A quiet shift begins when a lifelong member of the Churches of Christ realizes that his faith life, rich in study and careful exegesis, struggles to move from mind to heart. Brandon Marlow's story traces the Restoration Movement’s ideals—erase denominational lines, do Bible things in Bible ways, and speak where Scripture speaks. Those guiding slogans shaped a culture suspicious of creeds, titles, instruments, and anything not “authorized.” The result formed disciplined habits, robust Bible study, and close-knit congregations. Yet the same strengths could narrow imagination and flatten mystery. A low view of the Holy Spirit’s personal activity and an intellectual approach to faith left little language for awe, beauty, or sacrament. Brandon describes how good intentions produced a protective fence, but often fenced out wonder.
His turning came when he stepped into preaching during a pastoral vacancy. Wanting holiness to match responsibility, he searched for time-tested disciplines: daily prayers, fasting rhythms, and a pattern of worship that stretches the soul. He found them in Orthodoxy. Prayer books spoke soberly about judgment and mercy, teaching him to remember ultimate things every day. Memorizing whole psalms, not just proof texts, reoriented his inner life. Icons startled him. Venerating the Ascension icon, his heart rose in praise, not just his mind in assent. He realized devotion is learned by doing—beauty tutors love, and ritual teaches reverence. Where logic said “believe,” the Church taught him to behold, adore, and belong.
Scripture did not shrink; it deepened. Listening to Orthodox homilies, he felt less “interpretation” and more unveiling. Texts clicked into place as part of a living Tradition, the same bloodstream that nourished the Fathers he had once mined for citations. C.S. Lewis had cracked the door years earlier, proving that Christian wisdom could move the affections without verse labels in every line. Meeting the Fathers as pastors—Ignatius, Polycarp, and more—showed him a church that loved, bled, and prayed as one body. Their worlds made sense of bones cherished as gold, not as superstition, but as love made tangible in the saints who fed, blessed, and shepherded their flock.
The Eucharist became the center of gravity. In his upbringing, communion was precious yet rushed, migrating from homemade bread to sealed cups as the table drifted to the side. Reverence thinned as routine took hold. In Orthodoxy, he discovered preparation before, prayer during, and gratitude after. The chalice, spoon, and altar were holy because the Lord gives himself there—Body and Blood, Presence not symbol. Approaching the chalice for the first time felt like approaching fire. He stepped forward in obedience and love, realizing this is why Christ died: communion. From there, everything else reframed—ascetic practices, feasts and fasts, the calendar that walks believers through the life of Christ, and the solidarity of Holy Week that exhausts, burns, and resurrects a community together.
From “people of the book” to people of the Book and the Table, he discovered that truth is not only argued; it is adored, sung, tasted, and shared. The heart learns by worship as much as the mind learns by words, and both find their home when Scripture meets Sacrament in the life of the Church.
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