Pilgrimage to Canterbury

The First Sunday of Lent

2007-02-26T09:31:00.000-05:00

Luke 4:1-13
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread." Jesus answered him, "It is written, 'One does not live by bread alone.'" Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, "To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours." Jesus answered him, "It is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'" Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,' and
'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'"
Jesus answered him, "It is said, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

Welcome to the desert. We get the sense from the gospel text this morning that, just as Jesus spent forty grueling days in the desert, on this first Sunday of Lent, we are also entering our own wasteland…our own 40 day journey through a spiritual desert, called Lent.

Now I know a little something about living in a desert. I lived for four long years in the West Texas town of Abilene. This is a place where tumbleweeds literally tumbled down the dirt alleyway behind our rickety little apartment. Where a few times a year the sky would grow dark and a thick layer of red dust would quickly descend and cover the town. These dust storms were like sandpaper to the face. Throughout the long summer you could count on the sun beating down with blazing temperatures near the century mark. It didn’t help that our little Honda’s air conditioner broke during the middle of one of those hot West Texas summers. One year it had been so hot and dry that a plague of millions of big black beetles squeezed their way from the dry cracks in the dirt and invaded our town. I remember the beetles crunching underfoot on the library steps and how we plugged up the cracks under our doors with old T-shirts to keep the beetles from creeping in. Now there are beautiful things about a desert, like the big blue sky with nothing to block your view, but overall, let me assure you, living in a desert is a harsh and empty existence.

This wasn’t the only desert I found myself in during my four years in Abilene. I also found myself in what you might call a spiritual desert. There were times during my four years in Abilene that I found myself not even moving my mouth during the singing of a hymn at church. I had long periods without prayer. There were times that I questioned my faith deeply. What was ironic, though, was that I was supposed to be on a religious mountaintop, not in a spiritual wilderness. I was in seminary after all. But while my mind worked overtime, my soul was dry and empty. I was in a spiritual desert….

Now in our gospel text this morning, we heard about Jesus living for 40 days in a desert. Jesus was “famished” the text says—hungry, thirsty, hot. You can imagine that living in a desert for 40 days might make you a little thirsty and hungry, not to mention dusty, sweaty, sunburnt. And here the devil—the very personification of evil—tempts Jesus with turning stones to bread. To make a little snack for his empty stomach, a tall glass of lemonade for a parched throat. This is something Jesus will do for his followers (remember water to wine and the multiplication of loaves and fishes)—but something he won’t do, here in the desert for himself. Something greater was at stake in this story. Jesus wasn’t about to sell his own integrity to the devil for a bite to eat.

We can easily see that Jesus’ experience in the wilderness wasn’t just physical, but also spiritual. Jesus came face to face with his deepest temptations. These weren’t just temptations with food and drink, but about the core of his identity. The devil—that gnawing inner voice of selfishness—tempted Jesus on a deeply spiritual level. Here Jesus was being tempted with the offer of complete power and authority on earth…if only he would sell his soul. And since we know Jesus was tempted in every way like us, we know that these temptations were indeed real for Jesus. True doubt must have entered his mind. Doubt about who he was and what he really believed in and stood for. This is the kind of doubt that comes to you in a spiritual desert.

We might have a tendency to read stories of Jesus’ temptation retrospectively with our rose-colored Easter glasses on. As if Jesus never had doubt and never had fears and was never tempted by anything. But this morning, we are challenged to read this text realistically through our dark Lenten glasses. Where temptations, where loneliness, and where the feelings of guilt, are all real, persistent, and pervasive. Even for Jesus.

There is another biblical story, this one in the Old Testament, about another desert experience, alluded to in this morning’s text from Deuteronomy. After God delivered the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, they went wandering in a Middle Eastern desert for not forty days, but forty years. This was also a time of temptation and doubt for the Israelites. Even though their God had brought them out of extreme suffering, we read stories about their losing faith in God. They would have rather gone back to Egypt. There they had enough good food and clear cold water. There was no worrying where their next meal will come from. Out of fear, they built for themselves a golden calf idol, hoping that perhaps this god would make things better. The Israelites were desperate to leave the desert.

Though similar, these two desert experiences—Jesus’ and the Israelites’—are different in one respect. The Israelites were constantly seeking to evade their desert experience. God provided manna, but they wanted gourmet food and drink, their milk and honey...now. Enough of this manna! They were ready for the Promised Land. In contrast, Jesus embraced his desert experience. In fact, he walks into the desert of his own accord.

These two ways of living in the desert hold a lesson for us as we enter Lent. This is not a festive time. Lent is our spiritual desert. We symbolize this by replacing the flowers with dried, crooked twigs of wood. The colors are purple for penance. We recite The Great Litany as confession for our sin. There are no “Alleluias.” Easter is not yet here. We cannot hurry Easter up, make the time pass more quickly, or arbitrarily decide to celebrate it before its arrival. Rather, we walk into the desert, and orient ourselves here in the desert. We do not enjoy our time, but we must embrace it. This will be a hard time. This is a time when we come face to face with our temptations. We come face to face with our doubts. We come face to face with our losses. It is a time to be endured.

We must enter the desert deliberately.

I personally first came to realize this spiritual dimension to the desert during Lent 2004, when I found myself on a spiritual retreat at the Holy Cross Monastery, an Episcopal Monastery on the West bank of the Hudson River in New York State. Now here was another kind of desert. During early spring the trees were still bare of leaves, no sign of life. The cold Hudson River flowed past the windows of the monastery, leaving a chill just glancing at it. A monastery by nature is a Spartan atmosphere, a desert no matter the season. It is simple and empty. The chapel with its cold stone tiles and white washed walls. There was no religious decoration. For Lent, the one cross at the east end of the church was covered with canvas: God’s face was hidden, or so it felt. These monks took daily vows of silence, which we were invited to partake in, from nine in the evening until after breakfast the next morning, every day. We got up in the middle of the night to say prayers, as we yawned and rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. This was a kind of self-imposed spiritual desert, at a lonely monastery during Lent 2004.

But what I learned about Lent at the Holy Cross Monastery was that a spiritual desert is not spiritually empty: it is full of doubt, fear, anxiety, and uncertainty; here our spiritual lives become open before us against the backdrop of severity. We learn our weaknesses, we number our fears, we count our losses, name our temptations. In the blazing harsh light of the desert, these hidden things become very clear.

Perhaps we, like the Israelites, prefer to avoid the kind of clarity the desert provides. We would rather be comfortable, stay secure, in an easy land nowhere near the desert. But the way out of the desert is the way through it; to deny the reality of the desert is simply to fruitlessly wander it, as indeed the Israelites did, for forty long years. It is Jesus who shows us that desert doubts and temptations must be accepted if they are to be conquered. Like Jesus, we must walk into our own deserts knowing that there our deepest fears and strongest doubts will confront us. For if we do, the desert will teach us that it is the fear of doubt that paralyzes our spiritual life, not doubt itself. Doubt is the flip side of the coin of faith. Doubt is not the opposite of faith, but an integral part of faith itself.

The surprise of the desert, the place we feel very alone—alone with our fears and doubts and struggles, the place where we feel that God is very far away—the surprise, is that God is not far away at all. Rather, God is in the desert. We read in Matthew and Mark that at the end of his temptation, Jesus is tended by angels from God. We read of God’s faithful nurture of the nation of Israel throughout the forty years in the desert. This is a little counter-intuitive, because when we are in our spiritual deserts, or in the midst of doubt, or loss, we may feel so far away from God. But in our vulnerability, our emotional and spiritual nakedness, God draws near, just within arms’ reach.

So what might we do to embrace our own Lenten desert? Many of us have traditional Lenten disciplines. The Israelites wanted their gourmet dinners, but Jesus fasted; some of us might choose to fast, to give up chocolate, ice cream, meat. Jesus responded to the devil with deeply ingested biblical wisdom; some of us might choose to attend one of the special Lenten studies offered here at St. Barnabas. Jesus entered the desert without any possessions; some of us might choose to clean out our closets, downsize our accumulated possessions. I encourage you to engage in whatever practice is beneficial to you; whatever practice enables you to strip away the pretense of security which we all cling to in our daily lives, and enter the uncertainty of the desert. These traditional disciplines are not an end in and of themselves, but they are pointing to deeper spiritual realities. They are tools to unearth our temptations and weaknesses in the deepest most hidden parts of our souls, so that we can lay them bare for God on the floor of this desert. They allow us to bring our brokenness and sinfulness, our fears, doubts, and our losses…. And in our honesty, in our transparency, in this void, we will find that God is indeed in the desert. Amen.

The Feast of Christ the King

2006-12-17T16:46:00.000-05:00

John 18.33-37
Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

The Feast of Christ the King…. I had never heard of this….

You may not know I am not a cradle Episcopalian. I first became a Christian in another denomination fifteen years ago when I began High School. The church I came from, where my mother had grown up, and which my wife and nearly my entire extended family are still members of, is what you might call the lowest of the low-church churches. On the whole, that tradition is not very fond of Christian feasts and holidays. You’re more likely to hear a Mother’s Day sermon than a Christmas sermon. Even Easter often goes uncelebrated. Instead of “Christ is Risen,” you might hear the phrase “Every Sunday is Easter.” Needless to say, I had never even heard of Advent or Epiphany, let alone the Feast of Christ the King.

It was only in seminary that I first discovered the richness of the liturgical year, and began to appreciate the formative significance of Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter, and Pentecost, the major seasons and days of the church year. So when I recently chose to preach on the Feast of Christ the King, I realized that I had no idea of its liturgical or theological significance. So where better to turn than our Book of Common Prayer; I was quickly disappointed, however, when I couldn’t find a mention of Christ the King anywhere. Instead, the Book of Common Prayer merely calls today “The Last Sunday after Pentecost.”

So we might just think of today as the last Sunday of the liturgical year. We have followed this year through Christ’s birth, death, resurrection, exaltation, and most recently a long period of ordinary or what some people call “green” time, reflected in the predominate liturgical color of our vestments and hangings. We may be tempted to think of this green time that we’ve been in for more than half the entire year as being devoid of theological meaning, for there is no particular feast capturing our attention. We might think that the business of the church really gets done mostly during the holy and high holy days. But in fact, Jesus’ life of thirty years (as well as our own) was a majority of green time. Green time symbolizes time of growth. This is when most Christian formation happens, through the everyday events of normal life. So we might think of today merely as the last day in a long period of time, just before the exciting part of the Church Year begins. But we would be wrong.

Through a little research I learned that this holy day was in fact instituted in 1925 in the Catholic Church by Pope Pius XI, and later placed as the last Sunday of the liturgical year. As described in his encyclical, the Pope intended the feast to be an antidote to secularism. He sought to emphasize Christ’s sovereignty as a way to combat a secularizing culture. So, historically, this holy day has roots in a view of Christ as the King who can conquer culture and bring it under his dominion. Christ is seen as having an absolute empire, even extending to civil affairs.

This research left me feeling unsatisfied about the meaning of the Feast of Christ the King for us today. In particular, this did not seem to square with the gospel text for today. So what does the first resource for our faith—Holy Scripture—and particularly the gospel for the day have to say to us about Christ the King?

There is no denying that Scripture uses the image of King as one of the many images to help us understand exactly who Jesus is. Jesus is said to come from the royal line of King David and he is called by some “The King of Israel.” One of his followers anoints him with oil, a symbolic action that the Jews used to “crown” their kings. Jesus rides on a colt into Jerusalem near the end of his life, as, according to Luke, his followers shout: “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” Jesus is portrayed by the later apostles and theologians as a king reigning over the kingdom of heaven.

Today’s gospel text from John is taken from the passion narrative—the last week of Jesus’ life, but here today Pilate’s interrogation of Jesus’ identity is highlighted. Pilate asks “Are you the King of the Jews?” Not being a Jew himself, but a gentile, Pilate wonders why Jesus has been brought before him, since some honor Jesus as King, while others want him dead. Jesus could have said: “Yes, of course I am a king; now can you please release me so I can go tend to my kingdom, or do I have to send forth my great army of disciples to smite you?” Instead, while Jesus does hint at something about his kingdom, he doesn’t answer a straightforward “yes” or “no.” Jesus dodges the question. So Pilate repeats: “So you are a king!?” But Jesus dodges again, answering: “You say that I am king.”

Why doesn’t Jesus respond straightforwardly? This is, perhaps, frustrating to us. One can imagine that maybe Pope Pius XI found it frustrating; surely it would have been easier to establish a Feast for a Christ who actually claimed the title “King.” On this day when we celebrate and proclaim Christ’s kingship, the gospel text forces us to ask, why didn’t he claim it himself?

Jesus doesn’t deny he is a king but he knows that saying “yes” won’t communicate the truth of his kingship either. He’s not that kind of king. Part of Jesus’ evasive answer is helpful here. Jesus says: “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over…. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Ironically, we have here in this story a representative governor of the secular king—the Roman Emperor Tiberius—interrogating a figure whom we today celebrate as the more significant King. These Roman leaders have a history of using force and abusing power, which they will shortly unleash against a peaceful Jesus. And Jesus isn’t interested in going head-to-head with this secular authority. So Jesus’ answer is careful not to confuse Pilate that he is a violent king. His kingship is not like that of Tiberius’ and his power is not like that of Pilate’s. Jesus won’t turn his disciples into an army to defeat his enemies. Jesus is neither a Conqueror nor an imperial power.

Pilate’s question was “Are you a king?” but a better question for us might be “What kind of king is Jesus?” This is a question Jesus might actually have answered. Even in his response to Pilate, Jesus is clear that he is not preoccupied with victory through force. His kingship is something other. Pope Pius XI’s intent was to establish Christ as King as a challenge to secular power. Jesus does, indeed, pose a challenge to secular power; but it comes in an odd form. Jesus’ challenge to the ruling power of the world does not come in the form of setting himself up as an opposing King. Instead, his challenge comes from underneath, from a position he takes with the powerless.

For it is with and among the powerless that Christ chooses to make his kingdom, a kingdom very different from Pilate’s province or Tiberius’ empire. Through his teachings in the gospel we can piece together an image of what this other kind of kingship and kingdom looks like. Christ’s kingdom is a place that is near us, among us, but something that is also beyond us, hoped for, and expected. It is a place where diseases are cured and injustices righted. It is a place where money doesn’t equal power and authority. It is a place that is for everyone, but especially for the poor and weak and people on the fringes of society. It is a place of repentance and humility. A place centered around the gospel of transformation and reconciliation. It is a place where God’s will is done.

Jesus is the kind of King who will foster these realities. The kingship of Jesus is not so much his authority over, but his relation to his kingdom. So in some sense, while Jesus might be thought of as a Conqueror over the systemic evils that plague this world, he does not Conquer by force, but by love and example. Jesus encourages rather than enforces. Jesus inspires rather than imposes. Jesus becomes an example for us through his unselfish deeds and actions. He calls us to participate in and further the work of his kingdom. He leads us by getting his hands dirty, rather than sitting upon his throne. Jesus is not a Conquering King.

And so Christ the King’s challenge to secular power comes in an odd form indeed: a challenge to the habits and assumptions of the mighty, in the form of a King who chooses not even to claim the title, a King for the powerless, with no throne but with dirty hands, with no army but with a message of peace.

Jesus as king is not a leader who rallies us to fight violently or radically against culture or the forces we fear. Instead, he motivates us to imagine an alternate king and kingdom of peace and love that will energize ourselves and others in the everyday green time that characterizes our lives. Not just to imagine, but he motivates us to have the faith to create it through the work of our own hands, which are Christ’s hands on earth. To feed, clothe, educate, and assist the poor. To protect, support, and empower women and children at risk. To participate in dialogue and action that will help end inequality and draw together people divided by race and class. To refuse to believe that power lies only within force and wealth. Christ is King wherever we work to create these realities for ordinary people, in the details of daily life, with God’s help.

Just as Christmas is the culmination of Advent, the feast of Christ the King, “The Last Sunday after Pentecost,” is the culmination of green time. As we, together, strive to bring Christ’s kingdom into the everyday reality in which we live, we find that yes, Christ is indeed King.

Evangelism & Conversion

2006-07-17T20:51:00.000-05:00

Mark 6: 7-13
Jesus called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits. He ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics. He said to them, "Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them." So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.

Evangelism… Conversion…

For a long time, these two words—conversion and evangelism—provoked images in my mind of self-appointed preachers eager to exploit others in the name of religion. “Evangelism” and “conversion” were religious four letter words. Dirty words.

Our gospel text today doesn’t use these two words exactly…. But “evangelism” and “conversion” are the main ideas in Jesus’ instruction to the twelve. Jesus sends his disciples out two by two with a particular mission, message, and method suitable for that context. The disciples are called to go out and evangelize so that the people will be converted. Evangelism and conversion are essential to our gospel text this morning. Certainly, these are two words with which we Christians must come to grips.

For many Christians today, the words “evangelism” and “conversion” still mean something like making Christians out of those who have different beliefs. That process normally involves another Christian “evangelizing” the non-Christian, who then in turn has a “conversion” experience. This is likely to be a very personalized experience of religious guilt and repentance.

Something like this describes my own initial coming to faith. At age fourteen a Boy Scout leader of Southern Baptist flavor attempted to convert me during an intense Texas thunderstorm; he made me fear for my eternal soul in view of the impending rapture—you know, all that “Left Behind” stuff. In response I took it upon myself to read the gospels in the course of two weeks, and in them I encountered a Jesus of compassion, not of condemnation. Soon after that I told my mother I must start attending church, and after some conversations and study, I was baptized. My experience was clearly a “conversion.”

After my “conversion” you could accurately call me a fanatic. I had a closet full of Christian T-Shirts. I carried a Bible in the halls of my high school. But I firmly believed my particular doctrines were the only correct ones. And I was compelled from somewhere deep within to convert others myself. On one particular occasion I remember attempting to evangelize a classmate in high school—an Episcopalian! While I was probably quite insistent and perhaps a little belligerent, I was impressed by his patience and surprised that he had coherent reasons for his own beliefs, however unbiblical I may have thought they were. You see, the impulse towards evangelism, whatever other psychological reasons there may be, is rooted deep within some because of their own profound experiences of conversion.

I have traveled some mental distance since I was a student in high school. A few years ago in seminary a professor of pastoral ministry asked me what my theology of evangelism was and I replied that I didn’t believe much in evangelism. I had seen my fair share of emotional manipulation and Christians believing their way was the only way….

And so today I am trying to re-embrace the ideas of evangelism and conversion. I am trying to understand anew those words I once fully embraced, and then later winced at.

We must reclaim these words “evangelism” and “conversion,” because they are Christian words. They should not be monopolized by those who wish to manipulate under the guise of the word “evangelism.” And they should not even be monopolized by those who are sincere, but feel compelled to make everyone in their own image. These words “evangelism” and “conversion” are good ones. These are ideas our Jesus of peace and compassion meant seriously.

So, then, what are conversion and evangelism re-envisioned? One way of considering what conversion might be is to examine those times we’ve experienced conversion or a change of heart. Most of the time I only know I’ve experienced conversion some time after the fact. These experiences are unexpected and become most clear in retrospect. These are the moments that clarify the essential meaning of life. I realize a truth more deeply in a way that I haven’t previously. I experienced this in my first reading of the gospels. Not only did I learn some of the story of the person I would claim as Christ, but I learned something more deeply and essentially about myself—that I was called to a life of compassion.

Sometimes these moments happen alone, when we find within ourselves a connection to our essential being. I have had moments like this recently when reflecting as a new father on my childhood and inner emotional life. I have had moments like this when reading a good fiction book or watching a good movie that so hit on the reality of human experience that I was compelled towards compassion. Conversion draws us more deeply into our true and godly selves.

Sometimes these moments occur in interaction with others. For example, when I’ve tried so hard to change someone else, but end up changed myself. Perhaps when in getting to know a person I disagree with or am annoyed with, I come less to care about the disagreement or annoyance and more about the person as a human being.

I think Frank Griswold says it best in a recent interview. Reflecting on his term as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, he says:

I’ve stressed throughout the last nine years conversation as a discipline. Conversation and conversion come from the same Latin root. And if you open yourself deeply in conversation to the other, you may in fact be converted in some way—changed in your perceptions by what you hear. That may not mean a change in point of view, but it may mean change at the level of the heart. You may see the other not as enemy and threat, but the other as brother or sister even though they have a different point of view. And out of that can emerge a capacity to be together in common action.[1]

Bishop Griswold hits on an important aspect of conversion here. Conversion is less about changed beliefs and more about reconciled relationships. Conversion draws us more deeply into real community—into the diversity of the people of God—into the diversity of God.

When in these moments of conversion we hit on something very true in our selves, when we encounter God in interaction with another, we are moved to refine ourselves. We attempt to adjust our counterproductive behavior. We make a step towards reconciliation. This is conversion.

These moments of conversion I’ve described in a general way are often triggered by something—an action, perhaps intentional or unintentional. The trigger might be a book or a beautiful piece of art. It might be a good conversation with a friend over coffee. I believe that “evangelism,” understood as something deliberate, ought to be seen as an attempt to elicit these moments of conversion in our common lives. Evangelism is the active attempt to draw people more deeply into themselves, their community, and their understanding of God.

And yet we know that evangelism and conversion cannot be coercive. Jesus teaches us this in our gospel passage. If the message is not welcome, move on--"shake off the dust that is on your feet." Enlightenment and change only happen if people are willing. It isn’t something that can be forced. Conversion must be natural and organic. So evangelism must also be natural and organic, not something with a plan or a handbook.

Evangelism need not mean carrying a bible to school or work. Evangelism is not preemptive. Evangelism is not selling someone on our flavor of Christianity. It isn’t even convincing someone that ours is the most tolerant denomination. Evangelism is opening the door to a deeper reality, a bigger truth, making possible the inbreaking of God into human life.

This kind of evangelism may result in conversion in unexpected form. For us Christians, our moments of conversion may lead us more deeply into our faith in Jesus. But when we trigger moments of human conversion through our deliberate way of living, we may trigger someone else into living their own different path in a deeper way. A Buddhist may become a better Buddhist. A Jew a better Jew. A Muslim a better Muslim.

Perhaps the conversion we make possible for someone else occurs in a form we do not even recognize, as God works in that life in God’s own way… not ours.

So this morning I’m not giving you a plan for Christian evangelism. Rather, I’m suggesting that we Christians not be scared of the words "conversion" and "evangelism." I’m suggesting that we open our hearts to being deeply converted to the cosmic love of God and open our eyes to the ways in which we may make that love manifest in others’ lives.

[1] Frank T. Griswold III, interview by Terry Gross on NPR’s “Fresh Air,” June 28, 2006.

A Thanksgiving for the Birth of a Child

2006-06-25T14:44:00.000-05:00

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates

Michael Chapel
Trinity Church, Princeton, NJ
Sunday, June 25, 2006

Parents:
Jennifer J. Thweatt-Bates & J. Brent Bates

Grandparents:
Patricia P. Thweatt & Bruce T. Thweatt
Malda L. Bates & J. Leroy Bates

Celebrant:
Anne Marie Richards

Celebrant: Dear Friends: The birth of a child is a joyous and solemn occasion in the life of a family. It is also an occasion for rejoicing in the Christian community. I bid you, therefore, to join Jennifer and Brent in giving thanks to Almighty God our heavenly Father, the Lord of all life, for the gift of Clare to be their daughter. Let us say together:

Celebrant & People (The Magnificat):
My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior;
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed:
the Almighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his Name.
He has mercy on those who fear him
in every generation.
He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel,
for he has remembered his promise of mercy,
The promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children for ever.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit:
as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.

Celebrant: Let us pray.

O God, you have taught us through your blessed Son that whoever receives a little child in the name of Christ receives Christ himself: We give thanks for the blessing you have bestowed upon this family in giving them a child. Confirm their joy by a lively sense of your presence with them, and give them calm strength and patient wisdom as they seek to bring this child to love all that is true and noble, just and pure, lovable and gracious, excellent and admirable, following the example of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

O gracious God, we give you humble and hearty thanks that you have preserved through the pain and anxiety of child birth your servant Jennifer who desires now to offer you her praises and thanksgivings. Grant, most merciful Father, that by your help she may live faithfully according to your will in this life, and finally partake of everlasting glory in the life to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O God of Compassion, in our thanksgiving, we remember those who have had difficult births, fully aware of the fragility of life. We especially remember our friends Joe, Laura, Sophia, and Ira. Grant, most merciful God, that Ira will grow healthy and strong and confident in the knowledge that he is truly loved. Amen.

Almighty God, giver of life and love, bless Jennifer and Brent. Grant them wisdom and devotion in the ordering of their common life, that each may be to the other a strength in need, a counselor in perplexity, a comfort in sorrow, and a companion in joy. And so knit their wills together in your will and their spirits in your Spirit, that they may live together in love and peace all the days of their life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O eternal God, you have promised to be a father to a thousand generations of those who love and fear you: Bless this child and preserve her life; receive her and enable her to receive you, that through the Sacrament of Baptism she may be sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own for ever; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A Beatitude of St. Clare of Assisi, in honor of whom this child is named:

Happy, indeed, is she to whom it is
given to share the sacred banquet, to
cling with all her heart to Him,

Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts
admire unceasingly,
Whose love inflames our love,
Whose contemplation is our refreshment,
Whose graciousness is our joy,
Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing,
Whose remembrance brings a gentle light,
Whose fragrance will revive the dead,
Whose glorious vision will be the happiness of all the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem. Amen.

Blessing
May God the Father, who by Baptism adopts us as God’s own, grant you grace. Amen.

May God the Son, who sanctified a home at Nazareth, fill you with love. Amen.

May God the Holy Spirit, who has made the Church one family, keep you in peace. Amen.

Katharine Jefferts Schori

2006-06-20T18:40:00.000-05:00

With the birth of Clare I've been somewhat distracted from the events of the General National Convention of the Episcopal Church during the past week and into this week. But I was very pleased to find out on Sunday evening that Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori was elected as the next Presiding Bishop.

I liked Jefferts Schori best out of the seven candidates, since I think she has the boldest vision for the mission of the church. Jennifer is correct in saying that we liked her regardless of her being female. However, I am elated that such a positive symbol of gender equality occurred during the same week of the birth of my daughter Clare, who will grow up seeing a strong and capable female leader of the church.

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates

2006-06-16T21:06:00.000-05:00

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates was born on Wednesday, June 14, 2006 at 4:09 p.m. at the University Medical Center in Princeton, NJ. She was 9 pounds 4 ounces and 21 inches long. Click here for more pictures.

The Next Presiding Bishop

2006-05-09T14:07:00.000-05:00

This summer at the General Convention of the Episcopal Church a new Primate (or Presiding Bishop) will be elected to succeed Frank Griswold. So for those of you Episcopalians out there (or those who aren't, but are interested anyway), who do you like best among the seven nominees? I think the video interviews of the candidates at the Episcopal News Service are most enlightening, but the short biographies are also helpful.

My first choice by far after listening to the interviews would be Katharine Jefferts Schori, Bishop of Nevada, who seems the most theologically articulate and comprehensive in her global social justice vision. I also like Stacy Sauls, Bishop of Lexington (Kentucky), J. Neil Alexander, Bishop of Atlanta, and Henry Parsley, Bishop of Alabama, but the others are unimpressive to me.

What do you think? Who would you vote for right now, if you could, and why?

Does anybody still read my blog after my lengthy respite?

An Active Eucharist

2006-04-26T14:25:00.000-05:00

As a liturgical theologian and an Episcopalian, I typically prefer communion prayers that are rooted in the ancient Eucharistic tradition and are led by ordained clergy. Despite my personal preference, I have come to believe that the lay-led communion service, as is typical in the Church of Christ, provides a unique integration into the very heart of Christian worship what the Roman Catholic Church has described as "active participation" of the laity based on an understanding of the priesthood of all believers. The Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy emphasizes how central lay participation is: "The Church earnestly desires that all the faithful be led to that full, conscious, and active participation in liturgical celebrations called for by the very nature of the liturgy. Such participation by the Christian people as 'a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God's own people' is their right and duty by reason of their baptism" (14).

While neither the Roman Catholic Church, the Episcopal Church, nor most other Christian denominations would authorize lay people to preside over the Eucharist by leading the Eucharistic prayers, many attempt to integrate lay participation into the Eucharist by utilizing the laity to help in the distribution of the elements (and perhaps other ways). And, yet, the practice of the Church of Christ more fully integrates the theological assertions articulated in the Roman Catholic statement above. In fact, this unique practice of allowing lay people to preside at Eucharist has a long American history (though it may not be ancient). I wrote a paper a couple of years back about how this practice is rooted in Alexander Campbell's own theological understanding of the priesthood of all believers in the American context (which includes values such as individualism and democratic representation). I believe that this personalized approach is necessary in a Church of Christ context, and that formal and traditional prayers would not be authentic in this context. This particular practice is a great example of inculturation of a central Christian practice in an American context.

However, one of the main problems with allowing laity to preside over Eucharist, is that there very often is a lack of necessary theological elements, such as the use of the words of institution or the fraction of the bread, among other things. These basic parts are often left out as one's experiential story dominates the bulk of the meditation.

I believe that what is necessary in the Church of Christ is a basic list of elements that always (or at least frequently) get incorporated into the personal meditation in an orderly fashion. This would be preferable to a set written prayer that most would find uncomfortable in this church tradition. Yet crafting such a meditation is difficult work, even for someone who deals frequently with theological language. What elements do you think ought to be considered indispensible?

I would like to point you to a post on my wife's blog in which she shares a communion meditation from a member of her church in Brooklyn. I honestly believe that this is one of the best examples of a communion meditation that retains some of the most necessary elements for the Eucharist, yet is crafted from one's own experience for a particular community: Eucharisteo.

Very well done, Regina!

What Is Finished?

2006-04-20T19:24:00.000-05:00

"It is finished." (John 19:30)

Finished? What is finished? What does Jesus mean when he cries out, “It is finished”?

What you think these three words mean depends on who you think Jesus is. And Jesus is many different things to many different people. If you see Jesus primarily as a social revolutionary, perhaps he is referring to his vision of the end of Roman occupation. The Jews of the first century had been under foreign rule for hundreds of years, stuck between warring nations who used their land as a battle zone. The Jews looked forward to someone who would lead them in victory over their oppressors as Moses had once done. Maybe you think of Jesus—certainly it seems some of his followers did—as one of those Messiahs, eager to overthrow the Roman government. Maybe this was a war call, sounding loudly to the disciples to envision and enact the end of Roman oppression. ….And yet there was no relief, and even now there is no relief from wars and injustices.

Maybe you see Jesus speaking simply as a physically suffering man in this episode. For Christian doctrine claims that Jesus was fully human. He experienced pain and suffering as you and I do. In this sense, we may understand that Jesus was merely crying out in suffering, especially if coupled with the words “I thirst.” Jesus was saying, “enough is enough.” “I can’t take anymore.” Maybe it was a plea: a plea for release, rather than a statement. Or maybe he had finally reached a saturation point of pain and suddenly found himself in a new place, one where pain suddenly receded. I don’t know. Perhaps there is some truth to this interpretation. ….And yet we can’t help but suspect more.

Perhaps that deeper meaning is theological. Perhaps, as some Christians over the years have suggested, “It is finished” refers to Jesus’ work of atonement for the sins of humanity. Christian doctrine also teaches that Jesus is fully divine. Coupled with another of the seven words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” Jesus is the conduit of forgiveness. The lamb led to slaughter. Perhaps in his divinity, Jesus sensed the very moment at which this was accomplished. ….And yet this precise formulation of a divine “plan” or theory is troublesome. Do we believe in a God who allows or even perpetrates evil with a “divine plan”? Is this the God Jesus called “Abba”... "Mommy"..."Daddy"?

Perhaps Jesus is making an existential statement of despair. Coupled with another of the seven words “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “It is finished” might be the exclamation of an existentialist philosopher, something approaching “God is Dead.” Or at least this may be Jesus’ feeling that God’s protection is no longer with him on the cross and everything is over…he gives up. Perhaps we feel this way sometimes in our loneliest moments. ....And yet something drives us on… towards something greater than ourselves.

Whatever it means, Jesus says: “It is finished.” Jesus claims something is finished. But what fascinates me is that we humans don’t often experience much finality.

Instead, we live in constant flux. Endings are beginnings which become new endings which are also beginnings. Sometimes this is uncomfortable, or painful, or just plain exhausting.

There is little finality at school and at work. Waiting for a grade or the next promotion. Another project after this one. Another paper. Another day. More clients to deal with. Another job around the corner.

There is never finality in providing for ourselves or our families. We may have children and they come into our care…a great deal of responsibility. We help set them up in life, college, and find a first place to live. We live a large portion of our lives taking care of ourselves, thinking about our mortgage payments, and then saving for retirement. Will there ever be enough to retire on? Will there be something to leave to my kids? To my church? Can I leave something that will make a difference? And then as we’ve cared for ourselves and others, we get to a point where we return to the role of child; the roles reverse with our children, and they are suddenly taking care of us.

There is little finality in a relationship, even when relationships seem to end. Rather, there are many questions. What did I do wrong? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with him? What’s the matter with her? The questions and emotions endure past the supposed “end” of the relationship.

Even at the point of death we humans have a way of worrying beyond death. What is our legacy to society? Will our families and friends be taken care of? Or perhaps some wonder, “What about heaven and hell?” Even the grave carries no finality for us.

We long for completion and finality, yet we never reach the point where we can say, “It is finished.”

It is interesting that neither Matthew, Mark, nor Luke have Jesus say “It is finished.” But the writer of John requires completion, since this gospel begins with the very beginning. Matthew starts with Jesus’ human genealogy. Luke starts with Jesus’ birth and childhood. Mark ignores Jesus as a child altogether and starts at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. But John. John’s Jesus doesn’t begin as a baby or a radical follower of John the Baptist. John’s Jesus goes all the way back to the beginning. The author of John, obviously a theologian, says this Jesus was there with God in the beginning at creation. John’s gospel with its claim that Jesus is there at the beginning requires literary and theological symmetry. John reaches back into the primeval history, into the deep dark chaotic waters in which God’s Spirit first began to move. John reaches forward into the future, into the bright reality of finality and completion.

“It is finished” is the bookend to “In the beginning.” “It is finished” hearkens back to the creator God, the God who made all things good and calm. “It is finished” looks hopefully forward to the eschaton…to a vision of peace. Jesus seems to catch a glimpse of the end. This vision of the vast love of God brings a past and future into the present, in which we can see the fullness of humanity, even in the Now. This is the place where our projects are completed. Bills are paid. Debts are forgiven. Our children are provided for. Relationships are whole. The suffering in the world is assuaged. The wars are over. Answers are given. This is the work of God in Christ. “It is finished.” Amen.

Lenten Homily

2006-03-29T22:14:00.000-05:00

Realizing that their father was dead, Joseph’s brothers said, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back in full for all the wrong that we did to him?” So they approached Joseph, saying, “Your father gave this instruction before he died, ‘Say to Joseph: I beg you, forgive the crime of your brothers and the wrong they did in harming you.’ Now therefore please forgive the crime of the servants of the God of your father.” Joseph wept when they spoke to him. Then his brothers also wept, fell down before him, and said, “We are here as your slaves.” But Joseph said to them, “Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today. So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones.” In this way he reassured them, speaking kindly to them. So Joseph remained in Egypt, he and his father’s household; and Joseph lived one hundred ten years. Joseph saw Ephraim’s children of the third generation; the children of Machir son of Manasseh were also born on Joseph’s knees. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “I am about to die; but God will surely come to you, and bring you up out of this land to the land that he swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.” So Joseph made the Israelites swear, saying, “When God comes to you, you shall carry up my bones from here.” And Joseph died, being one hundred ten years old; he was embalmed and placed in a coffin in Egypt (Genesis 50.15-26).

The season of Lent is often interpreted as representing Jesus’ 40 days of temptation in the desert. Indeed, the story of Jesus’ temptation in the desert is the gospel text for the first Sunday of Lent. Jesus endured hunger, suffering, and temptation in the desert in order to induce spiritual clarity. Religious leaders in traditions from Christianity to Buddhism have frequently placed themselves in harsh settings in order to encounter the divine or draw more deeply into the unknown. For some the suffering of the body is supposed to draw one closer to God, to help one realize one’s dependence upon God. From the beginning of church history monks have chosen to flee into the desert as a spiritual discipline. Jesus’ experience in the desert is, then, sometimes understood as a model for Lenten asceticism.

In the Hebrew Bible text for today we have the conclusion of another desert story of suffering and isolation. Remember the young Joseph wandering carelessly through the desert to find his brothers, the same Joseph who had naively flaunted his father’s favoritism of him to his older brothers, too proud of his new wardrobe, the same Joseph who had overconfidence in his own abilities to interpret dreams and visions, the same Joseph who sincerely saw himself called by God in a way that offended his family, the same Joseph whose brothers set a trap for him.

Those brothers placed Joseph in a desert pit too deep to climb out of. There, Joseph sat alone, thirsty, afraid…. “He must be gotten rid of,” his brothers decide. Rashly, they sell him to a band of Ishmaelites. Out of desperation, and fearful of what their father would think, they tear Joseph’s beautiful coat and soak it in blood, leaving the father to conclude, “Joseph is surely dead.”

Though Jesus and Joseph both share desert episodes in their biographies, there is an important difference. Jesus chose isolation in the desert. Joseph did not.

We all know the rest of the story. Joseph eventually makes his way to the top of the food chain in Egypt because of his gifts of insight and leadership; and years later in the midst of famine, his brothers show up there, desperate for food just like everyone else. The tables have turned in this family. Joseph’s story may have ended well for him. But the difference between choosing to go into the desert like Jesus and being forced into the desert by others, like Joseph, remains vast.

It may be difficult today to understand the discipline of Lent as a beneficial experience, when people are enduring periods of unchosen suffering, whether by random chance or the consequences of human action. How do we understand Lent in a world that marks its time by wars? How do we understand Lent in a world that more and more will mark its time by hurricanes and tornadoes and wild fires?

Many today experience a desert not of their own making. A fire blazing through the entire town of Cross Plains, only miles away from where I went to seminary in West Texas…. A wall of water crashing into coasts and smashing villages in the southern hemisphere. A vortex of water swamping the buildings and homes of the Big Easy—a city expert at pre-Lenten traditions. This year, that city, and others on our southern coast, are less capable of keeping Lent by voluntary suffering in a context where depravation is the new norm. What does desert spirituality, what does Lent, mean in a time of Katrinas and Ritas? And what of those in war-torn and impoverished countries?

….But what about Joseph’s brothers? We see in our text today that they have suffered in their own ways. They have lived with the consequences of their actions throughout their lives. Perhaps they have tried to forget. And maybe at times they were successful. But in the end they are plagued with guilt. Even when Joseph graciously accepts them, takes them in, feeds them, moves them from their famine-struck land to a land of plenty, they are still full of fear. Even after having lived with Joseph and his generosity for years, the brothers are terrified when their father dies, as we see in our text this evening. “Perhaps Joseph was just putting on,” his brothers thought, “and now he will surely take revenge.”

These are the fears of those of us who realize we have caused periods of suffering for others. Those of us who have forced people into dark and deep and hot desert pits.

What does Lent mean to those of us who either presently endure a Lent not of our own choosing or, on the other hand, who are complicit (perhaps unknowingly) in creating a desert of suffering and isolation. But my intention is not to induce guilt in anyone, even the privileged. Because even the privileged will endure their own times of personal loss and suffering, whether physical or emotional. This is common to human experience.

Perhaps this year we can spend some time during our Lent to think of those who are already suffering too much to bear. In a Lent like this, we will not be focused on giving things up ourselves. Rather, we will reflect, drawing into mind those who are suffering. We will examine, ridding ourselves of the deception rooted in the fear from the cover-up of mistakes we have made. We will confess, and seek forgiveness. And make things right. We will act, not giving up things, but giving of ourselves.

But even with all this talk of suffering, this Lent for modern times is an opportunity for hope, not fear. We have a tendency towards fear, like Joseph’s brothers, who are caught up in negativity and guilt. Perhaps we, like them, fear that our apologies and penance will be answered with violence and revenge. But the hope in this ancient story is there in the actions of Joseph, who displays kindness, and trust in divine faithfulness. The hope is for reconciliation: with ourselves, with our brothers who have wronged us—or whom we have wronged, with God.

The hope for us is to be called back, like Joseph and his people, to a land of hope and promise in the presence of the holy. And this manifestation of holiness happens here within our community now, in our land, if we have the eyes to see it, the broken and yet courageous hearts to receive it.

In this Lenten season, let us consider not what we choose to endure or give up, but those who endure without choice. And let us find hope in becoming more fully a community in which those who fast without choice, do so not alone, but find us a people willing to enter the desert with them. Amen.

The Old Covenant (Catechism Part 3)

2005-11-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

"Covenant" is a loaded word in theology. For many this term implies that God has chosen (both in the past and present) a particular group of people and not others for salvation. In my understanding the idea of covenant does not include arbitrary insider/outsider boundaries. Rather, the idea of "covenant" expresses an aspect of the nature of God who seeks a relationship with the all-inclusive group that is made up of God's entire creation.

Now, to be certain, historically the idea of "covenant" can be seen in the self-understanding of the Jewish community. In fact, they are a concrete example of the way God seeks to sustain a relationship with all humanity. The Catechism affirms that God's primary promise to Israel was that they would "bring all nations of the world to [God]."

The Church owes its beginning to the Jewish community. Because of that, the adjective "old" is problematic. God's covenant-nature has not ended ... with humanity in general ... or even Israel in particular. It seems to me that it is an insult to Judaism to label the Hebrew Scriptures "old." In addition, the "Old" in "Old Testament" is sometimes used as an excuse to treat the Hebrew Scriptures as irrelevant for the Christian Church.

Yet indeed the "Old Testament" (especially in the prophets) contains one of the clearest calls to "love justice, to do mercy, and to walk humbly with [our] God" that will keep us faithful to our baptismal covenant with God in which we promise to "proclaim by word and example the Good News of God," "serve Christ in all persons,"and "strive for justice and peace among all people."

God the Father (Catechism Part 2)

2005-10-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

I am pleased and puzzled by this section of the catechism. I'm pleased because it carries on the theme in the first section that humans are "worthy of respect and honor, because all are created in the image of God." I'm pleased because it makes up for the deficiency I mentioned in my last post in this series by calling humans to "care for" God's creation and by implication not exploit it. I'm pleased because all of these aspects are grounded in the very being of God. And I'm pleased because the catechism affirms that we learn all these things through community.

But I'm puzzled. These are all fine teachings about God and his people. But I'm puzzled by what this section doesn't say about God as Father or God as the first person of the Trinity. Perhaps the catechism doesn't stick to its heading, since the language is packed with theological and political controversy. If Trinitarian language isn't problematic enough, the affirmation of God as a man certainly is. But you say, these are traditional and biblical terms.

I'll just lay my cards on the table right now. I have enough Campbellite blood to keep me from being smitten by the unbiblical language of the Trinity. I consider the Trinity to be a nice metaphor for the divine, something that has served the church fairly well over the years, and shouldn't be tossed out completely. But faithful Christians have understood the relationship between God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit in various ways over the past two thousand years. I am agonostic when it comes to whether or not the Trinity describes God in God's essential being.

To think of God as Father is helpful ... most of the time ... unless you had an abusive Father (granted God as Mother language may be equally as troubling for those with abusive mothers!). Yet this parental language communicates something intimate about the relationship between God and God's people, and God and Jesus. But I simply cannot maintain that God has a penis. I can maintain, however, that aspects of God's being can be communicated in part by speaking of God as Father and God as mother. These various metaphors should all be used together alongside others to speak of the vastness of God's character.

Do you mind sharing what various metaphors are useful for you?

An Ecumenical Marriage, Part II

2005-09-22T19:45:00.000-05:00

Guest Writer: Jennifer Thweatt-Bates

Maybe this marriage has always been ecumenical, even when we attended the same church services every Sunday. I don't think Brent and I have ever doubted that there are people God loves and saves over there in those other church buildings, you know, the ones with the polysyllabic names on the signs out front. Or at least, in the interest of accuracy, we outgrew the assumption God didn't care about those other poor, obviously confused people long before we ever met each other.

But what y'all want to know is the nitty-gritties, right? Like, do I go to his church and does he come to mine and do we say "your" church and "my" church and do I feel weird there and does he feel weird there and do we argue about the organ. Oh, and the hypothetical children: inevitably bound for confusion.

I go to Trinity on some Sundays. I prefer to go on Sundays when Brent isn't acolyting and we can sit together. I don't feel weird. And I never say "his" church or "Brent's church"--going to Trinity is going to church, just like going into Brooklyn to CCFB is going to church. So on some days I go to church twice. Lately I haven't been going to Trinity on Sunday mornings. (Comps have me panicked.) And I find that I really miss it.

Brent comes with me every so often as well. I don't know if he feels weird about it, this new status of having-been-very-recently-but-now-formerly-CofC. But I will say that I don't feel weird about it, and as far as I can tell, no one at CCFB feels weird about it either.

See, it's just that, despite the fact that I now say to people, "my husband is an Episcopalian," nothing has changed. Nothing that makes Brent Brent is different. He hasn't suddenly adopted a bunch of wacky ideas--the wacky ideas he's got are ones I'm quite familiar with from lo these six long years of listening to them already. He hasn't traded in his Bible for the Book of Common Prayer. He hasn't started quoting obscure saints. He hasn't changed his whole life direction in some radical way that disrupts everything that has gone before.

When we say, with Alexander Campbell, "Christians only, but not the only Christians," what do we really mean? Not the only Christians 'cause we know there are people out there who basically think, look, and act like we do? Or do we really mean, other Christians can have an altar and a liturgy and articulate their beliefs differently than we do, and still be Christian? When we start to consider ourselves "Christian" rather than Church of Christ, does it seem like such a huge and scary step anymore to trade in the secondary label for another secondary label? Will we be Church of Christ or Presbyterian or Episcopalian or Methodist when we get to the ol' Pearly Gates? Or will we just be human beings all equally dependent on the grace of God?

So here is how I think about it. Brent hasn't changed. The place where he goes to worship God is different, and the words he uses to worship God are different, and the ways their faith is articulated is different. But he hasn't changed, and his faith hasn't changed. And he can now express it more fully and more freely than before. So, in fact, the very opposite has happened: Brent hasn't changed; he's become more Brent than ever before. So to speak.

So, back to the nitty-gritties. Do we argue about the organ? Or the altar? Or the vestments? Or any of the typical theological hang-ups, excuse me, characteristic practices, that mark the Churches of Christ as a distinctive body of believers?

No. As Brent said in "Part I," we discuss things. We are always discussing things. This predates Brent's move to the Episcopal church by as long as I've known him. It's who we are. It's how we relate to each other. My first treasured email message from the boy (back in 1998) was a veritable treatise on the role of women in the church. Our first real argument was a hermeneutical disagreement on those verses in John about Jesus baptizing people (and, publicly and for the record, I state: he was right). This is part of what makes us "us." But neither one of us, no matter how strongly we feel about a theological stance, believes that it is our God-given duty to convince the other lest they suffer the terrible flames of hell. Most of our puny human theological disputes I figure God is either amused by or disgusted with, or perhaps God takes turns at being both.

What does this do to our hapless hypothetical Junior and little sis Susie? Well, frankly, folks, if you were hoping for normal offspring out of this household, you needed to adjust your expectations long before now anyhow. Sure, they won't have the "normal" Church of Christ upbringing, whatever that is. For me, that was a Sunday-Sunday-Wednesday round of church services and classes, to which one could never wear shorts regardless of whether or not one was coming straight from soccer practice, and which were absolutely un-skippable unless one was in fact knocking on the aforementioned Pearly Gates with a fever of alarming intensity. Y'all, that was never the plan.

What I figure will happen is this. On Sundays when Brent is busy doing stuff, I'll have the kids. Some weeks that'll mean sitting in the pew with them (I'll try to preserve the 2nd pew on the left tradition at least) in the Episcopal church Brent attends. We'll wave at Daddy and try to get him to crack a smile at an inappropriate juncture--those Episcopalians, after all, can be so serious... Some weeks, it'll mean taking them with me to whatever church I'm at. And weeks that I'm busy doing stuff, Brent gets to be the pew-sitter parent--at whatever church it makes the most sense to be at. It'll be somewhat like our current arrangement about who cooks dinner; whoever is less occupied with other things takes it on. Of course, that won't always work out optimally. Surely there will be some weeks, perhaps a lot of them, where we're both occupied with duties at church. But I imagine, if these churches are the kinds of churches we want to be a part of, that there will be someone we trust who's willing to sit with and scold our kids on our behalf during a worship service.

Fine, you say, but that's not the real problem anyway. The real problem is, how are Junior and Susie going to know what to believe when they hear different things taught to them at their different churches? And I say to you, in all sincerity, they won't. They won't hear different things. Because we're all Christian here. There is one Jesus Christ, and he is preached in both places. So consider our kids spectacularly lucky: they get a double dose.

Consider us lucky, too. We get to experience the joy of being in communion with two concrete bodies of Christ's church. We get to experience the richness of worshipping God liturgically and extemporaneously. We get to pray prayers as old as the church itself, and as new as the person uttering them that moment. We get to sit in a living room so crowded full of God's people that some of us sit on the floor, and we get to sit in a magnificent Gothic parish church with stained glass and gargoyles. Everyone should be this lucky.

Human Nature (Catechism Part 1)

2005-09-19T11:16:00.000-05:00

I find it highly interesting that the Episcopal Catechism begins with a section on Human Nature. This really tells you something about the Episcopal Church's theology. It is clearly not a church that currently holds Calvinist views, even though there are some points in its history that it was influenced by Calvinism. This church does not believe in absolute human depravity or predestination. In other words, humans were created good rather than evil and free rather than bound to God's (arbitrary and unknown) will.

I have to admit that this was one of the important doctrines that attracted me to this denomination, since I consider myself something of a Christian Humanist. Don't get me wrong: I do believe that we humans have screwed up quite a lot. But I believe that at core we are good. We are capable. We are not debilitated from doing what is right and good. And it is on our shoulders to help make the world a more just place in which to live. Humans are basically good, because God created us in the divine image. So this Christian Humanism does not somehow "downgrade" God. Rather, God works through other humans to bring wholeness. As the catechism says: "God first helped us by revealing [God]self and [God's] will, through nature and history, through many seers and saints, and especially the prophets of Israel."

Personally, I would amend this opening section of the catechism to be more explicit about the goodness of the rest of God's creation. The rest of God's creation is equally good. There is no corruption of nature other than what we humans perpetrate on the earth and among its animal inhabitants. We humans are not somehow better than the rest of God's creation. We cannot do whatever we want with the earth and animals that live on it. Scripture places creation within the care of humanity. But this is a responsibility to take care of rather than merely consume. We in the Western world (and especially America) have interpreted these Genesis texts to mean that we are primarily consumers of God's creation due to our God-given superiority and domination of the earth. We must start caring for the earth and other living beings in a greater way, but one that does not sacrifice our responsibility to the human poor and oppressed.

The Catechism

2005-09-19T10:28:00.000-05:00

I have decided to embark on the somewhat daunting task of commenting upon that part of the Book of Common Prayer called "An Outline of the Faith, commonly called the Catechism." It consists of 18 sections that summarize a particular interpretation of faith that characterizes the beliefs of many Episcopalians. Traditionally, the Catechism is used to instruct neophytes in the basics of Christian faith. Its preface says that it also functions as a brief summary of the Church's teaching and not a complete statement of belief. Interestingly, the Catechism is given in Q&A format.

My intent is to write a series of 18 corresponding posts over the next few months in order to take a closer look at the catechism. I am doing this as much for my own benefit as for yours, in order to further clarify my own views. I do not intend to quote large portions of the text, since you can find it here (take a quick look at the different doctrines that I'll cover, if you want). Rather, I will briefly summarize the main points and draw attention to what may be particularly Anglican. The bulk of my post will be my own personal take on the doctrine, which will often likely show my own theological idiosyncrasies. My intent is not to parrot Episcopal doctrine, nor to criticize it completely. Rather, I will attempt to explain it in a way that makes sense to me in the context within which we live.

An Ecumenical Marriage, Part I

2005-09-05T12:18:00.000-05:00

One of the things that kept me from becoming an Episcopalian any sooner than I did was my marriage. In my life experience I have known a few people whose parents were of different religious persuasions and they were pretty normal. But most of the people I have known until this point in my life came from homes where both parents attended the same church. My assumption has all along been that a family should attend one church together as a whole. That is healthy for a marriage. That is healthy for children. All other situations are less than ideal. Jen is Church of Christ; so I had to be, too.

I don't know when I finally realized that this really doesn't have to be the only healthy possibility. It probably happened when I came to the realization that I must leave my previous denomination. I had always thought that if it ever came to this, my spouse and I would be on the same page. We are after all in the same religious academic industry. And we do after all pretty much agree on most theological and socio-political issues. But when my "ecclesial crisis" came to the breaking point and I had a serious conversation with Jennifer about leaving, I still (as unforgivably patriarchial as it was) assumed that, of course, she would be coming along with me. I was not intending to be a patriarchalist, but I just didn't have any other paradigm in my mind.

Now, I respect married couples in which one spouse gave up attending their respective denomination in order to make things easier and more smooth. And it may be necessary in some relationships. But it may sometimes happen out of an unnecessary compulsion. Is it really necessary for two committed people who are religious to attend the same church? Is it necessary for the well-being of the children? There are probably those of you out there with personal experience that seems to say that parents going to different churches is not ideal. Indeed, a divided Christianity is also not ideal. But it is reality.

However, I believe divisions in the church are held up more by attitudes of intolerance than by the actual doctrinal differences between, say, Baptists and Methodists, or the Churches of Christ and the Episcopal Church. We can maintain these doctrines and be ultimately united in faith.

Right now I believe our arrangement is working great. Jennifer attends her church regularly and I attend my different church regularly. However, we occasionally attend each others' church. We are both happy. We both have similar and diverse experiences to share. I have to learn how to appreciate her experiences without criticizing them. And she has to learn how to appreciate my experiences. And we have disagreements. And we have agreements. And we have discussion. But we do not have division.

Isn't this the ideal? That we can agree and disagree. That we can celebrate our various diverse customs in diverse buildings. That we can discuss. That we can eat at table separately but also together? And sleep together? And respect each other? And all of this happens within a context of commitment.

Granted, there will be practical issues that arise in our marriage, just as there are practical considerations when discussing ecclesial ecumenism. What if/when we have children? Will they be baptized as infants? Or will they be baptized only when they choose? Will they attend church with mommy or daddy? Will they be accepted fully by either church community? Surely there are things to work through. But they are not impossible issues.

I like to imagine children who grow up attending two different churches as spiritually bi-lingual and bi-cultural. Young children speaking two languages and living in two cultures is not such a bad thing. We forget just how easily children soak up both virtues and prejudices from their parents. What if the model was one of religious tolerance? Children are able speak two languages and function within two sub-cultures. I'm not saying there won't be some difficulties. But I'm convinced that they will be richer people because of it. And so will we.

Everyone, Noone

2005-08-03T18:20:00.000-05:00

Deep in the throes of studying for my Thomas Cranmer comprehensive exam that is coming up one week from tomorrow, I felt inspired to write a little about the relationship of the church and politics. I have a great difficulty reading Cranmer's view of the state, as he believed Henry to be the head of the church on earth. I'm too much of a believer in the first amendment to believe that church and politics should be formally connected.

But on the other hand, I don't like the tendency of some Christians to say that the church has nothing to do with politics. Some say that the only thing that matters is evangelism or spirituality, so that more earthly matters are subordinated to these priorities. I'm not interested in dining on this flavor of "pie in the sky" Christianity.

Now don't get me wrong, as I said above, I am a firm supporter of the separation of church and state. I don't want my (theoretical) children's Buddhist friends forced to pray to Jesus or take a class on the Bible. But I firmly believe that Christianity has unavoidable political consequences. What I mean by "political consequences" is that our faith must sometimes be enacted through human systems other than the church or our individual selves. Systemic problems require systemic answers.

And most of the evils in our society are systemic evils. What do I mean by systemic? I mean that these evils are complex, with multiple participants and factors. This collective sin is not one person's fault. A finger cannot be pointed to one person, because it is caused by a system that has been in place, often for many years. Granted, people put these systems in place. But it was multiple people rather than just one.

Here are a couple of examples:

1) I am often frustrated when I hear white people discussing the issue of slavery or segregation, claiming that they bear no guilt, because they were not born in the 1800's or the 1950's. Yet the actions by our ancestors have present social and economic consequences. And merely by perpetuating these present consequences, we participate in that slavery or segregation by not doing anything to rectify it. To the point: We who live in 2005 are as bad as slaveholders if we are unwilling to rectify the current consequences of slavery.

This is what I mean by the complex and systemic nature of evil and sin. We might be able to point the finger at Jim Bob and blame him for the murder of an African American in 1850, but we must point multiple fingers at society collectively to really get to who is blameworthy. And we must realize that this collectiveness extends into the past and into the future. This is why political answers are necessary for collective sins.

2) As I was making my 1 1/4 hour commute to Drew University today to do some preparation for this comp, I listened more carefully than normal to the lyrics of Jack Johnson's "Cookie Jar" in which he diagnoses the problem well, giving me another concrete example of a systemic evil that must be confronted systemically.

The first verse is narrated by a boy who murdered someone and denies that it's his fault because he's too young. The second verse is narrated by the boy's father who blames his son's actions on the violent images on TV. The third verse is narrated by a "media man" who blames the public for demaning violent images on TV. The fourth verse is narrated by a singer of violent songs or director of violent films who claims that its only entertainment. Johnson's next verse I'll quote in full:

It was you; it was me; it was every man
We've all got the blood on our hands
We only receive what we demand
And if we want hell then hells what we'll
have.

Johnson says it well. He doesn't give us an answer, but points out that something that may seem black-and-white is actually complex. The answer isn't moralistic, as some would say "just turn of your TVs." It isn't one person's fault. It is everyone's fault. It is society's fault that we allow violence by guns. And a societal problem requires a political and systemic answer. Something more than just "be sure to lock your guns up."

So, back to Cranmer, or really, the Episcopal Church. Cranmer's view of the relationship between church and state wasn't real popular in America after 1776, thank God. [While Episcopalians respect Cranmer as a genius at prose, they don't generally look to him as the founder of Anglican theology.] And the Episcopal Church has not always historically been on the side of justice for the poor and oppressed. Yet the Episcopal Church has always understood the necessity of the church's influence in an informal political way. And more and more over the last century, the Episcopal Church has officially stood on the side of the oppressed.

Some Christians would have us re-connect church and state, enforcing prayer and bible study in schools, or the like. Others Christians would say that Christians have no reason for being involved with politics. But I think we Christians who believe it is important to seek justice here and now in our society, must be willing and active about incarnating our faith in political action. This may mean voting. This may mean marching. And this may mean supporting increasingly unpopular policies, like affirmative action, gun control, or gay rights.

Homosexuality

2005-07-27T19:07:00.000-05:00

Today I was encouraged about change in the denomination I recently left before joining the Episcopal Church. Nothing huge. No new female preacher hired by a large church in the Bible Belt. No new merger of an African-American church with a Euro-American church. No new theology professor of a different denomination in one of its universities. But a new hopeful voice in the blogosphere. A voice of someone who is committed to his denomination and unashamed of his same-sex sexual orientation. In the few lines that follow I am going to reproduce a few comments I made on this new blog along with some further interspersed thoughts.

I had many reasons for leaving this past September and joining the Episcopal Church, but one was the issue of homosexuality. Not only did I disagree with my former denomination's traditional position opposing same-sex relationships, but I was encouraged in general by the stance of the Episcopal Church, and in particular by the recent ordination of an openly gay bishop in New Hampshire. [An Aside: So for all the people I've heard said the Episcopal Church would lose for this action, I am at least one member they gained because of it.]

The conclusion that I've come to over at least the past five years is that any committed relationship between equal partners is valid. For me the ethical and justice issues far outweigh arbitrary interpretations of the culturally-bound texts we consider scripture. In my opinion, the examples in scriptures that seem to prohibit same-sex relationships refer to situations where one person was either non-consenting or being taken advantage of (for further reading I suggest Robin Scroggs' The New Testament and Homosexuality). The Bible does not discuss (and thus does not prohibit) the situation of an equal and committed same-sex relationship. What I do think the Christian LGBT (Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual/Transgendered) community needs to struggle with (along with the straight community), is how to keep these relationships serious and committed. What God wants to save us from is the flitting around from sexual partner to sexual partner, and the relational/psychological/physical/spiritual mess that accompanies the breaking up of relationships.

I came to this conclusion by listening to others' experiences and reasoning through the issues. I have had gay-Christian professors, classmates, and friends whose lives and predicaments convinced me that God cannot prohibit same-sex relationships. And I could not reconcile the idea of a loving and compassionate creator God with the idea of a God who would condemn people for the very way they were created by that God. That is not a god I can worship. Something had to give. And that something was a rigid biblical hermeneutic.

Because I am happily married to a member of my previous denomination and I still have many friends within that group, I wish it well. And I have a great deal of respect for people like this new blogger and my spouse who can patiently tolerate the current situation and work for change. Yet I am impatient and want to belong to a denomination that is on the frontlines of social justice concerns, believing these are the issues closest to the heart of God.

I hope you will visit and spend some time at Gay Restorationist. I'll be adding this blog to my links.

Communal Prayer

2005-07-16T21:34:00.000-05:00

I have believed for a long time now that communal prayer is primary. While there are instances of private prayer in the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, the overriding assumption is that prayer happens within community. Consider, as one example, the testimony of Acts that says that the Christians met together daily in the temple and devoted themselves to prayer (2:42-47). I believe that private prayer derives from communal prayer.

Yet in my past personal church experience, private prayer was emphasized over communal prayer. Private prayer was a sign of devotional piety. The more one prayed in private, the more holy one was. Even the ability to pray in public in an extemporaneous way seems to stem from a prioritizing of private devotion over public devotion. Those people who were good at praying extemporaneously in public were thought to have superior private devotional lives. I even remember hearing that if you couldn't pray well in public "on the spot," then you must not have a close relationship with Jesus. This is, of course, hogwash.

On the other hand, those communions that have emphasized communal prayer have tended to formalize its language. These formal written prayers are quite meaningful to the people who pray them together on a weekly or daily basis. Contrary to what I was once taught, this kind of prayer does not automatically become ritualism. [I would make a distinction here between ritual and ritualism. Healthy ritual is an established form of religious devotion, while ritualism is an excessive attachment to the form.]

This type of daily communal prayer has long roots in Christian history. In fact, there is solid evidence from the early second century that the church was already praying communally three times per day (perhaps loosely patterned after then current Jewish practice). Over the centuries, along with the development of monasticism, these times of daily communal prayer were multiplied from three to five, and eventually to eight times per day. And eventually these set times of prayer had their own written forms. Of course, the common person with a normal job could not keep up with such a time consuming pattern. Because of the grueling nature of this kind of prayer life, daily communal prayer fell out of practice altogether among common Christians. Daily communal prayer became the "profession" of those monastics who could devote all their time and energy.

When the Reformation came along in the 1500's and did away with monasticism, it threatened the final destruction of daily communal prayer. In fact, most denominations that have roots in Luther and Calvin have no tradition of daily communal prayer. However, the conservative nature of the Anglican Reformation, which resisted throwing out anything that smacked of Catholicism, preserved this ancient practice. Thomas Cranmer, in his editorial work on the Book of Common Prayer in 1549 and 1552, reduced the eight medieval daily prayer times to two: Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer. Cranmer's goal was to simplify the complex medieval system and place a stronger emphasis on the reading of the entirety of scripture. His system of twice daily communal prayer was an attempt to more closely reflect ancient church practice. It enabled common Christians to assemble at the church before and after their work day for communal devotion.

Morning and Evening Prayer are still in the current Book of Common Prayer, though few Episcopal Churches have these services daily. I doubt that today's workaholic Christians would ever populate these services enough to make them viable on a daily basis. However, I appreciate the vision that keeps communal prayer the primary form of daily devotion of the church.

Want Something To Read?

2005-06-30T22:00:00.000-05:00

If you want to read something about the Episcopal Church other than my thoughts, here are a few books that I've found helpful for me or others who've had questions.

Robert E. Webber's Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail: Why Evangelicals Are Attracted to the Liturgical Church is an easy to read little book that expresses some of my experiences, though some of what he has to say is still quite 'evangelical,' which I would not now consider myself to be. In the first part of the book he explores such themes as liturgy, sacramental theology, and ecumenism (I would have at least added social justice concerns to this list); the second part consists of six personal stories of people who made this journey.

Christopher L. Webber's Welcome to the Episcopal Church: An Introduction to Its History, Faith, and Worship and Urban T. Holmes III's What Is Anglicanism? are more serious yet brief introductions, touching on the major themes of this particular Christian tradition.

If you want an academic (yet very readable) introduction, you must read the standard--Stephen Sykes, John Booty, and Jonathan Knight's collection of essays entitled The Study of Anglicanism. This book contains essays ranging from "Tradition, Fathers and Councils" to "Ministry and Priesthood" to "Anglican Morality" to "Church-State Relations."

If you want an Anglican flavored (yet highly ecumenical) daily devotional book other than the Book of Common Prayer, I suggest Lesser Feasts and Fasts. This book is arranged around the liturgical calendar, giving a short historical blurb about the saint whose feast it is, along with an appropriate prayer and scripture reading. This is a great way to familiarize oneself with figures in church history, such as William Laud, John Chrysostom, Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King, Jr., Macrina, Augustine, and Teresa of Avila.

An Embodied Priesthood

2005-06-28T10:32:00.000-05:00

The Episcopal Church (like other structured denominations) is often mistakenly thought to be purely clergy driven without much involvement of laypeople. Some think this is embedded in a theology that requires the people to come to God through the priest as opposed to a 'biblical' priesthood of all believers. I'd like to start with a brief exploration of a theology of priesthood.

In my understanding a theology of priesthood stems from Jesus as the great High Priest. Christ is the one salvific mediator to God, because he is God enfleshed. From this stems the doctrine of the priesthood of all believers. Each person who has been anointed with the Holy Spirit in baptism is equally able to approach God through Christ. This first part is what typically gets emphasized in Protestant churches. But more important in my estimation for a theology of priesthood is that each Christian represents Christ to another. I do not mean that another human is needed for salvation. There is no need for a salvific mediator besides Christ, but we do encounter God through our relationships with other people. Christianity is an embodied religion, one that begins with God's incarnation in human form, and continues with all Christians potentially embodying that divinity to their neighbor.

Stemming from this (I would say more full) doctrine of priesthood of all believers is the Pauline view that each Christian is gifted differently. Some are prophets; some are teachers; some are priests; some are caregivers; etc. For the sake of order (and mere existence of the church) some are given a special role to lead the church. Early in the first few centuries of the church this came to be understood as a threefold ministry of bishop, priest, and deacon. These clergy do not have a special relationship to God. However, inevitably these clergy do represent Christ in a special way to other people. This is true because these leaders have special gifts and special training. But this is true even more because these leaders have been chosen from within and by the church as a whole. If we're honest, I think we'll realize that the same thing happens with preachers in those churches that repudiate 'clericalism.' This representation is only natural, because Christianity is an embodied religion. This representation of Christ in the church's leaders is grounded in the idea that Christ is embodied in each and every Christian. The priesthood of all believers doesn't mean there can't be priests; it means we all function to represent Christ to each other in the ways we are gifted to do so.

While there must be leaders, the leaders to do not take away the people's ministry of reconciliation. They merely take a special role in presiding, organizing, leading, teaching, and caregiving. But it doesn't mean they are the only ones doing this.

I got back about a week ago from a week-long Stephen Ministry Leadership Training Conference in Orlando, Florida. I was asked to be one of the co-leaders at Trinity to help set up Stephen Ministry in the congregation. In a nutshell, Stephen Ministry is a cross-denominational lay caregiving ministry. While clergy are like firefighters dealing with crises from day to day, it is often difficult or impossible for them to have a sustained caregiving relationship. And yet some of the most difficult times for people come days and weeks and months after their spouse has died, they have gone through a divorce, been hospitalized, become unemployed, or experienced some other trauma. Of course, caregiving is something that should be happening in churches already, but it often doesn't happen deliberately, or is done poorly. Stephen Ministry is a deliberate and structured training program to equip lay people for ongoing caregiving. A Stephen Minister goes through 50 hours of training with topics such as listening, caregiving for people in specific situations, and learning how to recognize when an issue is one that needs professional attention. Once Stephen Ministers are trained and commissioned, they meet with one person (of the same gender) for one hour per week, listening and being present through difficult times. Stephen Ministers are also involved in supervision sessions and continuing education. However, all specific issues are kept extremely confidential. My role as a Stephen Leader will be to help train other laypeople as Stephen Ministers in the initial 50 hours and then help provide ongoing supervision and continuing education.

I am excited about the opportunity to help begin a ministry that grows out of a healthy view of embodied priesthood. This is just one way in which the idea of the priesthood, or representation of Christ to others, of all of us can be reaffirmed and practiced.

Archbishop Thomas Cranmer

2005-06-09T14:09:00.000-05:00

My recent silence is mostly due to the 692 page biography I've been reading about Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who lived from 1489 until he was burned at the stake by Mary Tudor in 1556. Since one of my comprehensive exams this July/August will be over an important figure in liturgical history, I chose the one that has had the most influence on Anglican liturgy. I've spent so long reading this book and it's all I can think about, so I'm letting you endure a little of my burden.

Cranmer is something like the equivalent of Martin Luther for Lutherans or John Calvin for Presbyterians, though he was not as theologically foundational or prolific. Cranmer contributed generally as an influence towards reforming theology and liturgy in England, and yet was reluctant to overreact against everything that smelled of Catholicism. For example, Cranmer was able to criticize the supposed idolatry of praying to statues, yet retained gestures and vestments. He was not the kind of iconoclast that John Calvin had been. While Cranmer rejected the Pope's authority, he did not reject church tradition altogether. He spent much of his time studying the writings of the ancient church fathers and even desired to create a General Council that would unite all Christians across geographical borders as the ancient ecumenical councils had once done. Cranmer's cautiousness was picked up by later Anglicans who made this via media (middle way) between reform and catholic Christianity a major characteristic of Anglican Christianity.

There are many things about Cranmer that bother me, like his belief that the Crown was the head of the church, his persecution of religious dissidents, and his predestinarian views, among other things. Thankfully, the Anglican Church has not viewed Cranmer (or any one historic figure for that matter) as a its symbolic leader, but has looked rather to the broader living tradition of universal Christianity.

But every English speaking Christian owes Cranmer a debt of gratitude for his most important and lasting contribution. Cranmer was largely responsible for The Book of Common Prayer, which was the first book of worship ever written in English. Before Cranmer worship was entirely in Latin, with the common people understanding very little, if anything. Cranmer took the Latin liturgy in use at the time along with other ancient sources and heavily modified them in his translation to fit Protestant theology. While very little is completely original to Cranmer, his English prose translation became the standard for English religious language. You would recognize many phrases in The Book of Common Prayer, because they have survived until today in every denomination, such as the typical English wedding liturgy. I think it is fair even to say that after the King James Version of the Bible, The Book of Common Prayer has been the next most influential book on modern English.

What is so attractive to me about The Book of Common Prayer is that Cranmer used the ancient sources of Christian liturgy as foundational, but was willing to reform some of its theology to conform with what has been universally believed and held in common from the earliest centuries. This beautiful and thoughtfully translated work has proved its genius by its endurance for 445 years.

Confirmation, cont.

2005-05-27T19:42:00.000-05:00

This is Jen writing, Brent's wife, for those of you who don't know me. I am guest-posting, because we thought it might be nice if I could sort of narrate Brent's confirmation for all of you, and give you an idea of what it was like to be there. So I'm just going to give you a little stream-of-consciousness bit, about the little things and the big things, just as if you were the one sitting there watching, getting distracted, and then paying attention again.

First of all, Brent sat with the other confirmands (those who were being confirmed) in a separate, roped off seating area. Rick and I sat in the seating area to the right side of the altar, in the south transept. We had good seats over there, and I could see Brent from where we were. So we winked at each other a couple times and smiled goofy I-love-you smiles. At least, Brent and I did. I'm pretty sure Brent and Rick didn't do any exchanging of any goofy I-love-you smiles.

The service started with the hymn "All things bright and beautiful." That was the processional, the song that the chorus and the acolytes and the confirmands and the priests walked in to. May 22 was Trinity Sunday, and I noticed that one of the banners (they were all tie-dye, by the way, which I thought was cool and Brent and Rick thought was lame) had a circle with a triangle over it. I wondered about that until I realized it was a symbol for the Trinity: three in one.

The retired Bishop of New Jersey, who lives in Princeton and attends Trinity, presided over the service. He's pretty old, and he wore enormous glasses, kind of like Chairman Mao glasses, while he was leading. When I met him later I didn't realize it was him at first, because he wasn't wearing them any longer. I suppose that's better for him socially and all, but it threw me.

One of the things we did, which I really love and it doesn't happen every time, was chant a psalm. It was a different melody than I've heard before, and very pretty. This time it had harmony written with it too, which I think is unusual. I stuck with the melody though, because chanting is a little tricky. So we chanted Psalm 150. Then there was the gospel reading, from Matthew, and then the (retired) Bishop preached a sermon.

It wasn't a terrible sermon. It was very informal and he used a sermon illustration about his climbing hydrangea that produced some chuckles. I guess if you're a Bishop and you want to come off warm and fuzzy in your sermon, you have to work pretty hard at it.

Then we sang a song out of the hymnal that's always in the back of the pews but I have never seen used before, Lift Every Voice and Sing II (it's the African American Episcopal hymnal, Brent tells me). While we sang "Sweet, sweet Spirit," which was very catchy and upbeat and happy (not really my sort of song, but I found the celebratory mood appropriate) the confirmands moved to the altar rail and the Bishop was seated in his chair in front of the altar. Rick and I stood with Brent at the altar rail. When his name was called, he went and knelt in front of the Bishop and Rick and I stood behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder. The Bishop placed his hands on Brent's head and said, "Strengthen, O Lord, your servant James Brent with your Holy Spirit; empower him for your service; and sustain him all the days of his life. Amen." He added a God bless you, very softly, as Brent stood and we returned to the altar rail.

When everyone was confirmed, there was the passing of the peace. This is one of my favorite elements of the service. I love being able to make eye contact with people without feeling awkward, saying "peace be with you" or just "peace," meaning it, and knowing that this moment of sincere contact is sufficient. No standing around trying to make small talk with someone you just met while it seems like other people all around you are having hilarious and loud conversations with their new best friends. This passing of the peace was especially celebratory as people rushed to greet the confirmees (those who had just been confirmed). It was nice to be able to kiss Brent and say, "peace." During the peace, the assistant rector came over to Rick and me to thank us for being there to sponsor Brent. I thought that was especially nice, and it makes me feel good to see that she really cares about Brent.

After the peace, we began Communion. The Bishop put on his hat to preside over the table. I hadn't seen a bishop's hat before; it really does look like the little chess pieces! Anyway, Communion began, like it always begins, with a thanksgiving, a reiteration of our thanks to God for what God has done throughout history, and a retelling of the story of the Last Supper. I like that every week there's a way to remind each other of what it is that we're doing when we take the bread and wine built into the service. And it's nice that the Eucharist happened after the baptism and confirmation. I remember when I was baptized, Bill Alsup took me aside to give me Communion in the church kitchen. I remember feeling a little awkward taking it alone, and I think it's much nicer to do it all together.

After the service, there was a lovely reception for everyone in the parish hall (which in a Church of Christ would be the Fellowship Building or Room or something). There was all manner of dainty finger food, like cucumber sandwiches and stuff, but there was also, and this was very exciting, baked sausage-cheese-balls like you find at real potlucks down south! Rick and I scarfed them like the southern-cookin'-starved waifs we are. No one else seemed to know what they were! We also met the retired Bishop, as I mentioned earlier, and the head rector came by to say hello and thank us for coming. Again, it was really nice to see that the priests at Trinity really care about Brent.

So, that was it: your observer's recount of Brent's confirmation. It was good. I wish everyone could've been there.

Confirmation

2005-05-20T09:49:00.000-05:00

This Sunday is my confirmation. I've had several people ask about the meaning of confirmation, so I thought I would write a few words about it before it happens.

A few historical words: Confirmation has its origin in the reception of the Holy Spirit by the laying on of hands. In the earliest times it happened simultaneously with baptism. However, as the church early on began to baptize infants, the act of laying on of hands gradually became separated out from baptism, and happened later in a person's life. (I'll post later on the issue of infant baptism since that would make this post twice as long, so feel free to ask any questions you may have on this in the comments.) This separated rite of confirmation functioned as a person's own acceptance of the Christian faith that had been passed down to them.

Today, baptism is considered the full rite of initiation into the church. Confirmation is an act of "confirming" that moves both ways between a person and God. The person confirms their faith in God; the church asks God to strengthen (or confirm) that person in their faith. A child who grows up in the Episcopal Church is baptized as an infant and then confirmed when they are ready (typically as an adolescent).

For me confirmation will be a renewal of my own faith in God. The following questions are asked of me: "Do you reaffirm your renunciation of evil?" and "Do you renew your commitment to Jesus Christ?" My response will be: "I do, and with God's grace I will follow him as my Savior and Lord." A question is also asked of the church, that they will support me in my vows. Then I will make a renewal of baptismal vows in an interrogative form of the ancient Apostle's Creed.

For me confirmation will also be God's strengthening by the work of the Spirit. The bishop leads a prayer with some of the following lines: "Renew in this your servant the covenant you made with him at his Baptism. Send him forth in the power of that Spirit to perform the service you set before him...." Finally, the bishop will lay his hands on my head and say "Strengthen, O Lord, your servant James Brent with your Holy Spirit; empower him for your service; and sustain him all the days of his life. Amen."

The closest thing in the Church of Christ to the rite of confirmation would be something like "coming forward" at the invitation in the Church of Christ to recommit my life to Jesus.

In addition to these meanings, the rite also has something to do with church membership. I will be a confirmed Episcopalian, meaning that I consider myself a part of this particular part of the body of Christ. I am aligning myself with a particular historical and traditional understanding of Christianity. I am acknowledging the authority of wisdom and tradition that has been passed down from the apostles through the bishops for centuries. In this way I am embracing the historicity of the church. All of these aspects are important to me as I begin this leg of my spiritual journey.

A Theology of Space

2005-05-08T19:17:00.000-05:00

God incarnated Godself in time and space, sanctifying the dimensions within which we move and live and have our being. I've talked about a Christian view of time in a previous post. But I'd like to explore the idea of holy space.

Primarily, a church is a holy space because the church gathers within it. I've come to believe that spatial arrangement can tell you alot about a church's view of itself. This includes, but isn't reduced to, church architecture. What do we communicate to ourselves and the world around us by the type of church we build? Does it stand out with its nose in the air, or, at the other extreme, say that we're cheap when it comes to our God and God's children? Do we proclaim that beauty comes from God by a sensitivity to the aesthetic? Are we in a building that will be gone tomorrow or does is display a connection to past Christian experience?

These are important questions, but I think more important, are questions of internal spatial arrangement. When I enter an Episcopal Church, the first thing I notice is the central altar. This is the place that symbolizes the presence of Christ within the community. This is the place that the community literally gathers around to become community. (St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco enacts its belief of Christ's presence in the community by its centralized floorplan.) In my estimation, there is nothing more important that the church does, than gather at table. The entire life of the church propels outward from this central space. All of its outreach and in-reach ministry begins here. This is the place of spiritual sustenance.

At Trinity the altar is also the place that the gospel text for the week is read by the deacon. This creates a connection between word and sacrament. The reading of the gospel is the full and complete proclamation of the gospel. But what is striking for someone from a revivalist background is that this central place is not the place of the sermon. While word and sacrament take central position, the sermon is secondary, flowing from the power of the first two. The preacher, marked as the one chosen by the community to interpret the texts, humbly takes her place in a pulpit that is offset from the center, trying to draw together the life-world of the text and the issues of today. (Take a look at Barbara Brown Taylor's sermons and books for a taste of some of the best current preaching in the Episcopal Church.)

Yet, the sermons are not long and cumbersome. They are not marked primarily by the personality and skill of the preacher. He is covered in ancient garments, creating a certain anonymity. This anonymity says that the sermon is not about the preacher, but Christ and the community of faith. And the sermon does not take priority of place in the service, since it leads to the Eucharistic climax.

It might seem counterintuitive to many, but I have found that the Episcopal Church is not a priestly centered denomination, but a Christ and community centered one. I believe this can even be seen in the very construction of its spaces of worship.

Why not the [fill in your favorite denomination]?

2005-05-06T21:15:00.000-05:00

Why not the Greek Orthodox Church? Why not the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)? Those were certainly two groups I considered, despite their very distinct theologies.

I have great respect for the Orthodox churches, since they are quite in tune with the tradition of the church, and especially the significance of the liturgy. But I couldn't leave one church that restricts women religiously for another. Generally, I think that the Orthodox church is too uncritical of tradition. Sometimes doctrine must be reconsidered and revised in light of ethical demands. I appreciate the Episcopal Church's willingness to struggle with demanding ethical issues, and move forward, even when they may not be popular among many Christians. I believe the church should be on the cutting edge of standing up for what is right and good. Why does the church so often drag its feet?

I also have great respect for my Stone-Campbell background, which made me seriously consider the Disciples of Christ. There are many in this denomination that are rethinking the centrality of worship. They are also willing to discuss questions of justice. And certainly the shift in church culture would have been less drastic. But I fear that even the Disciples are too stuck in their American individualistic way of doing church. There is still too much rejection of church tradition for me. There is nothing necessarily wrong with tradition being less important for them, but I feel pulled to a group that places it near the center. Ever since I began reading church history, I have longed for a church that doesn't ignore (literally or practically) the ways of being Christian that have gone before us.

Does that help clarify my direction a little bit? I don't want to set out a list of reasons in one post. My intent is to reflect over time on the different aspects that have led me on this journey.

Welcome

2005-04-22T17:29:00.000-05:00

While I have been writing on my blog for over a month, this is the first day I've actually invited anyone (other than Jennifer) to read it. So, welcome! I chose today intentionally, as it marks one month before my confirmation in the Episcopal Church.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the way blogs work, they list the most recent entry at the top. I suggest that you scroll to the bottom of this page to begin with my first post entitled "Episcopal Peregrination" to read about the purpose of this endeavor and read the blogs in order. I especially welcome comments in response to my thoughts and suggestions for things you might want me to talk about. Click on the hyperlink at the bottom of a post called "comments" and, if you don't have a blogger account, choose "other" and let me know who you are. Send me a private e-mail, if you prefer.

Thanks for your interest.

The Fullness of Worship

2005-04-15T09:42:00.000-05:00

Many Episcopalians understand The Book of Common Prayer to be the one main thing that holds their church together and distinguishes them from other churches. Other denominations may have confessional statements that are tightly held. Other denominations may rely on a top-down authority to create unity. Still other denominations may be held together by a particular interpretation of scripture. But what makes one Episcopal church similar to another is its common worship. You can see why this might be appealing to someone studying worship.

If you go to an Episcopal church on any given Sunday in Dallas, you will pray largely the same prayers as those I'm praying in Princeton. But what is more important to me is that many of those prayers are linked historically to the past. Even though there may be no indication in the prayer book itself, you would likely be praying with the ancient Christian Hippolytus of Rome from the year 215 or Saint Basil the Great from 350. This is nothing to say of how steeped the words of the prayer book are in actual biblical language. A very large percentage of prayers are taken from scripture in their wording or imagery. From my perspective the The Book of Common Prayer is quite biblical. For wasn't one of the main purposes of the Bible to be read publicly in the church? The words of scripture are praying-words. Click here to see an example from The Book of Common Prayer that is steeped in biblical images.

Despite all that I have said up to this point, it seems that the trend in the Episcopal church is to move away from the printed book. Rather than one set (or a few sets) of prayers being authorized, many prayers or a loose prayer format will be authorized. I've struggled with this change, as I've grown to love the ritual of The Book of Common Prayer. (An aside: While ritualism may be a bad thing, I do not believe ritual to be so. It is natural and good for humans to develop patterns in life. We get up at the same time each morning. We have habits of telling our loved ones "I love you." We brush our teeth before bed. If our habits constantly changed, we would go insane. The same is true in worship. Habits or customs or rituals of worship form us over time. When we say "I believe in God the Father, almighty maker of heaven and earth...," we live-into these words. I do not find that saying these words each and every week becomes boring or ritualistic. Rather, they form me into a Christian who believes--and more importantly acts from--the things I am saying.)

So, back to my earlier thought.... I have thought a lot about the future of The Book of Common Prayer as I have grown to love its language and meaning. And as I've seen trends to move away from its printed form, I suppose I've even mourned a bit. But I've begun to realize something, with the help of one of my priest-classmates. It isn't really so much the actual prayer book that appeals to me, but rather the fullness of worship that it exemplifies. There is a fatness in its worship that I have come to crave. And this fat is not something that can easily be trimmed off the edges, because it is integral to the entire piece of meat. This kind of worship is like a well-marbled steak. It is dispersed throughout the meat to give it a rich flavor. Without the fat it would be tough and dry.

In this kind of worship the images are rich. The language is moving. The gestures mime ancient holy actions. The entire liturgy is a divine drama. We don't come to church to merely remember Christ's supper in the upper room, but to participate in that supper. We don't come to merely hear the words of the gospel, but to enter in to the events. We come not as passive spectators, but active participants. This is why there is so much sitting and standing and kneeling and coming forward to take communion and responses from the people. This is the "school" for the divine habits of God's holy people.

This ethos (or atmosphere) is what the Episcopal church has a particular sensitivity to that appeals to me so much. And that is one reason why many people have chosen to take similar journeys to the Episcopal church, the Orthodox church, or the Catholic Church. And this sensitivity to a fullness of worship will remain even if the churches move away from The Book of Common Prayer. I have come to see that this fatness is what I really crave.

Remembering John Paul II

2005-04-02T21:04:00.000-05:00

Episcopalians don't recognize the pope of the Roman Catholic church as the head of the universal church. But they do respect the pope as the leader of the Roman Catholic church, one of the many cultural expressions of the universal church. Rather, the universal church is governed primarily by the many historical ecumenical councils. There are a plurality of bishops recognized together as the leaders of the church universal.

While I also don't agree with many of the specific stances the pope took, I do respect many of his ecumenical and social justice gestures. Recognizing that he was the spiritual leader of millions of Christians around the world and a truly holy man, I feel compelled to post a prayer for him. This is a modified prayer for a recently deceased pope taken from the Daily Roman Missal:

God our Father,
you reward all who believe in you.
May your servant, John Paul II ...,
who faithfully administered the mysteries of your
forgiveness and love on earth,
rejoice with you for ever in heaven.

We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

Christian Time Keeping

2005-04-02T19:14:00.000-05:00

While my previous post may have been a good descriptive and historical overview of my Holy Week experience, I probably have not fully expressed its meaningfulness to me in a personal way. I want to explore how I have been shaped by this new (for me) way of keeping time, of which Holy Week is a part.

In my newfound experience of the Christian calendar, it is not a dispensible part of liturgy. It isn't a nice piece of decoration on the church wall. It isn't a little calligraphic flair on the "L" of liturgy. I don't mean by this that it is necessary for salvation, or even for displaying the fruits of the spirit. But it is an integral and formative aspect of worship. And if our worship is how we come to know God, and the place where we "think" about God by doing the liturgy, then the question of when is of primary importance. After all, we humans exist in space and time.

The church has recognized this from its earliest years. In Scripture we have witness that the church met on the Day of Resurrection. They may have met more often. They may have kept on going to Temple, if they were Jews. But they met on Sunday. They didn't meet on Sunday because it was the first day of the week, somehow better than the last day of the week (that the Jews met on). They didn't meet on Sunday because it was convenient for their schedules; in fact, it was a work day. Saturday would have been easier. But the church kept Sunday as their holy day from the earliest of times, because it was a wholly new day. The early Christians sometimes referred to it as "the eighth day." Not merely the same as the previous Sunday. Not the beginning of a new cycle. But a day in which the church was thrown out of its usual routine of 24 hours in 7 days a week over and over for an entire human lifespan. The church was thrown towards the eschaton--the final end of all things--in a new day of creation. This time was different; not ordinary. Holy because of God's work of raising Christ from the dead. In light of the resurrection, ordinary human time was re-worked to be made holy, in the shape of the cross, in the shape of the empty tomb.

Early Christians didn't keep time by their Rolexes. They didn't keep time by patterning it after their Jewish forebearers. They didn't keep time based on the market schedule. They didn't even keep time primarily by the motions of the sun and moon, even though they were natural realities. They kept time by the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

The natural progression of this way of time keeping was to order not only their week, but their entire year, after the life of Jesus. This wasn't a newfangled, foreign, or heretical idea. After all, the Jews had been patterning their time after God's mighty deeds for centuries. And the impulse to begin patterning time after the life of Christ was not some late-in-the-game play. There may even be hints of Easter in such passages as 1 Corinthians 5:7-8. The early Christians who were Jews would have naturally continued their keeping of Passover with a Christian theme. But certainly by the year 200 Christians were observing a separate yearly feast somewhat corresponding to the Jewish Passover. This early transformation of time was not antithetical to teaching in the New Testament, but grew out of its view of Sunday as a remembrance of the Resurrection. Eventually over time the church began remembering other actions of Jesus' life surrounding Easter, like Palm Sunday one week before Easter, the institution of the Lord's Supper on Thursday, and Good Friday as the time of the crucifixion. This full keeping of Holy Week was already well established when a woman named Egeria travelled all the way from Spain to Jerusalem to experience Holy Week in the year 383. We can peak back into the goings on of these ancient Christians of Jerusalem, through her personal diary:

"The next day, Sunday, is the beginning of the Easter week or, as they call it here, 'The Great Week.' .... At five o'clock the passage is read from the Gospel about the children who met the Lord with palm branches, saying, 'Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.' At this the bishop and all the people rise from their places, and start off on foot down from the summit of the Mount of Olives. All the people go before him with psalms ... , all the time repeating, 'Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.' The babies and the ones too young to walk are carried on their parents' shoulders. Everyone is carrying branches, either palm or olive, and they accompany the bishop in the very way the people did when ... they went down the hill with the Lord..." (Egeria's Travels 30-31, emphasis mine).

As I experienced these days this year it was as if I was even there those many years ago. It was as if Christ instituted the Supper for me and those in my congregation, entered Jerusalem in my midst, was crucified before my eyes. I was there on Sunday, literally carrying a palm branch.

Holy Week Retrospective

2005-03-31T22:45:00.000-05:00

On Monday of Holy Week I attended a small service of Holy Communion at noon in a side-chapel at Trinity. There were about a dozen or so in attendance.

It is typical in today's Episcopal churches for the celebrant to stand behind the altar during Holy Communion, facing the people in the pews. During the Middle Ages the priests stood between the people and an altar that was placed against the wall, facing the same direction as the people, so that the people could see only their backs. (Thus, the intricate design on the back of many older priestly vestments.) Since the 1960's the celebrants of Holy Communion have increasingly faced the people behind a free-standing altar that has been moved away from the wall of the church; this arrangement is thought to be more personal and more reflective of a view of the priesthood of all believers.

However, this small side-chapel at Trinity is set up according to the old design of space. And, therefore, the priest says prayers to God with her back to the people, facing the same way as the people. You might think that it would be difficult to hear the priest and seem impersonal. But services in the small chapel are quite intimate. And I find this arrangement meaningful in its own way. The priest who faces the same way as the people is seen as one among the people, offering prayers as a representative of the people. In this way she is not praying to us or offering bread and wine to us, but to God. While I prefer the newer arrangement of space, I also find this ancient way of doing things quite powerful.

On Tuesday of Holy Week I attended a service of Evening Prayer. It seems that the 5:30 time was bad for most career people, since I was the only other person present besides the priest. Nonetheless, wherever two or more are gathered in Christ's name....

Thursday of Holy Week is called Maundy Thursday and is a remembrance of the Lord's Supper. The service concludes with the church, and especially the altar, being stripped bare of all decoration. The decoration is already sparse during Lent, but everything is taken away at this point. The stripping was concluded in complete darkness and silence with a wooden door to the sanctuary being slammed loudly. This stripping functions as a transition to Good Friday.

Good Friday remembers Christ's crucifixion. A service called "The Seven Last Words of Christ" is somewhat self-explanatory. The service lasted three hours (12:00-3:00 p.m.) corresponding to the hours Jesus was on the cross; each "word" included prayers, silence, a short sermon, and a hymn.

On Saturday night at 7:30 after sundown was the first service of Easter--the Easter Vigil. We gathered outside and each of us carried a small candle lit from the large Paschal candle. The entire church processed into the dark building silently, the light growing greater as each person entered. With the space lit only by our candles we sat listening about God's mighty deeds in the Hebrew Bible, including God's creation of the earth, God's provision of a sacrificial ram in Isaac's place, God's deliverance of Israel from oppression in Egypt, and God's reviving of the valley of dry bones. Our own stories were grafted into God's own stories.

Historically, the climax of the Easter Vigil was the time of baptism. The Easter Vigil was thought to the be the most appropriate time of the year for baptisms. While this is being revived today in the church, there were actually no baptisms during the Easter Vigil at Trinity this year. However, we did have a renewal of our baptismal vows. The resurrection of Christ was proclaimed. There was a reading of Romans 6 and Matthew 28 followed by a sermon and Holy Communion. This was perhaps one of the most beautiful worship services I have ever attended.

On Sunday morning I served as an acolyte at the 11:15 service. The festivity of Easter was especially apparent in contrast to the somber tone of Lent. It is very meaningful for me to experience, not so much emotions, as diverse tones of worship. Repentance, festivity, and anticipation are among some of the different tones set in the liturgy of the ancient church.

Palm Sunday

2005-03-20T14:37:00.000-05:00

Today is Palm Sunday, the celebration of Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem during the last week of his life. Today was also a day of "entry" for me. While I've been a member at Trinity since September (one need not be a confirmed Episcopalian to be a full member at Trinity), this was my first Sunday as an acolyte.

The word acolyte comes from the Greek word akoloutheo, which means "to follow" or "to accompany." Basically, an acolyte is one who is an attendant of the priest during religious services. The first mention of acolytes in church history comes from ca. 250. During the middle ages it became one of the minor orders leading to the priesthood. Today in the Episcopal Church an acolyte may serve various functions, such as bearing the processional cross, the torches that light the processional cross and gospel book, or processional banners. They may also help prepare the altar for holy communion or have other preparatory duties. This Sunday I functioned as a torchbearer during the procession, along with other duties.

The procession in the church's ancient form of liturgy marks the beginning of the service, a visible gathering of a people into a place, both of which become holy, because of who is present--Christ. Rather than beginning the service with the common language of our culture ("good morning"), this event is an entry into something different, a time and space of differing quality. All attention is given to the cross and gospel book in procession, both lit by fire to show the community's acknowledgement of their significance, the flames themselves proclaiming "I am the light of the world." These are the holy things of the liturgy, the people's symbols. Christ's presence in and among the people is reflected in the visual symbol of the cross and the community's book. These visual symbols are not holy in and of themselves--the bonded paper and the brass--but are holy because they signify the reality of Christ that is truly present. I have come to appreciate the power of the gospel in visual form.

Worshipping Above a Rummage Crypt

2005-03-19T09:25:00.000-05:00

What do you worship on top of? Have you ever thought about what is beneath you when you are in church singing a hymn? What is the foundation of your church building?

I had never thought about this question until this past weekend after Trinity Church's annual rummage sale. Once a year the church puts on a sale to raise money for community outreach. They needed volunteers, and since I've had some experience with such sales thanks to my mom, I decide to pitch in. They put me in charge of the sports/pet supplies/medical table. I'm not the one to put in charge of a sports table. I thought a field hockey stick was a polo stick. And we didn't play lacrosse growing up in Texas. But I took it in stride and got rid of most of what was on my table. (But never did sell that package of Depends.) The sale ran all day Saturday and after church on Sunday.

The sale was great, but the most enlightening part was the cleanup. I boxed up what was left on my table and stuck around to help store unsold items for next year's rummage. The man in charge sent me with my boxes down the elevator ... to the church crypt. I've never worshipped in a church with a crypt before. At least we didn't call it that. A crypt. That should have cobwebs and bones and creepy stuff. Not at Trinity Church. The entire space underneath the chancel (where the choir and altar are located) and nave (where the pews and people are located) is filled with things for the rummage. Junk really. Not all of it, but a lot of it is junk. People's junk to become other people's junk. But ... all to raise money for community outreach, helping the poor and disadvantaged. Each Sunday I gather with my community whose foundation is literally an outreach project. I am uplifted going to a church where its value of ministry to the poor is so foundational.

Episcopal Peregrination

2005-03-18T16:04:00.000-05:00

Peregrination n : a pilgrimage esp. by foot

This blog is intended to be a place for me to ruminate about my journey to the Episcopal Church. It is not only for my own reflection, but also for my family and friends who are interested in this journey. This is not the beginning. As some of you may know, I began attending Trinity Church, an Episcopal church in Princeton, New Jersey in September 2004. But long before then I felt out-of-place in my spiritual home.

My purpose for this blog is not to denigrate my religious past, because it means much to me, is an inseparable part of me; in fact, it is difficult in many ways to leave. Rather, I hope to reflect in a positive way over this next leg of my travels. I intend this to be a medium for questions, reflection, and constructive conversation on things liturgical and ecclesial.

Over the last few years I have grown to appreciate the Episcopal Church for its self-placement within Christianity as a via media--a middle way. It is catholic; it is protestant. It is traditional; it is progressive. It holds on to historic Christianity (especially its worship and ecclesial structure) tightly with one hand. Yet it allows reason and ethics to critique that tradition. It is within this tension that I see myself standing, able to appreciate what has gone before me and be challenged by what is ahead.

I invite you into this conversation, not to drag you along with me on my peregrination, but to share travelogues, and experience mutual benefit.