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The road to my vocation was nothing short of a thrilling pilgrimage, a journey that unraveled in ways I couldn’t have possibly anticipated. I was a man in motion, a wandering bird cast out of the nest, searching for something that could never quite be grasped. It wasn’t until I turned 47 that I finally found the place I could call my home—though it wasn't the home I expected. It was a consecrated brotherhood that swept me up like a gale, a quiet vocation born from the depths of surrender.
The clues were there, of course, buried deep in the recesses of my spiritual life like a forgotten treasure. As early as 1984, a prophecy had followed me: "You will be like a wandering bird cast out of the nest..." and another woman, with an air of mystery and jest, told me my calling was that of a troubadour—a poet for the divine, and a trouble-shooter to fix the spiritual knots of the world. At that time, I had no idea how tangled my path would become, nor how uncoiling it would lead to my deepest peace.
For years, I struggled against God. I had the stubbornness of the ancient patriarchs, unwilling to accept that I wasn’t meant to be a priest or religious, nor a married man. I fought with God in the shadows, believing my heart was too wild to be confined to just one calling. But God’s patience is legendary, and it was only when I surrendered—when I finally embraced the life of the ordinary layman that I had so long resisted—that He opened the door to my true calling: to become a consecrated brother.
The prophecy I’d been given in my twenties—that I would become a leader in the future Church only after I turned 41—still haunted me. It felt like an eternity at the time, but at 41, everything changed. It was then that I discovered Luisa Piccarreta, the Divine Will, and the doors to the spiritual kingdom were flung wide open. My life, filled with chaotic detours, was suddenly on a straight path.
It was no accident that I became a consecrated brother in the Little Eucharistic Brothers of Divine Will. It was as though the heavens themselves had whispered this calling into the ear of my soul. I took the name Brother Gilbert Joseph, after St. Gilbert of Sempringham—the patron of simplicity—and St. Joseph, the quiet protector of the Holy Family. It was a fitting choice, one that reflected the contradictions in my own soul: a man drawn to the mysteries of God, yet always yearning for the peace of simplicity.
In 2015, I found myself at peace for the first time in my life. We were living in the hidden valley of Tasmania, a place that felt as though it had been waiting for us all along—waiting for me to make my home in its quietude. The valley became my sanctuary, and my brothers and I, as Little Eucharistic Brothers, lived the life of both contemplation and action, serving the small community with reverence and joy. Yet the path had not always been this clear. The first years were a struggle—so much so that I almost left after just one year. But the Lord had a way of sending the right people at the right time. In 2015, an older man named Joseph, a former manager from Sydney, joined us, becoming Brother Stephen Joseph. His arrival was a divine answer to a prayer I hadn't even spoken aloud.
There was humor, too, even in the darkest moments. God’s timing, impeccable as always, had its way with me. In 1987, for instance, I was convinced that the Rosary—those vain repetitions—were nothing more than the practices of pagans. It wasn’t until a vivid dream—a dream of catastrophic events and divine rebuke—that I saw the truth. I had told my aunt Faye, in the dream, “See? I told you we should have prayed the Rosary.” It was a message I couldn't escape, and within hours, I found myself at the Catholic store, buying my first rosary beads and a pamphlet on how to pray. The Rosary—how could I have ever resisted it?
But let me tell you about Aunty Faye. Aunt Faye, the faithful evangelical, who became a Catholic in 2013 at the age of 83—along with her daughter, Caroline, and granddaughter, Natasha, and her four great-grandchildren, who were all baptized with me as their godfather. There, in the warmth of our Jewish roots, our family found a new beginning, and Aunty Faye, with her daughter Caroline, prayed the Rosary until her death at 88. I remember the warmth of those prayers, the simplicity of it, and the profound truth that Mary’s love is never enough—of Mary, never enough!
It’s this Jewish heart of mine that beats in rhythm with the Divine Will, a connection that defies reason and yet transcends all understanding. Even in my darkest moments, the laughter of my ancestors and the deep warmth of my faith keep me grounded. I think of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, who cried out: “Of Mary, never enough!”—and I, too, cry with him. How could I ever have enough of her, or of the tenderness of St. Joseph, who now feels like a brother, a constant companion in my spiritual journey? We all take Joseph as one of our names, a reminder that the simple, hidden life is where true greatness lies.
In 2021, our little brotherhood was recognized as a Public Association of Christ’s Faithful by the Archbishop of Hobart, and I became the Moderator. There was a deep sense of peace in that moment, an understanding that the work we had done in secret, hidden from the eyes of the world, was finally seen—and it was good.
Now, I live here, in this valley, in the presence of my brothers, my family, my God. I serve as a contemplative, an AHC member, a leader of the Huon Valley Divine Will Group, and a coordinator of the Bnei Miriam Havurah. The path is clear now, but it hasn’t always been. There were times when it was shrouded in darkness, in confusion, in tears. But in the end, I know that the call—divine, mysterious, and thrilling—was always meant for me. The darkness only makes the light shine that much brighter.
And so, I whisper the same cry that echoes in the heart of every pilgrim: Of Joseph, never enough!