Ministry Call
Resumé
Other Materials:
Church Service
Creative Pilgrimage
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)
even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.
— Psalm 139:9–10 (NRSV)
My path to faith has not been linear, yet it has been undeniably guided by God. 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. 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. 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 uplifted 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. Though I did not yet fully understand, Jesus was already speaking to me through the rhythms of creation.
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 try the church—I chose art instead. In that choice, I still 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 made art, 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 was too anguished to see 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. 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.
Two weeks into my early sobriety, I was offered a job teaching at a local college. 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. Through my students, I found healing and a growing sense of vocation. Their courage and vulnerability called something holy out of me. I didn’t think of it as ministry at the time, but everything I did—every class I taught, every conversation I had—was a quiet act of service.
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. I was welcomed with joy. 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. 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. My wife and I are even discerning the possibility of having our marriage formally blessed in a service this year, a joy we did not find a church to celebrate with when we were married in 2013.
During Lent, Cynthia invited me to reflect 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 understood for the first time that ordination begins long before the Church lays hands.
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.
I hear God’s call, and I rejoice in answering:
Here am I; send me!
— Isaiah 6:8
— Isaiah 6:8