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Sense of Call
“Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit;
and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord;
and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone.”
—1 Corinthians 12:4–6 (NRSV)
I first sensed a call to the priesthood as a queer teenager in an Episcopal school, where my chaplain also advised the student newspaper. We talked about Jesus as she taught me to cut rubylith and lay out type. Making taught me to take risks, and those small creative risks became my earliest lessons in spiritual courage. Somewhere between scripture study and paste-up boards, I discovered I could translate truth—through both word and image. By sixteen, I wanted to go to seminary. But when I told her, she didn’t encourage me. She knew I was gay, and her silence said what it needed to. I packed that call away and followed the only open road: the one where I could make art and serve, just not from the pulpit.
That road led me to teaching. As a teacher and artist, I’ve spent years helping people reclaim the creative voice they were told they didn’t deserve. In helping others rediscover their creativity, I was answering a call I hadn’t yet dared to name. Over time, I realized this wasn’t just teaching. It was ministry—it was pastoring.
Teaching
My students often arrive carrying wounds—dismissed by teachers, told they weren’t “real artists,” made to feel they didn’t belong. I offer them something sacred: daily, loving practice. No judgment. No comparison. Just the rhythm of showing up. In that rhythm, they grow. And so do I. I’ve seen how small, faithful practices—creative or spiritual—can help people reclaim their lives. Making together opens people in ways conversation never could; it shapes us into a community. That’s been true for my students, and for me in my own recovery.
In my first year of teaching, I snapped at a student who kept arriving unprepared and turned away. When I turned back, the rest of the class—who had little themselves—were quietly sharing their supplies with her. They understood how to care for one another better than I had. They reminded me that practical, material care is holy work—the kind Jesus practiced through the work of his own hands. Jesus a tekton—a builder. He knew the weight of materials, the patience of fit and foundation, and the daily work of repair. His ministry grew out of that embodied life, and so does mine. I am formed by the same kind of making and mending, the same conviction that communal labor can heal what has cracked. That day, I learned a core truth I now bring to ministry: lead with kind humility. Keep learning in front of the people you serve. Give the kid a pencil so she can stay.
Returning to church was a slow reconciliation. For years, I couldn’t even read scripture without my palms sweating. But something shifted when I brought my full creative self—artist, teacher, writer—into worship. The same voice that once called me through design now called me through liturgy. And this time, I stayed. Bringing my creative life into worship revealed how embodied practice can become a doorway into prayer.
I’ve built communities across ages and backgrounds—in classrooms, committees, and church groups. I’ve helped people find a way forward together. Again and again, I’m told I create an atmosphere of loving acceptance that allows others to open up, take risks, and grow. As a designer, I know how to reach people with beauty and clarity—but I’m not just offering skills. I’m offering the fruit of a calling that began long ago. These gifts, steeped in theological grounding, can help the church speak God’s grace to a world in need. The church does not need ornamentation; it needs people who can build, mend, and imagine together.
As someone who grew up in poverty, as a lesbian in a hostile land, and as a person in recovery, I’ve learned to find God in places the church has too often missed. I’ve helped bury friends with homemade rituals when no priest would come. I’ve seen the Spirit alive in feral weddings and backroom blessings. Now, I stand ready to serve that same Spirit as a priest.
I long to perform the sacraments—to bless, to celebrate, to mourn. I want to proclaim radical welcome around pulpits and tables, and to model the love that transforms—the love we first received through Jesus Christ. I am not called to polish church communications; I am called to form communities capable of acting with courage, clarity, and compassion.
Confession is not about shame as I once thought—it’s about claiming our place at God’s table. Returning to church and experiencing this sacrament in community opened my eyes to its power: it is a full‑throated admission that we are already children of God. Confession is a sacred doorway to reconciliation—with God, with others, and with ourselves. It’s the moment we speak the truth of our humanity and remember that everyone sins—not just the ones cast aside. Those who tried to condemn us said that was the end of the story. But we know better. Jesus meets us in that truth and offers grace instead. Grace keeps writing. I speak the lingua franca of the broken because I have lived it. I will spend my life inviting others home in our shared language of mercy.
Psalms 51 (in progress)
Church, to me, is not a structure but a living matrix of support, where the excluded are invited not just to worship but to live fully. Worship can be creative, collaborative, honest. It won’t always look traditional—but it is still sacred.
As parish life shifts, I’m drawn to ministries that require steadiness, listening, and collaboration. Interim work fits that call, as does helping the church speak clearly in a time when clarity is a kind of pastoral care. My gifts in communication and formation serve communities learning to inhabit new spaces while staying anchored in the Gospel.
I’ve spent more than 20 years helping people name how they’ve been hurt by judgment or exclusion—and then welcoming them back into their creative lives. I’m called to help the church become a place of healing—for queer folks, for the disillusioned, for those who believe the Gospel has no room for them. As a priest, I long to be a minister of reconciliation—not just between people, but between wounded hearts and the Body of Christ.
My conversion came during a creative scripture exercise. That simple invitation opened my heart—and I’ve seen how artistic practice can help others draw near to the divine. Projects like Go High Signs have helped me share messages of faith, justice, and joy in public, visual ways.
I believe creative worship isn’t optional—it’s essential.
All of this, I now see, is one thread woven by the same Spirit. As Paul reminds us, “there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit”—and mine have always pointed me toward this calling. My creative gifts were never separate from my spiritual ones; they were the Spirit’s way of forming me for priestly work.
This is my ministry: I am a teacher of creative worship and a messenger of God’s inclusive love. I bring my recovery, my queerness, my art, and my joy—all of it. I believe these are gifts of God. I believe they are made holy in service to Jesus Christ. And I am ready to use them.