Category: Priesthood

  • 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.”

  • 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.