Category: Reflections

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

English	Aramaic Meaning	Theological Implication
Believe	Hayman — to trust, align, rely upon	Faith as lived relationship, not mental assent
Only-begotten Son	Iḥidaya — the Unique/Only One	Christ as the singular embodiment of divine unity
Kingdom of God	Malkutha d’Alaha — active reign/presence	The Kingdom as present reality, not distant realm
Sin	Khata — to miss the mark	Disharmony to be realigned, not guilt to be punished
Forgive	Shbaq — to release, let go	Liberation 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

Theosis over legalism — The spiritual life is about participation in divine life, not mere pardon.
Sacraments as presence and release — Each sacrament becomes an act of divine alignment and restoration.
Christ at the heart of the cosmos — All creation points toward and through Him.
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.”

28 October 2025

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

15 October 2025
Writing Again: Returning to the Page After a Season of Study
After months of deep immersion in my Master of Divinity program, I find myself writing again. The pause was necessary—absorbing, integrating, and wrestling with the content of five challenging, beautiful courses left little space for my own words to emerge. But now, after passing Intro to Theological Formation, Jewish Mysticism, Esoteric Christianity, Eastern Mysticism, and New Cosmology, I sense the words flowing back, shaped by study and by Spirit.

A Season of Study

Each course brought me face-to-face with traditions, wisdom, and mysteries that have stretched my soul.
- Intro to Theological Formation laid the foundation. It was less about “what to think” and more about “how to hold”—how to approach study with prayer, humility, and a willingness to be formed. One line from my paper still rings true: “Theology is not a ladder we climb toward God, but a lens polished by love through which God reveals Godself to us.”
- Jewish Mysticism awakened a deep resonance in me. The study of the Kabbalah, and especially the Tree of Life, became more than academic. Mapping the sefirot, I recognized the pathways not just as mystical architecture but as reflections of my own inner journey. In one paper I wrote: “The Tree of Life is not a diagram to master, but a mirror—each sefirah revealing both the wholeness of God and the fragments within myself longing for integration.”
- Esoteric Christianity reminded me of the hidden heart of my own tradition. Beneath dogma lies a wisdom that seeks transformation, not mere belief. I wrestled with the Gnostic voice that whispers through history, one that challenges and liberates.
- Eastern Mysticism drew me into silence. Studying Buddhism, Taoism, and Hindu philosophy, I found myself less inclined to write and more drawn to breathe. In my reflections, I wrote: “The East does not ask me to explain God but to dissolve into God, to release the grip of ego and allow the Eternal to breathe me.”
- New Cosmology expanded the horizon. To weave the story of the universe with the story of faith is to recognize the Christ who is both Alpha and Omega, the Cosmic Christ, whose song has been reverberating since the Big Bang.
  
  I am also thinking of writing more in depth on each of these courses because of how they affected me deeply, each in different ways, and sharing them allows me to synthesize everything more fully as well as sharing these insights and experiences with others along the way.
A Conversation on Ordination

Somewhere between writing papers and chanting prayers, I sat down with Father Jorge. We spoke about ordination—about the path ahead. The plan is clear: Subdeacon after 10 courses (I’ve now completed 7 toward that goal), the Diaconate after the next 10, and then, finally, the priesthood after the last 9.

What makes me smile is the timing. There is a possibility that I will be ordained Subdeacon on the Feast of Theophany—which in Orthodoxy is actually the Feast of Nativity. That was the very day I entered into the Orthodox Church. A little synchronicity, a divine wink, that reassures me I am walking the right path.

Solaya Fellowship

Alongside study, something new has been born. Together with LeeAnn, I have founded Solaya Fellowship. Its purpose is to hold sacred space for growth, healing, and community, weaving together the threads of ancient wisdom and modern practice.

Already, we are offering classes at the Shrine of Holy Wisdom, a place that has become a spiritual home for me. My own offering, Sacred Resonance, blends sound, vibration, chant, and song with crystal singing bowls—transforming worship and healing into one embodied act. The bowls sing, and in their resonance I hear echoes of the very cosmology I study: creation itself humming, the Spirit vibrating through every particle of existence.

Returning to the Page

Now, as I write again, I recognize that study and practice are not separate from writing. They are its source. Every paper, every chant, every conversation, every resonance is a seed. And writing is how I gather them—how I weave together my journey into a tapestry I can share.

This is only the beginning.
24 September 2025
Reflection on Pilgrimage to Sedona and Flagstaff

26 August 2025

[Note: This article was originally written as a reflection essay as part of my studies for seminary. I share it here in its entirety for anyone who might gain spiritual insight or just for your enjoyment. – JM]

Two Chapels, Two Messages of Love

The Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona, AZ

Yesterday, I was blessed with the opportunity to make a small pilgrimage to Sedona and its surrounding areas with my partner LeeAnn. This journey became not only an encounter with the beauty of God’s creation, but also a moment of deep renewal for my faith, vocation and spiritual studies.

The red rocks of Sedona themselves speak of eternity. Rising from the earth in striking reds and oranges, they seem to form a natural cathedral—weathered yet majestic, silent yet filled with a voice that draws the soul toward awe. Against this sacred landscape stands the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a striking testimony of human faith set amidst the grandeur of nature. Its design appears to grow from the very rock, a reminder that our prayers and works of faith are not separate from creation, but rooted in it.

Christ Crucified on the Tree of Life

At the entrance of the Chapel stands the immense image of Christ Crucified on the Tree of Life. The sculpture is both arresting and consoling: Christ’s suffering is present, but so too is the symbol of renewal, as the cross itself becomes the living tree. Entering within, I was immediately surrounded by the glow of countless candles. Their trembling light seemed like a visible cloud of prayer rising before God.

Closeup of the Crucified Christ

Here, I lit candles and offered prayers—for the Ascension Alliance, the Ascension Theological Seminary, its leadership, clergy, and communities, those for whom I was asked to pray, and for the Shrine of Holy Wisdom in Tempe, which has become my home parish and the place where my vocation is nurtured. I also lifted before God the needs of my family and LeeAnn’s family, both living and departed, and I prayed for strength, guidance, and balance in my own studies. This moment touched me deeply as it bridged the Catholic piety of my childhood—so present in the sight of candles, statues, and chapels—with the interspiritual openness of my present journey. It felt as though the two streams of my life—past and present—met in harmony.

Saint Francis and the Birds

The small prayer grotto outside the Chapel, with its statues of the Guardian Angel and Saint Francis with the birds, reminded me of God’s gentle care. They spoke of guardianship and reverence for creation, echoing the lessons of my seminary studies: that ministry is rooted not only in service to people but also in harmony with all that God has made.

From the Chapel we went downstairs to the Gift shop where we picked up small remembrances of this adventure including a small cross which contained a mustard seed inside of it and a prayer card of Our Lady of Victory. Although this was not our original intention and we had another plan in mind, these would serve as the perfect items for the little ritual we had wanted to perform. We were going to go to a different, more popular section of Oak Creek within Slide Rock State Park, just north of Sedona, however, on the way we instead felt called to stop at a different spot called Grasshopper Point, where I sought the healing presence of running water. This spot was out of the way and not as traveled, so the quiet and the solitude were just what we were looking for. We had a beautiful picnic lunch under the trees and then headed toward the creek.

The trek through the wooded canyon, over uneven rocks, forced me to pay attention to balance with every step. This became a meditation: life and ministry require the same attentiveness to balance—between work and rest, study and prayer, contemplation and action. At moments I faltered, but I was supported by LeeAnn’s steady presence, reminding me that none of us journeys alone. Our steps are strengthened by the physical companionship of those beside us, and the spiritual prayers of those who hold us in their hearts.

The gentle stream, reminiscent of the love of God

At the creek, I removed my shoes and stood in the rushing water. The current was cool and gentle, a flowing embrace of God’s creation. As I stood there, surrounded by the beauty of the canyon and forest, I felt a deep peace—a reminder of God’s providence and gentleness. I picked up a small piece of jasper from the water as a sign of this experience, a tangible reminder that God’s grace flows constantly, and that it is my task to remain open to its movement.

The Entrance to the Chapel of the Holy Dove, Flagstaff, AZ

Not ready to end the pilgrimage, we traveled north to Flagstaff and visited the Chapel of the Holy Dove. This humble wooden chapel carries its sanctity not in grandeur, but in simplicity. Every surface within—walls, altar, lectern, even the window sills—are covered in “graffiti” in the form of prayers, names, and words of thanksgiving left by pilgrims before me. What might at first seem like defacement, I experienced as consecration: the wood itself has become a living litany of human hearts lifted to God. The suspended cross before the great glass window, overlooking the open field, stands as a reminder that Christ is at the center of all these offerings.

Our prayers and ritual for the Alliance and Shrine

Together, LeeAnn and I prayed once more for the Ascension Alliance, the Seminary, its leadership and clergy, and for all who seek its life-giving presence. In a symbolic act of faith, we buried the mustard-seed cross and prayer card behind the chapel’s altar, asking God to let this offering become a prayer for growth. Just as a mustard seed becomes a tree, may the Alliance and Seminary grow in strength and love, watered by the prayers of its members and blessed by God’s grace.

Our offerings and prayers

This pilgrimage has renewed within me a sense of gratitude, balance, and purpose. In the grandeur of Sedona’s rocks, the stillness of chapels, the rushing of water, and the prayers of faithful hearts, I have felt God’s presence profoundly. I return strengthened in my resolve: to live in service, to study with diligence, to balance my life with faithfulness, and to root my ministry in love.

Thankfulness for the majesty of the love of God

28 August 2025
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.”

24 July 2025
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.

23 June 2025