Category: Spiritual Journey

  • Writing Again: Returning to the Page After a Season of Study

    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.

  • Reflection on Pilgrimage to Sedona and Flagstaff

    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
  • 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.