Artist. Traveler. Storyteller.

Too many of us have cracked our lives into component parts—the family part, the work part, the spiritual part, etc—and we suffer as a result.

A “fossores” is species of sand wasp, and was used in reference to clergymen during the Roman persecution of the church much like we might crudely refer to someone as a cockroach.

Because Christianity was an outlaw religion, pastors were often forced to take inconspicuous day jobs. Many became gravediggers. By day, fossorians (as I’ve come to call them) would suffer the scorn of the public while working backbreaking labor for low pay. But at night, they would use the newly excavated gravesites as houses for worship, smuggling in their brothers and sisters for church in the catacombs.

After the services ended, the fossorians would stay up and pray, decorating the tombs with symbols and scriptures, prayers and pleas. Then they would sleep in the presence of sacralized death, dreaming of God’s plans to heal the world. They practiced the undifferentiated wholeness between their art, their work, and their faith.

From them we learn that our vocation and calling and identity are inextricably mixed. We don’t have “prayer lives” and “spiritual lives.” No. We are spiritual people, and every thought or word or hope we utter is saturated by the presence of the Spirit.

This website is my catalogue of ambitions, pursuits, and optimisms for such a life. Feel free to browse, use, peruse, and enjoy.