The Way to Emmaus: A Spiritual Autobiography

“For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said…”

– 1 Corinthians 11:23-24

...Endeavoring to emulate the hypnotic cadence of a pious clergyman, my mouth began to utter those familiar verses aloud for the first time, each word the subject of my fastidious contemplation, my focus darting from the finely printed lines only to momentarily glimpse the bread and the cup meticulously situated on the table before me. As the gentle breeze flapped against the delicate pages crimped by the grip of my thumb, my skin seemed to affix itself to the imitation leather spine of the little Bible cradled tenderly in my palm. Though I had no words to articulate why, I understood this act to be of paramount importance. This seemingly modest meal meant togetherness; it was fellowship with one another, communion shared between heaven and earth. It always felt larger than life. As I lifted the bread in reverence to break it, the midday sun shone brightly on our makeshift altar, illuminating the inscription which featured the words: Little Tikes. My tiny congregation of one squirmed restlessly in his Pull-Ups, no doubt anxiously anticipating the chance to imbibe his portion of the grape juice my mother had furnished in a plastic tumbler for our unsanctioned backyard ritual. He had never seen anything like this before. Shaping itself into a satisfied grin, my face could no longer contain its childish glee as I pronounced in conclusion, “For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes” (1 Cor. 11:26, NKJV).

I was a precocious and inquisitive child, about five or six years old when I began to identify what I felt I was meant to do with my life. I will never forget the sensation of one life-altering moment of realization, as brief as a vapor, during an otherwise entirely mundane Sunday morning, when all at once it was as if the stars had aligned. Peeking over a pew of more mature believers (as I was always reluctant to be whisked off to “children’s church” in lieu of what I felt to be a perfectly suitable “grown-up church” service), I looked upon a perfectly ordinary, rather forgettable minister as he proclaimed the extraordinarily unforgettable Gospel to the faithful, and I knew in an instant that I was made to do that. Although I hardly had the vocabulary to refer to it as a “calling” at the time, I could not abandon the steadfast conviction that I was designed for a specific function. By then, the plastic tools of my workbench playset had already taught me that each instrument was made to satisfy a precise role, and while you could try to drive a screw with a hammer, things tended to work most efficiently when they were employed as intended. One Sunday morning, before I had begun the first grade, I was stirred to disappointment when I learned that I had woken up too late to cajole my parents into an excursion to church. For no obvious reason, on that particular Sunday I was beset with an unquenchable thirst for Holy Communion and I found myself utterly perturbed by the prospect of missing the service. My dismay was short-lived, however, as I had quickly devised a solution to this predicament. Moments later, I scurried from my room clutching my pocket-sized New Testament (courtesy of the Gideons) and requested of my mother a cup of grape juice, a slice of bread on a plate, and permission to invite the neighbor boy over to play, all of which were freely granted, though surely not without the bewildered amusement of my parents. I proceeded to arrange the elements on my miniature plastic picnic table and prepared to break bread in the company of my unwitting young friend, while my recollection of the Passion narrative called to mind the One whose body and blood had been broken and poured out for each of us.

This sacramentally peculiar episode, however canonically dubious, is forever etched on my heart as a paradigm for my lifelong sojourn with Christ, throughout which the most notable milestones have been characterized by experiences of devotion “to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42b, NRSV). This leading anecdote strikes me as an acutely suitable one to recount, as the course of my spiritual journey has been interspersed with repeated signposts pointing the way to the community and liturgy of Christ’s one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. As my former spiritual father and parish priest often instructed, with respect to the liturgical life of the worshipping body, “Follow the chalice.” Such a directive seemed only to describe and further affirm the trajectory of my spiritual and religious life thus far, and it remains the intention of my heart to fix my eyes upon the Lord and to follow that overflowing cup of abundant grace. It has long been my sincere conviction that, not unlike the disciples traveling along the road to Emmaus, when we invite Jesus to sit at the table with us (perhaps even a child’s picnic table), he breaks and blesses the bread of our fellowship and, upon giving it to us, opens our eyes and reveals his presence in our midst.

The earliest stages of my Christian formation were shaped by the unconditional love of my devoted parents. My life has been continuously nurtured by both their example and their intercessions.
From the countless hours spent reading and reciting children’s storybooks and biblical accounts to the consistency with which they taught me to pray, two young parents could not have done a more honorable job. It seemed their patience could never be diminished by my interminable curiosity, and to this day their limitless capacity for support and guidance demonstrates the potency of unwavering parental love. As the eldest of three, I am also grateful to have had the invaluable opportunity of experiencing the upbringing of my younger brother and sister, whom I have often referred to affectionately as “my babies,” as dear to me as anything in this life. To reflect upon the myriad lessons instilled in me throughout my life by both my mother and father would be an unending task; however, one overarching theme strikes me as the synopsis of it all: “Trust in God.” If the convictions of my nascent faith held to any surety, it was that the unfailing providence of God does indeed sustain us, ever unfolding before us as we live out our humanity with one another.

The sum of the assorted religious traditions I have experienced throughout my life in the Christian Faith may be sufficiently described as ecumenical. While I have only ever held formal membership in three denominations—The United Methodist Church, the Antiochian Orthodox Christian Archdiocese of North America, and the Episcopal Church—my spiritual life has drawn inspiration and insight from a variety of theological, liturgical, and cultural expressions of Christianity. The religious upbringing of my youth comprised periods of attendance in a medley of denominational settings, mostly Protestant in heritage, ranging from Pentecostal to Presbyterian, including some Baptist and Roman Catholic influences within the family and community. Throughout the course of my lifelong pursuit of spiritual authenticity and religious consistency, I have resorted to an array of appellations to describe my experience of the Faith; however, from the simplicity of childhood fidelity to the manifold “-isms” of theological studies, one moniker has remained the subject of my consistent preoccupation: Christian. It has often served as a constructive reminder to me that this sweeping term, despite the limitless index of sectarian designations ascribed to it throughout history, simply means “little Christ,” a title we should always endeavor to uphold, in all of its meek simplicity and cosmic immensity, by humbly serving the needs of our neighbors and boldly interceding for the life of the world.

From my first days, my paternal grandfather had by all accounts already begun to take part in my Christian formation. He was known to place me proudly on his lap, pleased to captivate his first grandson with the familiar tunes of Sunday school and the revivalist anthems of a bygone era. For years, his soothing voice and charismatic resonance regaled my sensibilities with eloquent prayers and impassioned spiritual guidance, replete with scriptural allusions and Pentecostal interpretations, all of which paved the way for more engaging doctrinal discussions before the close of his life. Although many of the ideological perspectives espoused by the charismatic movement have since receded from my theological understanding, its foundational devotion to the acquisition of the fruit of the Holy Spirit remains the predominant focus of my prayer life. 

By my twelfth year, my maternal uncle had undertaken to join the Roman Catholic Church, a prospect which provided me no end of fascination, despite having introduced me to the concept of cognitive dissonance. I had come to understand that Roman Catholicism, in spite of its traditional merits, was little more than an imprecise facsimile of Christianity, having been shaped by the disturbances of human history into a merely ritualistic form of religion which only hinted at the substance of the Faith to which it once adhered. My uncle’s conversion, however, was elucidating to any who would engage him, including me. When he first took me to Mass, I was mesmerized by both the magnificence of the liturgy and the piety of the congregation. Almost immediately, it seemed evident to me that these people, whom I had been led to believe were idolatrous, were gathered together to offer every glory up to God, surrounded by the supportive chorus of those who had gone before them. That Sunday, in what I assumed to be the most unlikely of circumstances, I sensed a moment of awakening in which my spirit instantaneously harkened back to the epiphany I had experienced in church as a little boy. As the presiding priest elevated the host, it felt as though an incomprehensible radiance had permeated that sacred space, and all at once I knew: that was it. I was made to do that. With that eucharistic celebration, it was as though the hands of humanity had pierced a thin membrane of Heaven, and the glory of the Divine encompassed every perceptible thing. Once again, I perceived that Jesus Christ himself had been revealed in the fellowship assembled there for the breaking of bread. 

With the dawn of adolescence, my Christian devotion proceeded to develop into zeal. In high school, I poured myself into every opportunity for involvement and formation at church and school. Pursuing every reasonable undertaking for the sake of personal growth and leadership development, I was baptized and became devoted to my local non-denominational charismatic church. Together, my friends and I would go on to sing in the choir, lead youth group fundraisers and bible studies, organize short-term mission trips, and even preach to the congregation on occasion. This participation joined me to an affectionate group of peers in our small community, many of our interests overlapping between church involvement and school activities such as music, theatre, and student council. In every endeavor, I aspired to prepare myself as adequately as possible for my future vocation; I was adamant in my assertion that I would one day be bound for seminary. Of course, youthful passions are often tempered by time and experience, and after prayerfully discerning the next step in my journey, I would soon find myself in college, in the midst of a spiritual and theological labyrinth, almost overwhelmed by the abundant diversity of Christian traditions. It was in college that I would learn to pull on loose threads and begin to unravel the patchwork of theological impressions that had comprised so much of the tapestry of my religious life, eventually learning how to weave the fabric back together gradually, into more consistent patterns.

On the merits of pastoral and academic recommendations, followed by a series of essays and interviews, I was awarded an institutional scholarship to attend Oral Roberts University in the pursuit of theological studies. By the time I had completed my first semester as a student of theology and church history, I had discovered that a theological education in pursuit of a call to ordained ministry comprised a great deal more than academic instruction. I would posit that the spiritual edification derived from navigating extracurricular theological discussion, communal worship and fellowship, and a sometimes tenuous prayer life plays as great a role, if not greater, in one’s vocational formation as does theological study. The culmination of these aspects of life on a Christian campus emerged in the midst of my search for a place to call home within the expansive chambers of the broader Church, as I came into contact with Eastern Orthodox Christianity. As my study of historical Christianity continued to deepen, I became increasingly disillusioned with the ethical and theological inconsistencies circulated by evangelical fundamentalism. The dwelling which I had built upon shifting sand was no match for the falling rains and rising floods of lived spirituality, so I had resolved to locate a firm foundation upon which to establish my devotional residence. The historical catholicity of liturgy as the communal act of partaking of the preponderant worship of the heavenly hosts provided a solid rock for the basis of my habitation within Orthodox Christianity, and the years I spent in the Byzantine tradition have contributed a wealth of theological and spiritual resources to my life. Upon completing my undergraduate studies, I subsequently embarked for seminary to continue my theological formation at Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology where, alongside my procurement of the Master of Theological Studies, I was equipped with a bounty of opportunities for spiritual growth and discernment. The development I experienced during my time at the seminary led to a heightened sensitivity for causes of social justice and an escalated emphasis on the liberation afforded to all people by the gospel of the resurrected Christ. Under the guidance of an astute spiritual father, I had come to discern by the conclusion of the season I spent in Boston that pursuing the work of Christian ministry within the confines of Eastern Orthodoxy would not be the most suitable context in which to utilize the emphases of my theological and pastoral convictions. My conscience could no longer bear to uphold the institutional structures of immutable customs which prohibit the affirmation and inclusion of all people, regardless of gender, sexual identity, ethnic background, or social perspective. Having been captivated by the balance and diversity of the Anglican tradition for a number of years, I became increasingly aware that the community with which I was most compatible was that of the Episcopal Church, a branch of the Body of Christ principally devoted to preaching the good news of our “loving, liberating, and life-giving God” (https://www.episcopalchurch.org/what-we-believe/). By the grace of God, I have found a spiritual home in the Episcopal Church, where I have been met with the warm embrace of open hearts and minds and the inspiring fellowship of a faithful Christian community.

It seems an almost insurmountable task to summarize the cumulative religious experiences and interweaving themes that have guided my spiritual journey and informed the discernment of my sense of calling to clerical ministry. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the bounty of God’s mercy and the countless lessons for Christian discipleship provided by Our Lord and His faithful assembly of believers throughout time. I believe that it is the calling of all members of the Body of Christ to live our lives in such a way as to exemplify and preach good news to the poor, the release of captives, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed, and the Lord’s favor (Luke 4:18-19). In the pursuit of spiritual authenticity and wholeness, my spirit is continually drawn to the altar in the worship of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; my soul gravitates towards the continuous work of the Church’s ministry as a layperson, and it is my solemn prayer that God may see fit to send me out into the world as one of the many shepherds commissioned to serve God’s own flock. It is my sincere hope that this condensed overview of my faith journey, supplemented by an abbreviated sampling of the anecdotes and reflections which constitute it, may provide a satisfactory illustration of the posture and substance of my spiritual life.

Soli Deo gloria.

May this and all things be to the glory of God alone.