Introduction: The Sacred and the Scandalous
This story is not meant for the faint of heart, nor is it written to glorify temptation or scandal. It explores raw, uncomfortable truths about the human condition—the sacred wrestling with the profane, the spirit grappling with flesh. Within these chapters, you may find adult themes, emotional vulnerability, spiritual conflict, and moral complexity. But above all, you will find honesty.
It is a story of a man—flawed, aging, seeking redemption—who serves humbly in a church that embraces spiritual diversity. His journey will take you through the backrooms of fellowship halls and the soft-lit dens of those haunted by their past. You’ll meet people who challenge him, comfort him, and threaten to unravel him. This is not a tale of perfection but of perseverance.
At its heart, this is a parable. It teaches that even those in servant roles are not immune to struggle. That spirituality is not the absence of desire, but the wisdom to navigate it. The chapters that follow are not written to titillate—they are written to illuminate.
May the reader approach with an open heart, ready to discern the lessons between the lines, and may grace guide every interpretation.
The Pixel and the Plow
I thought I was ready. Years of tinkering with open-source code, editing sermons into sleek, viral-ready clips, building websites in the quiet hours when the world was asleep—surely all of that meant something, right? So when the church down the road opened up a spot to manage their online outreach, I polished my credentials and let an AI write my cover letter. Sounded sharp. Professional. Impressive.
I even threw in my ministerial title—figured it might carry a little spiritual weight.
But the interview never came. Not even a call back.
A week later, I saw someone else had been hired. A soft-spoken woman, older, not flashy. She didn't have a high-profile digital portfolio. But she'd been volunteering every Sunday for years, helping stream services when no one else knew how. The pastor said, “She knew how to listen. She asked what we needed. Then she did it.”
It hit me like a silent crash—my ego had done all the talking. I'd let a machine write my story, puffed up my presence with titles and tech tricks. But I hadn't shown up. Not really. Not as a servant, not as a disciple.
Grandmother would’ve called it a lesson in illusion. “You built a castle out of pixels,” she’d say, “but forgot to plant your feet in the dirt.”
The Buddha warned of ego’s hunger—the illusion of self that clings and strives. Christ taught the same, in a different tongue: “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted” (Matthew 23:12, AMP).
Turns out, credentials don’t replace community. AI can’t fake humility. And titles don’t carry the same weight as trust.
I still code. Still edit. But now I show up differently. I start with ears open, not a résumé in hand. I offer what I have, not what I think they should want. I sweep the floor before touching the pulpit.
Maybe next time, I won’t be noticed right away. But I’ll be present. And that’s the only platform worth standing on.
The Weight of the Hammer
After that, I stopped aiming high. Not out of bitterness—but because I needed to start somewhere real. I took off the title, shelved the pride, and walked into the staffing office down the street with my name and work boots. A week later, I was hauling sheetrock into half-finished homes before sunrise. More hours. Less pay. But steady.
The body didn’t take kindly to the change. My knees ached. My back stiffened. The blisters on my hands reminded me every day that a digital life doesn’t toughen the skin. I’d come home too tired to think, barely able to lift my arms, yet grateful for the heat, for the small things I could now afford—better groceries, a few extra creature comforts, a new pillow for my wife who’d been waking with headaches.
Humility isn't a concept you read in a book—it’s something you sweat into your clothes and track home on your boots. It’s the slow undoing of the illusion that the world owes you something because you worked hard in silence. Turns out, no one hears what you do in the dark unless you’ve learned to serve in the light.
I realized I had let my ego set the price—and it came due. The Gospel warns us plainly: “For if anyone thinks he is something [special] when [in fact] he is nothing [special except in his own eyes], he deceives himself.” (Galatians 6:3, AMP).
The hammer doesn’t care if I’ve been ordained. The scaffolding doesn’t adjust for ambition. And exhaustion doesn't negotiate with dreams. But what it does offer—if you let it—is a sobering kind of clarity.
I began to notice the other guys. Some were just kids, already burned out by twenty-five. Others were old-timers, broken in body but fierce in spirit. They didn’t talk much about faith, but you could see it in the way they shared a thermos, or threw a tarp over a stranger’s tools before the rain hit. Sacred things don’t always look holy.
I still think about that church job. Not with resentment—but with understanding. It wasn’t meant for me. Not yet. My altar, for now, is the workbench. My prayer is in the hammer’s swing. And my penance? Learning to love this stage of the journey without rushing to the next.
Grandmother says the mountain only looks small when you’re standing on your own hill of pride. But when you walk down to the valley and look up with clean eyes, you can see it for what it really is—a slow, sacred climb.
And so I keep walking.
The Breaking Point
Week after week, my body began to betray me. The ladder steps felt taller. The hammer grew heavier. My breath came short by noon, and by day's end, it took everything I had just to sit up straight in the truck. I was in my fifties, still thinking I could prove something in a young man’s world. But the body keeps receipts. Every injury I ignored in my youth now came knocking like debt collectors with steel-toed boots.
Then came Ricky. Twenty-three. Quick on his feet. Juggled drywall and jokes in the same breath. He had a Bluetooth earpiece, a six-pack stomach, and some trade school certs I never got around to earning. First week on the job, he was running laps around me. By the third, I was training him to do what I was hired to do. Week four, the foreman pulled me aside with that look in his eye.
“Gotta let you go,” he said. “It ain’t personal—it’s pace.”
And that was it. No fanfare. No farewell. Just the sound of a clipboard flipping to the next name.
Something snapped in me. I felt the fire rise from my gut to my throat. Every disappointment, every overlooked effort, every bruise and back spasm surged forward like it had finally found a voice. I could see myself in the reflection of the office window—eyes narrowed, fists clenched, teeth locked in a grind. I stood there at the edge of eruption.
I walked. Fast. Out the gate. Past the stack of pallets. Across the gravel lot. I wanted to scream, to smash something, to tell the world how wrong it was to throw away a man who still had heart in his chest and calluses on his hands. But something stopped me.
Her voice—Grandmother’s—echoed in the hollow of my ribcage: “The fire inside you is not your enemy. It is your teacher. Learn when to feed it... and when to let it burn itself low.”
So I kept walking. Eyes wet. Jaw tight. My breath was ragged and loud, not from labor, but from the struggle not to explode. I passed the edge of the job site, stood at the tree line, and just breathed. Not to calm down, but to survive that moment without causing harm. That was the lesson.
"Be angry [at sin—at immorality, at injustice, at ungodly behavior], yet do not sin; do not let your anger [cause you shame, nor allow it to] last until the sun goes down.” (Ephesians 4:26, AMP).
I didn’t lose my temper that day. But I didn’t walk away proud either. I walked away humbled. Shaken. A man forced to admit that even good intentions and hard work aren’t always enough in a world driven by speed and youth.
And in that humility, I found the first real breath I’d taken in weeks. Not because the pain was over—but because I didn’t let it define who I became in the heat of it.
The Door He Didn’t Expect
A week passed. Then two. The bitterness dulled, but didn’t disappear. I still woke up sore, still counted every dollar before spending it, still stared at that original email from the church—“We’ve selected another candidate…”—and wondered where it all went sideways.
But one morning, I put on a clean shirt, brushed my thinning hair, and drove back to the church I’d once thought myself perfect for. Not to demand anything. Not even to plead. Just to look the hiring manager in the eye and say, “Thank you for your time.”
I found her in the community wing, sorting equipment for the next livestream. She was kind—surprised to see me, but not unwelcoming.
“I just wanted to say,” I began, voice steady, “that I appreciate your consideration. I let pride get ahead of me. I thought my credentials made me special—but I forgot to ask how I could serve.”
She paused. The room got quiet except for the gentle hum of the AV cart’s cooling fan.
“There’s no shame in learning,” she said. “A teachable spirit’s more valuable than a polished resume.”
I nodded. “I know I’m not cut out for everything, but if there’s a position—any position—you think I could handle, I’m willing. I just need the hours to make life a little better for my wife. Even janitorial work, if that’s what’s needed.”
That same afternoon, I got a call. They offered me a spot—janitor, on a trial basis. No glamour, no spotlight. Just floors to mop, trash to empty, and toilets to scrub. But the hours were flexible, the team respectful, and the kicker? The position came with health insurance—something the media department didn’t offer.
I said yes. With no hesitation. And something about the mop in my hand felt holy. There was no applause. No platform. Just quiet peace. Like maybe I’d finally stepped into the place I was meant to be—not as the star of the show, but as a steward behind the scenes.
“Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant.” (Matthew 20:26, AMP).
Within a month, they said I was a natural. Detail-oriented. Respectful. Always early. I found joy in polishing the sanctuary floors, knowing they’d reflect the light on Sunday mornings. I took pride in the quiet dignity of clean spaces, of unlocked doors, of keeping the place safe and open for others.
I wasn’t chasing titles anymore. I was building trust, brick by brick. And sometimes, you don’t climb the ladder—you become the one who holds it steady so others can.
Grace at the Bottom Rung
A few weeks into the janitor position, I was polishing the brass handles outside the sanctuary when the pastor came out to greet me. She was a woman of quiet fire—eyes kind, voice grounded, the kind of leader who made you feel seen without fanfare. I had heard her speak before, but never like this—just the two of us, between mop buckets and stacks of folding chairs.
“You know,” she said with a smile, “the work you’re doing matters just as much as the sermon I preach. Maybe more. Christ washed feet. He didn’t do it to prove a point. He did it because love starts low to the ground.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak right away.
She continued, “This church—this tradition—it’s not about climbing ladders. We’re about circles. Everyone has a seat, and we rotate who gets to speak. What you bring is spirit. And that’s what we build from.”
I thanked her, humbled beyond words. The burden I’d been carrying—the one that whispered I was ‘less than’ for not being in front of a camera—started to loosen its grip.
That weekend, she and the congregation invited my wife and me to a casual community gathering at a member’s house just outside town. No pulpit, no pews—just potluck dishes, children chasing each other across the grass, and laughter ringing out like bells in the early dusk.
We sat around a fire pit as the sun began to dip behind the trees, and someone passed around a small booklet: “Principles of the Unitarian Universalist Faith.” I expected dogma. What I found instead were values that made space for people like me—wounded, wandering, but still hungry for truth.
- The inherent worth and dignity of every person.
- Justice, equity, and compassion in human relations.
- Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations.
- A free and responsible search for truth and meaning.
- The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process.
- Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.
The group leader, an older man with a voice like smooth gravel, leaned forward and said, “You don’t have to believe everything the same way we do. But if you can stand on these principles—and live them—then you’ve already found your place here.”
My wife looked at me with tears in her eyes. I’d never seen her so at peace. And for once, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just listened. Just breathed. Just felt the warmth of welcome like a blanket I didn’t realize I’d needed.
As the fire crackled and the stars blinked awake overhead, I felt something deep and old stir in my soul—this was what church was supposed to be. Not a performance, not a hierarchy, but a circle of hands that reached out, even to those of us with calluses and regrets.
And in that circle, I found a truth I hadn’t known I’d lost: that humility is not defeat—it’s the soil from which healing grows.
Temptation and Truth
With each passing week, my role at the church grew. I was no longer just the janitor. I became the unofficial handyman, then the groundskeeper, then someone the pastor called on to help coordinate community efforts. There was talk of giving me a part-time assistant role in the outreach ministry. Life was steady—if not a bit fragile in its newness.
But the tests didn’t come from inside the church. They came from the world I still hadn’t fully let go of. One of them had a name. A woman I met during a downtown clean-up project who shared my love of old vinyl records, late-night philosophy, and the occasional gummy that made the stars dance.
We weren’t having an affair in the physical sense, but something dangerous bloomed between us—connection forged in trauma, in attraction, and in the shared shadows of our pasts. She saw the part of me that used to lead worship and the part that had once walked away from it all. She challenged me openly, teasingly, asking if I really believed monogamy was natural. Asking what kind of minister I wanted to be.
The temptation wasn’t just lust—it was the desire to feel free, to be unjudged, to explore paths I’d long buried beneath duty. And that terrified me.
One night, after an emotionally tangled evening, I came home and finally broke. My wife—who had sensed something—didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply folded her arms and listened as I confessed my confusion, my guilt, and my grief. I told her about how I’d failed my first family, how I’d avoided hard choices and let selfish ones destroy what I once had. I told her this was the same old demon wearing new perfume.
“So what are you gonna do?” she asked, eyes blazing.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I needed to tell you.”
Her silence was a furnace. Then finally, she spoke: “I didn’t marry you because I thought you were perfect. I married you because I saw you trying. You wanna explore? Explore. But don’t you dare use that as an excuse to run from the truth. You’re not the only one who’s had to wrestle with old pain.”
It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t condemnation either. It was the painful grace of someone willing to walk through hell beside you—if you walked it with honesty.
The next morning, I met with the pastor. I told her everything. Her expression never changed.
“Some call it weakness,” she said. “Others call it the dark night of the soul. You’re not the first minister to carry a thorn. But carry it with integrity.”
She encouraged me to keep showing up—to the work, to the struggle, to the people who depended on me. And she reminded me that even in pagan traditions, exploration is sacred only when rooted in respect and self-awareness.
The woman and I still talked sometimes, but the energy shifted. I stopped hiding. I stopped pretending this was some noble quest when it was, at its root, a tangled cry for validation.
Over time, a new kind of relationship bloomed—not a replacement, not an escape, but a bond that included my wife. What began as tension became transformation. The three of us shared meals, laughter, and long conversations about faith and truth. I learned that the mystery woman, while openly spiritual and curious about pagan practices, had grown up Catholic—and still, in private, crossed herself when no one was looking. Her contradictions taught me something profound: faith doesn't always fit inside the labels we wear in public.
That quiet complexity inspired me to learn more about the layers of paganism, the symbolism beneath the rituals, the reverence for nature, and the deeply personal ways people encounter the divine. My duties at church didn’t change in title, but my responsibility to the community deepened. I found myself mentoring young men on restraint, on self-awareness, on the hard-earned wisdom of fighting your own desires without demonizing them.
I had more eyes watching me than ever. I carried no title beyond servant, but that was the heaviest crown I’d worn yet. With each whispered confession from others who struggled with their own thorns, I saw how easy it was to stretch too thin—how, like King David, one moment of unchecked desire could unravel everything.
And so I walked more carefully, prayed more earnestly, and leaned into grace—not as a shield from consequences, but as a guiding light through the haze of human frailty.
Ministry, I’ve come to learn, is not about being the hero. It’s about learning to live in the tension between longing and loyalty. It’s about knowing that even in the gray, the sacred can still be found.
The Thorn and the Mystery
The servant’s role in the church had begun to change him—not through accolades or promotions, but through quiet responsibility. Yet for all the peace found in mopping the fellowship hall and setting out chairs before Sunday worship, an unrest stirred beneath the surface. He’d learned to show up, to be reliable, to serve without being seen. But hidden things have a way of surfacing, especially when you think you've buried them well.
Her name was Róisín—an old Irish name meaning "little rose," though there was nothing small about her presence. She was electric. Haunted. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. There was something in her eyes that hinted at a life lived in defiance of rules—rules she'd broken, rewritten, and worn like perfume.
She talked about her past freely, almost defiantly. In her younger days, she had a line of lovers and a magnetic pull that made men forget their vows. She spoke of power like it was a lover, and seduction like a prayer. But something in her voice trembled when she talked about those days—as though what once made her feel powerful had become a chain she could no longer carry.
It was during one of those evenings—liquor flowing, the scent of jasmine and sage in the air, a soft record humming from a speaker on the floor—that she turned to me and whispered: “They all wanted a piece of me. You… you see the whole.”
I should have left right then. I should have stood up, thanked her for the hospitality, and gone back to the life I was rebuilding. But I didn’t. I stayed. Not for sex—not yet—but for the connection. The thrill. The rawness that reminded me of who I used to be and terrified me of who I could become again.
Róisín called herself Christian in public. But in her home, behind the candles and incense, she confessed she never let go of her Catholic roots. She crossed herself before bed. Kept rosary beads next to her tarot deck. She talked of saints and spirits in the same breath. It was strange and sacred and unsettling.
I wanted to believe I was above temptation—that my servant’s heart made me immune. But her presence was the mirror I didn’t want. She saw every fracture, every longing, every unhealed scar. And she didn’t judge. She welcomed it. Welcomed me.
But the weight of duality pressed hard. I was serving the church, cleaning the sanctuary, mentoring the youth—and sneaking moments of spiritual intimacy with a woman whose worldview danced on the edge of mine. My wife knew. She always knew.
"This isn’t about her," she told me one night. "It’s about the part of you that wants to escape. If you think being with her will fix that, you’re wrong. And if you think I’ll sit quietly while you tear down everything we’ve rebuilt… you’re wrong about that, too."
I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t. She was right.
Róisín’s reach wasn’t just emotional. It was spiritual, seductive in the way Delilah disarmed Sampson—not with force, but with softness. Like Bath-Sheba, her beauty demanded attention, and like David, I was teetering on the roof of my own downfall.
And yet, I hadn’t fallen. Not completely. But the edge was right there.
This is the thorn. Not a woman. Not a drink. Not even the gummy that made the world shimmer. The thorn is the lie that we are above desire, that holiness means invulnerability. It isn’t. The thorn reminds us we are human. And it dares us to be honest about it.
What I do next… I don’t know. But I hear the ancient stories louder now—the warnings and the wisdom. And I pray that this time, I don’t trade my calling for a moment of comfort.