Ian Mowery

2022

Kansas City

In the glow of a screen at midnight, I chase online ordination not for robes or rituals, but for reclamation—a quiet rebellion against the ordinary. Picture this: me, a wanderer in the wilds of doubt, logging into a digital chapel where pixels pulse like prayer beads. What do I hope? To weave my scars into sacraments, turning Tuesday tedium into holy ground. I’ll marry strangers under starlit streams, their vows echoing in chat logs that outlive regrets. No grand cathedrals; my altar is a laptop, anointed with coffee stains and courage. This isn’t escapism; it’s excavation. In a world of algorithms dictating destinies, I’ll preach from the pulpit of possibility—sermons on surrendering to the unknown, where grief’s GPS reroutes to grace. I’ll counsel the sleepless, parsing psalms from playlists, reminding them that divinity dances in the downtime between doom-scrolls. For the lonely, virtual vigils where we trade testimonies like trading cards, building bridges from bandwidth. Ultimately, I seek sovereignty: a soul signed in sacred code, empowering me to bless the broken bits of life. May this ordination ignite my inner oracle, whispering that wholeness hides in the haze of “what if.” In 200 words, it’s my manifesto—hallelujah in hyperlinks, faith fetched at the click of a button. Who’s next? Your turn to transcend.

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