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
I first encountered God as a child running barefoot through the fields and creeks of rural Virginia. Nature was my first sanctuary, alive with the pulse of God’s love. Whether tending to the soil, watching the seasons change, or hearing the songs of the earth, I knew instinctively that a greater love surrounded me. Though I did not yet know His name, Jesus was already speaking to me through the rhythms of creation.
In church, the stories of Abraham and Isaac, of the Crucifixion and Resurrection, felt like revelations of what I already knew in my bones. Singing was my first true act of worship—a communal offering where our voices became one body, lifting each other toward God. I joined the choir after finding Bible School too slow–and loved listening to the sermons, legs swinging far above the floor. At home, life was often unpredictable, marked by tension and anguish I did not yet have the words to name. But outside—in the fields, the creeks, and even in the smallest church pew—I found peace. I marveled that the infinite God could be felt so fully in a small building or a narrow stream, filling every hollow place with love.
Yet the human failings of the Church wounded me early. When my parents finally 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. That same summer, seeking warmth and belonging, I began drinking. Alcohol became a false refuge, standing in for the security and acceptance I had lost. Though I turned away from the Church’s doors, I never stopped longing for the love of Christ, even when I could no longer name it.
Even as a teenager, I felt stirrings of a call to ministry. I began to imagine a life of service—teaching, creating, leading worship—and felt a pull I could not fully name. In high school, I was mentored by the school chaplain, who encouraged my growth in both graphic design and Bible study. Her support gave me the confidence to dream that I might one day serve the Church with my whole self. But when I finally shared that I felt called to ministry, her warmth cooled. Though no words were spoken outright, I understood the change: someone like me—artistic, questioning, queer—was not seen as fit for the role. I tucked the calling away in my heart, a quiet ember I dared not fan into flame. Still, it never went out.
Throughout adolescence and into adulthood, I carried both deep resilience and deep hunger. I built a life in New York—teaching, designing, marching for justice—but I also hid behind achievement and addiction, afraid that my true self, including my queerness, had no place in God’s kingdom. Yet Christ stayed with me, even when I could not see Him.
At thirty-six, standing ready to give up on the edge of a subway platform, I heard the smallest voice: "Ask for help." That whisper saved my life. I turned to AA, entered recovery, and found my way back to prayer. In the rhythm of daily surrender, I came to know the Christ who had walked beside me all along—the Christ who lifts the weary and welcomes the outcast.
In sobriety, teaching became more than a career; it became my ministry. Miraculously, I was offered a teaching post just two weeks after my last drink. I leapt at the chance, terrified but compelled. After teaching myself how to teach, I found immense peace in serving these rooms filled with disparate strangers. I built classrooms where those who had been silenced or discouraged could reclaim their creative voices. I made room at the table for every student, just as Christ makes room for all at His table. Through this work, God began to heal my wounds and reveal my vocation.
My love for nature also deepened. In community gardens, I returned to the soil where my journey had begun. Every seed, every shared harvest, became a prayer of gratitude—a reminder that God’s abundance is real, and that we are called to tend and share it together. After the long isolation of addiction, working alongside others came easily. Seeing my small efforts join with theirs to grow real food and nourish real lives renewed my soul.
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.
Cynthia McChesney, a colleague and friend, invited me to choir practice at Christ Church. There, I was welcomed not as a guest but as family. The rector learned my name. My daughter thrived in Sunday school. My wife, who had carried her own heartbreak from the Catholic Church’s teachings on women and same-sex marriage, also found a home in the Episcopal Church—though it is just one strand of her rich spiritual life. For the first time in many years, we found a community that embraced us fully, not despite who we were, but because of the wholeness God sees in us. In the faces of that congregation, I recognized the love of Christ—not distant or doctrinal, but alive and present. In that spirit of welcome, we are now discerning the possibility of having our marriage formally blessed—a joy we did not find a church to celebrate with when we were first married in 2013.
During Lent, Cynthia invited me to reflect on Matthew 3. The next morning, I awoke at 4 a.m. with a full poem burning in my mind. As I wrote it down, weeping, I knew: the Word is alive. Christ was speaking through me. No longer was Scripture something to interpret from the outside; I was participating in it. My heart surrendered in joy. This was my true conversion—not a rejection of my journey, but a fulfillment of it.
Scripture-Based Writings
In April of 2023, I was confirmed as an adult. Cynthia McChesney stood as my sponsor, along with the Rev. Bowie Snodgrass. My wife had to stay at home to care for our daughter, who was sick that day. When the bishop called for anyone who would stand with me, several people spontaneously rose and came forward—friends from choir, friends from my prayer group, faces that had become family. I felt so lifted up and loved. After so many years of standing outside the Church's doors, I was no longer alone. I had been gathered in.
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 stand outside the Church doors, listening to hymns I thought were not meant for me. I know the wilderness of rejection—and the miracle of welcome. Like the prodigal, I return with gratitude and with joy, offering my whole self to the Church: my recovery, my identity, my creativity, and my faith, as living proof of the power of Jesus Christ’s love to transform and renew.
Here am I; send me!
— Isaiah 6:8
— Isaiah 6:8