Rogue Grace
I didn’t grow up with Sunday sermons or Bible memory verses. No pews, no sacraments, no tidy theology. But somehow, the light still found me—not in stained glass or sanctuaries, but in cracked pavement, whispered hope, and the spaces no one labeled sacred.
My theology isn’t pretty. It’s held together by tension and grace, doubt and fire. It bleeds, wrestles, rebuilds. It survives because it has to. Because neat answers never held me the way raw truth does.
Faith That Flickered
I didn’t go looking for faith. It existed quietly—slow, almost hidden—like a flicker that refused to go out in a mostly nihilistic world. Even as a kid, there was something persistent in me that didn’t match the reality around me. It didn’t need to be loud to be real. It just needed space to breathe.
When the Call Was Clear
But the call on my life? That wasn’t subtle. It was blatant. It hit like a jolt I will never forget. Not a vague sense. Not a poetic stirring. I heard it—clear, unmistakable, and in no uncertain terms. And though it’s built across my life, that moment was the break in the noise. The kind you don’t recover from—because you’re not supposed to.
I don’t say that to sound above anyone. I say it because I resisted it. I wrestled, questioned, and negotiated. But it didn’t go away. It felt less like a title and more like a tether—to people, to purpose, to a grace I couldn’t keep to myself and a purpose that wasn’t mine to ignore.
From the Edges to the Aisles
Now I’m in seminary. And even writing that feels surreal. Because I was never the kid who “felt called.” I was the one on the edge of things, surviving. And still—grace kept showing up. Unpolished. Uninvited. Unmistakable. Even though I didn’t know what it was.
I don’t need a pulpit. But sometimes, I find myself behind one. And when I do, I don’t preach for applause. I speak because I’ve lived the ache. Because I know what it’s like to crave something real and not know where to look.
Writing as Prayer
I don’t write because I have the answers. I write because the questions won’t leave me alone. And sometimes writing feels like the only way to breathe when the world gets loud. Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to pray.
The gospel I know doesn’t ask you to show up polished. It meets you messy. It lives in living rooms and laundromats, in active addiction, destitute choices, recovery circles, and late-night texts. I’ve heard more truth in those places than in a hundred sermons.
A Weight, Not a Want
My call is not a want. It’s a weight. A knowing. A fire I didn’t start and can’t put out.
I’m not here to convert anyone. I’m just here to name what I’ve seen: That grace is real. That sacred things don’t always wear robes. And that you don’t have to speak “church” to speak hope.
If you’ve never felt like you belonged in religion— you’re in good company. Because belonging doesn’t begin with fitting in. It begins with being seen.
And the light? It doesn’t ask for credentials. It just shows up.
Because it found me. And I’m still learning how to carry it— not perfectly, just honestly. Outside the lines. Still in the light.
I didn’t get here alone. There have been a couple people—probably a few more—who saw something in me when I didn’t. Who didn’t sugarcoat things or offer cheap encouragement, but kept it real. They didn’t try to fix me. They just stayed. And sometimes, that’s the kind of support that does more than sermons ever could. The kind that reminds you you’re not a lost cause. That maybe, just maybe, there’s something worth showing up for—something to grow.
Hope in Reality
I didn’t grow up in the pews. But now I find myself walking beside people in the wilderness—carrying light I didn’t earn, speaking hope I can’t always explain. And somehow… that’s church enough.
I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I barely have a map. But I’ve stood on the side of hopelessness long enough to recognize the weight of it—how it settles into your bones, quiet and brutal. I know what it’s like when the light feels out of reach.
That’s why I share, listen, exist. Not with certainty, but with gratitude. Because I’ve found slivers of hope in the wreckage—real, raw, stubborn hope that refuses to die quietly. I can’t keep that to myself.
I don’t share because I’ve figured it all out. I share because I haven’t—and yet hope still showed up. Not with clean answers or big promises, but with presence. With the kind of grace that doesn’t erase the ache, but sits with you in it.
This isn’t about expectations. It’s about survival. And gratitude. And offering a glimpse of something honest for anyone else clawing their way through reality.
You don’t need a pew to be pursued. You can belong to the sacred without ever belonging to the system.
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