iḥidaya—the Unique One—that humanity may find eternal life. The term conveys uniqueness and oneness more than biological begetting.
    • Luke 6:36: The Aramaic for “merciful” (rḥm) comes from the root meaning “womb.” God’s mercy, then, is womb-like love—nurturing, compassionate, creative.

    In short, the Aramaic idiom consistently reveals a theology of union, presence, and compassion—a vision deeply consonant with the mystical Fathers.

    Key Aramaic Nuances That Shift the Emphasis

    EnglishAramaic MeaningTheological Implication
    BelieveHayman — to trust, align, rely uponFaith as lived relationship, not mental assent
    Only-begotten SonIḥidaya — the Unique/Only OneChrist as the singular embodiment of divine unity
    Kingdom of GodMalkutha d’Alaha — active reign/presenceThe Kingdom as present reality, not distant realm
    SinKhata — to miss the markDisharmony to be realigned, not guilt to be punished
    ForgiveShbaq — to release, let goLiberation and restoration of wholeness

    These nuances transform Christianity from a courtroom to a communion—a participatory relationship where divine love restores harmony within creation.

    Two Great Streams on Why the Incarnation

    The Western “Felix Culpa” View (Augustine → Aquinas)

    In the Latin West, sin was central to the logic of the Incarnation. Humanity’s fall created a debt only divine love could repay.
    Aquinas writes:

    “If man had not sinned, the Son of Man would not have come.” (Summa Theologiae III, q.1, a.3)

    This tradition views Christ as Redeemer first, and the Incarnation as contingent upon the Fall.

    The Eastern and Mystical Vision (Irenaeus → Maximus → Scotus)

    In the East, the Incarnation is seen not as a repair, but as the fulfillment of divine intention.

    • St. Irenaeus (2nd c.) taught that Christ came to recapitulate all things (Eph 1:10), summing up creation and leading it to completion.
    • St. Athanasius (4th c.) declared, “God became man that man might become God [by grace].”
    • St. Maximus the Confessor (7th c.) proclaimed the Incarnation as “the pre-conceived goal of creation.”
    • Bl. John Duns Scotus (13th c.) later affirmed that even if no one had sinned, Christ would still have come, for the Incarnation was willed from eternity as the supreme expression of divine love.

    This vision finds resonance in the Aramaic worldview: God’s desire to be known and experienced in matter—Love becoming visible.

    Scripture at the Center: The Cosmic Christ

    John 1:1–3 — All things come to be through the Miltha; the Word is the light and life of humanity.
    Colossians 1:15–20 — Christ is the image of the invisible God; in Him all things hold together.
    Ephesians 1:9–10 — God’s purpose is “to sum up all things in Christ.”

    In this cosmic vision, the Incarnation is not an afterthought to sin but the pattern and purpose of creation itself.

    The Aramaic Emphasis in Context

    • Faith (haymanutha) is alignment with divine reality.
    • Mercy (rḥma) is womb-love—a mothering compassion at the heart of God.
    • The Son (Iḥidaya) embodies divine oneness.
    • Kingdom (Malkutha) is present divine presence.

    Thus, Christ is not reacting to sin but revealing the fullness of divine intent—creation’s destiny realized in flesh.

    Would Christ Have Come Without the Fall?

    From the Western juridical perspective: likely not.
    From the Eastern and Aramaic perspective: inevitably yes.

    “Creation itself is a movement toward Incarnation.”
    Sin makes redemption necessary,
    but Love makes embodiment inevitable.

    The Incarnation, in this sense, is the flowering of creation, not its repair. The Cross still redeems the broken, but the Incarnation reveals the purpose for which all things exist: union with Divine Love.

    Pastoral and Mystical Implications

    1. Theosis over legalism — The spiritual life is about participation in divine life, not mere pardon.
    2. Sacraments as presence and release — Each sacrament becomes an act of divine alignment and restoration.
    3. Christ at the heart of the cosmos — All creation points toward and through Him.
    4. Ecumenical unity — This vision bridges East and West, faith and mysticism, theology and embodiment.

    Sources and Citations

    • Peshitta (Syriac New Testament) — John 1:1; John 3:16; Luke 6:36 (Dukhrana & Gorgias resources)
    • Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, III, q.1, a.3
    • Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses (on recapitulation)
    • Athanasius, On the Incarnation
    • Maximus the Confessor, Ambigua
    • John Duns Scotus, Ordinatio III, d.7, q.3
    • Colossians 1:15–20; Ephesians 1:9–10; John 1:1–3 (Scriptural support)

    Closing Reflection

    If Miltha means “the Manifesting Presence,” then the Incarnation is not a divine reaction but a revelation of what has always been true: God’s love seeking full expression in matter.

    Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection unveil the eternal movement of Love toward union—the Divine longing to be known through creation. Even without sin, that Love would still have spoken the same Word:

    “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

    © Joseph Martinka
    Built with care • Peace to your home
  • Following the Words of Jesus — Not as a Label, But as a Life

    Following the Words of Jesus — Not as a Label, But as a Life

    Following His Words Changes Everything

    Over time, I’ve discovered that truly following the words of Jesus — His actual words in Scripture — is not only transformative, it’s the purest way to live a life of faith.

    It hasn’t made me a “liberal.” It hasn’t made me “woke.”
    It has made me something far simpler, and infinitely deeper:
    A follower of Jesus.

    When you follow what He actually said, not filtered through culture or politics or fear, but taken straight from His mouth and lived out in daily life — everything changes.

    “What Would Jesus Do?” — More Than a Bracelet

    Those of us who grew up in the 90s remember the WWJD bracelets. They asked a question that still matters deeply: What would Jesus do?

    But the truth is, we don’t have to wonder. Jesus told us exactly what He would do.

    “I give you a new commandment: that you love one another; just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
    — John 13:34–35

    “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
    — Matthew 5:43–44

    This is what Jesus would do.
    And this is what He did do — again and again.

    The Words That Change Everything

    Jesus’ words are not abstract theology — they are living truth.

    “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”
    — Luke 6:37

    “Let the one who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone.”
    — John 8:7

    “Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the log in your own?”
    — Matthew 7:3

    When we stop judging and start forgiving, we begin to live the Gospel — not just believe it.

    “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.”
    — Luke 6:36

    Living the Sermon

    If we want to know what Jesus would do, we can read the Sermon on the Mount.

    “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”
    — Matthew 5:7

    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”
    — Matthew 5:9

    “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
    — Matthew 5:14

    “Whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.”
    — Matthew 7:12

    “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… but store up treasures in heaven.”
    — Matthew 6:19–20

    “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
    — Matthew 11:28

    These are not metaphors — they are invitations.

    When the Church Forgets the Christ

    “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.”
    — Matthew 15:8

    Jesus spoke those words to religious leaders who were convinced they were doing God’s work — yet their actions told another story.

    And today, we see similar patterns in certain conservative and institutional forms of Christianity: faith that speaks His name, but often acts in opposition to His heart.

    Excluding Those He Welcomed

    “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”
    — Mark 2:17

    Jesus welcomed tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, and outcasts. Yet today, the Church often excludes LGBTQ+ people, silences women, and condemns rather than embraces.

    “For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in.”
    — Matthew 25:42–43

    The failure to love is the failure of faith.

    Trading the Kingdom for Political Power

    “My kingdom is not of this world.”
    — John 18:36

    Too many Christian institutions now pursue political dominance instead of spiritual service. They legislate morality but neglect mercy.

    “You cannot serve both God and money.”
    — Matthew 6:24

    The Church loses its soul when it seeks worldly influence more than divine intimacy.

    Judging Where Jesus Commanded Mercy

    “Do not judge, and you will not be judged.”
    — Luke 6:37

    “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.”
    — John 8:7

    If Jesus stood before many pulpits today, He might ask:
    “Why are you throwing stones I already died to remove?”

    Neglecting the Poor and Glorifying the Wealthy

    “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”
    — Luke 6:20

    “Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort.”
    — Luke 6:24

    Jesus centered the poor, yet much of the Church glorifies wealth. The Gospel of prosperity has replaced the Gospel of compassion.

    Failing to Be Peacemakers

    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
    — Matthew 5:9

    “Put your sword back in its place, for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.”
    — Matthew 26:52

    When Christianity justifies violence, nationalism, or vengeance, it betrays its founder — the Prince of Peace.

    When Religion Replaces Relationship

    “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices… but you have neglected the more important matters of the law — justice, mercy and faithfulness.”
    — Matthew 23:23

    “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
    — Mark 2:27

    Faith without compassion is a hollow shell. The Church must never value rules more than people.

    The Invitation Back to Love

    Despite it all, the invitation of Christ remains open:

    “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
    — Matthew 11:28

    “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Remain in my love.”
    — John 15:9

    If we — as individuals and as a Church — return to His words, His compassion, and His example, the world would see again the beauty of the Gospel.

    “Go and learn what this means: I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”
    — Matthew 9:13

    That’s what He asked. That’s what He lived.
    And that’s what He’s still waiting for us to do.

    So What Can We Do?

    If this reflection speaks to your heart, share it. Let’s remind the world that Christianity isn’t about control, fear, or division — it’s about love lived boldly, so:

    “Go and do likewise.”
    — Luke 10:37

  • My Soul Cries for a Wounded World

    My Soul Cries for a Wounded World

    When I look at the state of the world today, my heart aches. The division in our politics, the hatred and bigotry that pour out in our communities, the cruelty of homelessness in the midst of abundance—it all weighs heavily on me. I see people judged for simply being different, excluded because they do not “fit into” someone else’s mold of worthiness, and it cuts deep into my soul.

    I struggle because I know the pain of coming from traditions that did nothing to heal this suffering. In fact, too often, those traditions made the wounds worse. Instead of offering Christ’s mercy, they offered judgment. Instead of opening the doors of grace, they guarded them, deciding who was “in” and who was “out.” The Church, which should have been a hospital for the brokenhearted, became instead a fortress of exclusion. I saw the Sacraments used not as lifelines of God’s love but as weapons of control.

    And I carry repentance for my part in that. For the times my own words, thoughts, or actions mirrored judgment rather than mercy. For the times I stayed silent when others were excluded. For the times I thought God’s love was something to be earned instead of something freely given. I am sorry. Truly.

    My soul cries for the families who were denied the embrace of Christ because others acted as if they were the doorkeepers of salvation. I cry for those who were told they were unworthy of His love, when the truth is that His Sacred Heart has always burned for them. My soul cries for a world crushed under pain, hurt, hate, silence, and struggle.

    But in the midst of that grief, I have found another way. In the Independent Sacramental Movement, I have found a home where the grace of Christ is not rationed out or fenced in. Here, the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary overflow with love for all people—without exception. Here, the saints are not distant figures of judgment but companions of mercy. Here, the Sacraments are open to every soul who hungers and thirsts for God’s presence.

    This is the Church I want to serve. This is the ministry I commit myself to. My future will not be about gatekeeping, but about opening doors. Not about exclusion, but about radical welcome. Not about judgment, but about love—overflowing love.

    If you seek Christ’s love, you will find it here. If you hunger for His Body and Blood, the table is set for you. If you long for healing, the arms of the Church are open. Always.

    I can only say it plainly: My ministry will be for all who seek the love of God. Without exception. Ever.

    A Prayer for Healing

    Sacred Heart of Jesus, burn away the walls of hatred and fear that divide us.
    Immaculate Heart of Mary, hold close every soul who feels lost, rejected, or unloved.
    Holy Spirit, breathe new life into a weary world.

    May the Church become again what You intended it to be—a refuge for the broken,
    a fountain of grace for the thirsty,
    a table of welcome for the hungry,
    a home of mercy for all Your children.

    And may my life, Lord, be nothing more and nothing less
    than an instrument of Your endless love.

    Amen.

  • 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.