Spiritual Autobiography
If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.
— Psalm 139:9–10 (NRSV)
— Psalm 139:9–10 (NRSV)
Ministry Call
Resumé
My journey to faith has not been linear, but it has been unmistakably God-led. From early moments of wonder in nature to a powerful reawakening in adulthood, I have come to understand that I was never alone. God was always at work, calling me through beauty, through service, and through the deep hunger to belong. Each chapter of my life, whether joyful or painful, became a parable through which I could hear God more clearly. In hindsight, I see how God was never absent—only waiting for me to notice.
I first encountered God as a child running barefoot through the fields and creeks of rural Virginia. The natural world made the Sunday school stories feel real to me. I felt the awe of Abraham and Isaac, the sorrow of the Crucifixion. Church was a haven of music and peace, a contrast to home and my parents’ troubled marriage. Even after we stopped attending as a family, I found my own way to a small Baptist church down the road. I joined the adult choir at the age of six and felt myself lifted toward God in the harmony.
In those moments, I felt as if there was so much love between God and our group that the bricks of that church would not stay one upon the other. I had no idea of any sort of judgment or rejection at that point—I understood only the sacredness of song, of community, of shared breath and holy sound.
But faith, like life, is not always gentle. When my parents divorced, a church elder told me that divorced families weren’t welcome and that I had to find somewhere else to worship. I was nine years old, and I never went back. I carried that wound for decades. That same summer—shortly after my parents announced their divorce and I was told to leave the church—I began drinking. My adolescence was marked by struggle and self-reliance, shaped by a deep sense of abandonment from the adults in my life. Alcohol became a stand-in for all I had lost. I sought the warmth and belonging I had once found in worship, but in a form that could not sustain me. There was no one there to reflect back the sacredness of my being, and so I began to lose sight of it myself.
At thirteen, I was sent to an Episcopal boarding school by my great aunt—a deeply devout Episcopalian and one of the first people to help guide me back toward God. There, chapel services offered a rhythm of peace, and the mentorship of the chaplain brought stability and encouragement to my young, uncertain life. I considered seminary then. I had grown incredibly close to my mentor—she guided me not only spiritually, but also taught me graphic design, nurturing my creativity with great care. But when I was clear about being gay and struggling, and I mentioned my interest in seminary, she sharply redirected the conversation. Our dynamic shifted. For someone who had so generously encouraged me in so many areas, her silence on this was striking. It wasn’t institutional rejection, but the absence of her support in that moment stayed with me. It echoed the earlier wound: not only do you not belong, but you are not even to be considered. I didn’t even try the church—I chose art instead. Even in that choice, I found God’s presence—creativity was a way to remain in conversation with the divine.
Over the years, I built a life in New York, working my way through school and forging a career in the arts. I taught, designed, and worked as an activist for social justice causes. I also drank heavily and hid from my true self, yet God stayed with me. The thread of grace ran quietly through all things, even when I could not name it.
Art from my Monstress Productions era—my first real ministry
At thirty-six, I stood on a subway platform ready to jump in front of a train in misery. And then came the smallest voice: “Ask for help.” I turned to AA that day, and the path of recovery began. I learned how to pray again. I rebuilt my life. Service became my new language of faith—less about dogma and more about presence, kindness, and humility. Recovery was my re-entry into grace. I learned what it meant to show up fully, to be honest, and to listen for God in the broken places.
Two weeks into my early sobriety, I was offered a job teaching art. It saved my life. Teaching became not just my profession but my spiritual practice. I learned how to make room at the table for the overlooked and the discouraged—for those who had been told, in word or silence, that they didn’t belong. I turned classrooms into communities where learning was an act of trust and belonging. My students became my teachers. Through them, I found healing and a growing sense of vocation. Their courage and vulnerability called something holy out of me. In every syllabus, every critique, every project, I was building altars with my hands.
In time, I became a professor, started a family with my wife, and dedicated myself to design and activism. I created Go High Signs to support justice movements and offer creative tools for public witness. I kept my faith quiet but alive, unsure if I could ever find a church that would truly welcome me. I found God in my garden, in my students, in quiet moments of prayer—but not yet in community. The longing remained.
I met my wife, Jennifer, and together we started our family. I struggled with my anger with church while Jen took our daughter to her Catholic parish. I wanted our child to have a spiritual life but could not bring myself to go with them. I kept searching for ways to be of service. Through teaching and art making, I lifted others up every day. Through Go High Signs, I supported justice movements with creative tools for public witness. Even then, though I kept my faith quiet, I knew I was offering a ministry of hope. Still, I longed for something more: a spiritual home where I could bring my full self—queer, creative, sober, and joyful—into community. That longing led me, eventually, to Christ Church in Short Hills.
Then I met Cynthia McChesney. Working late nights at the same arts organization—she managing development efforts, and I directing the studio school—we talked often, and her open-hearted faith drew me in. At her invitation, I attended choir practice at Christ Church in Short Hills. I was welcomed with joy. The rector learned my name. My daughter thrived in Sunday school. The church wrapped around us like a blessing. In that warmth and belonging, I recognized Christ—not in doctrine or distance, but in the faces of people living out His love. I began to serve—on the Vestry, the Flower Committee, the choir, Buildings and Grounds. I designed materials for programs and worked on diocesan conventions. When I was confirmed, my church family stood with me. I was not alone. I was home.
A Lenten devotional invitation from Cynthia led me to meditate on Matthew 3. I awoke at 4 a.m. with a full poem in my mind. I wrote it down, weeping. I hadn’t felt that kind of creative fire in years. I knew then: the Word is alive, and Christ was speaking through it. Jesus was no longer an idea or memory—I could feel Him moving in me, calling me into service. This was my conversion. My reluctance fell away. I was free to worship, to serve, to belong. Scripture spoke through me. I was no longer trying to translate it—I was participating in it. I felt, for the first time, ordained not by institution but by experience.
Scripture-Based Writings
Today, I serve Christ Church and the wider Diocese with joy and commitment. I am head of Buildings and Grounds, design for the parish and the Diocese, and continue to teach and create as an offering to God. My priest, the Rev. Bowie Snodgrass, helped me name the call I had felt for so long. She and Cynthia made space for my discernment and walked with me through the fear. I am deeply grateful. They did not draw me in—they walked beside me as I drew closer to Christ.
Today, I serve Christ Church and the wider Diocese with joy and commitment. I serve on the Vestry as head of the Building and Grounds Committee, design for the parish and Diocese, and continue to teach and create as offerings to God. My priest, the Rev. Bowie Snodgrass, along with the Rev. Tim Mulder and the Rev. Paul Keene, helped me name the call I had long felt: a call to serve Christ’s Church as a priest. They did not draw me in; they walked beside me as I drew closer to Christ.
I know what it is to listen to hymns from outside the church doors. I know what it is to be told you do not belong. And I know the miracle of being welcomed back. The church’s embrace changed the course of my life. I am ready to bring my whole self—my recovery, my queerness, my creativity, and my faith—to serve the Church as a witness to the transforming love of Jesus Christ. I hear God’s call, and I rejoice in answering:
Here am I; send me!
— Isaiah 6:8
— Isaiah 6:8