Zackrie Vinczen, M. Div.

My father went to prison when I was only a month old. He left my mom, two year old sister, and myself, alone in Alaska. It did not take long for my mom to meet the man who would become my stepdad.

 

We moved to Illinois and eventually Arkansas, where my first younger sister was born, before finally settling in Washington State. I was enrolled in preschool, and my second younger sister soon followed. There were four of us kids at that point, and I was the only boy.

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During the early years of my life, my stepdad worked as a commercial fisherman. Money was always tight in our house. It was not uncommon for us to receive food stamps or make visits to the food bank. My mom tried her best to make do, but even in those years I knew she wanted more for us.

 

Eventually, with my Grandparent’s financial support, my mom enrolled us kids, in Catholic school. I was in third grade then. I loved going to St Mary’s. The small class size helped to me develop meaningful friendships and the required uniform helped mask my family’s poverty, but my favorite part was religion class and going to weekly mass.

 

I was stirred by the Catholic mass as a child, and in many ways still am. There is something about the order and ritual meaning of this form of worship that struck a chord in me. I felt a deeper connection to my ancestors and the community to which I was a part. Even at that age, I was so moved by this experience, I was sure I would one day become a priest.

 

When I was in sixth grade, my parents made the choice to move us back to public school. We still went to the Catholic mass for several months, but in time this became less and less frequent. The reason was never made clear to me. We tried going to an Assemblies of God church for a while, but it was not the same, and soon we stopped going to church all together.

 

I drifted spiritually, for the next few years. During this same period, my mom gave birth to my fourth sister, and things at our house began to take a turn for the worse. My stepdad had broken his back while fishing, and was at home for several months. He was highly medicated for the pain, and soon his use turned to abuse. He drank too, to numb the pain the pills could not kill. Even after his back healed, his new habits stayed with him. He became violent and lashed out at my mom and us kids. His words cut far worse than the blows of frustration laid upon us. A sense of fear was instilled in us all.

 

As time went on, I found myself searching for a source of meaning. As if trying to find justification for my lot in life. I would walk down to the beach to find peace, and stare out at the horizon in contemplation. In those moments, a sense of belonging would overwhelm me, and I would feel removed from troubles of the world. I carried this feeling with me, and used it to shelter myself from anger of my stepdad. I learned a lot from staring out at the horizon, allowing my mind to drift on the currents of deep mystery. I no longer doubted my life had meaning, now I simply had to find it.

 

In time I was introduced to a woman who was a Wiccan Priestess. We became friends and after many conversations over coffee, she invited me to attend her coven’s fall equinox celebration.

 

The Coven of the River’s End became a spiritual home for me. It was a place where my perspective on life was broadened. I learned to find greater meaning in the world around me and see the spark of the divine in everything. In time, I was invited to study with this group, and start on the path to becoming a Wiccan priest.

 

In the end, after two years of studying, I decided not to go through with my initiation. I had grown and learned from this experience, but I felt compelled to continue searching for a more personal Truth. I kept an open mind and soon began studying Reiki, and eventually earned the degree of Master Teacher, but still continued to search. On some level, not entirely known to me, these experiences transformed my life, and I became the first member of my family to graduate high school and go on to college.

 

I started at Grays Harbor College in winter of 2008. I did not enroll immediately after high school graduation as is traditional, and had no plans of enrolling to be honest. I did not think college was a possibility for me, and definitely not something I could afford. It was something other people’s kids did, and besides had not I broken enough barriers graduating from high school. However, at the insistence of a family friend, I decided to give it a shot. It was in this same period that I found the courage to come out as gay.

 

In the fall of 2010, I transferred to Western Washington University and declared a double major in Philosophy and Creative Writing. I set out on an intensive course of study, allowing myself to drift from time to time as my curiosity inspired.

 

Around the same time I met the man who would become my husband. Elliott was finishing his M.A. in History, and we bumped into each other, as a result of the long hours, we both spent at the library. We talked here and there, but nothing really came of things at first.

To pay for the cost of attending Western, I got a summer job gill netting for salmon in Alaska. For two summers in a row, I left from Bellingham Washington, on a ferry headed to Petersburg Alaska. During my time in Southeast Alaska, I lived almost entirely on a thirty-one foot boat with one other person—my captain.

 

The work was tough and required much endurance. The long hours were made bearable only by the ever present sun. Still, somehow, amidst the hectic nature of a commercial fishing operation, I was able to find peace. I was able to find comfort and inspiration in the rocking of that tiny boat, upon the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. And I was moved to awe, by the wonder of God’s creation.

 

In the fall of 2011, I first attended the Bellingham Unitarian Fellowship. I was invited to the service by a friend, who sang in the choir. He wanted me to hear him preform. The service was great, and I came back for several Sundays over the course of the year, before leaving for Alaska in the summer.  

 

In 2013, I graduated with my BA, my grandfather died, and Elliott and I got married. This was a very full year for me and through it all the members of the Bellingham Fellowship were there providing support Experiencing this support in such an emotionally charged time was a great blessing and reawakened that call to ministry I first heard when I was a kid.

 

While attending Starr King School for the Ministry, I began to understand that at the heart of my call to ministry is a longing to be pastoral—helping people to find meaning and navigate the complexities of their life.