3:15

Ashes Addendum

2012-02-26T17:38:00.000-08:00

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

Much ink has been spilled in the last week over the pros and cons of "Ashes-to-Go," an event in which churches venture out into their communities to administer ashes to the public, so I won't duplicate those comments here. Instead, I'd like to share just a few snapshots of people I met during the day to illustrate why I think this effort is worth undertaking. More than any clever theological or missiological rationale I may have articulated, friends and colleagues have been captivated by the stories of my encounters with specific people, which they have encouraged me to share here on the Web.

I have always said that theology begins at the front door, because it is how we greet people that sets their expectations for how they are going to be treated once they have come inside the church building. It says, "this is how we treat each other in this Christian community." However, being out in the world without the protection of standing in the narthex of one's home turf alters the balance of power considerably. People feel much braver to ask questions and challenge you if you're simply standing on the sidewalk as they scuttle by on their way to work, to lunch, or to run errands. People surprise you, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not so pleasantly, but it is always instructive.

Here are some of the highlights:

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

An African American woman abruptly pulled up to the curb in her huge SUV, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out to ask me if I would come to administer ashes to her very elderly mother, who was quite feeble. So, I climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV, introduced myself, shook the mother's hand, and imposed ashes on her forehead. Visibly grateful, the elderly woman said, "Bless you, you have answered all my prayers today!"
Even though we were clearly identified as an Episcopal Church, most people didn't hesitate at all and came right up to receive. However, like many Roman Catholics that day, one middle-aged woman asked if she was allowed to receive ashes from me. I explained that I knew that she was not allowed to receive communion, but since the imposition of ashes was an act of piety signifying repentance, rather than a sacrament, I said that I didn't see any reason why she shouldn't receive if she wanted to. She was clearly conflicted, but after studying the people's faces as they received ashes, she finally got in line, smiled, and said, "well, I guess I'm in too!"
During the morning rush hour, I asked a young woman if she wanted ashes, and she told me she was Muslim, at which point I noticed she was wearing a hijab on her head. About an hour later, when I was talking to a man from a neighboring parish who had stopped by St. Clement's to pray, she approached us smiling and handed each of us a Qur'an. I thanked her for her kind gift. It was an incredible moment of mutual respect and generosity.
I can recall only one hurtful moment--a hit-and-run event--when a passerby, assuming we were Roman Catholics, quipped without stopping, "So, you took a break from molesting kids in the sacristy?" to which I responded without skipping a beat, "we're Anglicans; we don't do that." My tone wasn't snarky or bitter; I was just setting the record straight.
A homeless man came up to me grinning, and after I had given him ashes, he said, "Bless you, my brother! Praise Jesus!" which was a tremendous joy.
Several people who did not speak English, including an elderly man from eastern Europe and an elderly Italian woman came up to me, and even though I could not utter anything in their languages, they knew exactly what this ritual was all about and reacted as if they understood the words I was saying. It just goes to show you that sometimes the Holy Spirit takes over to fill in the gaps.
As we were making our way back to the church at the end, a man shouted to me from the cab of a very large delivery truck that was stopped at the stop light. He couldn't get out of his truck, but he wondered if I'd give him ashes. It was a bit tricky, but I clambered up the side of the vast truck in my ecclesiastical finery and administered ashes through the driver's side window. Then, the light changed to green, and he moved on.
And finally, among my favorite moments were those when Jewish ladies passed by us at various points and said, "I'm Jewish, but I think what you're doing is wonderful!"

These vignettes remind us that we often have to live our way into the mystery of the Christian faith. It is very easy to intellectualize it and lose sight of its affective and experiential dimensions, which can teach us much about what it means to follow Jesus. It is in the encounter with other people that we are invited into a deeper experience of the transformative power of the Gospel message of good news for the poor, the wounded, the captive, and the dejected of this world, who are sometimes we ourselves.

Why Newman?

2012-02-21T15:51:00.002-08:00

John Henry Newman in 1844.

The Episcopal Church commemorates John Henry Newman on February 21st, and it might strike some as odd that Anglicanism should honor a man who abandoned communion with the see of Canterbury to join the Roman Catholic Church. The question of Newman's place and heritage within Anglicanism is perhaps all the more timely and controversial, given the recent establishment of the Anglican Ordinariate, which allows entire Anglican congregations to enter into communion with the Holy See while preserving some markers of Anglican worship and spirituality. However, the deeper questions posed by Newman's inclusion in the Episcopal Church's sanctoral Kalendar, as well as the Ordinariate, are: how are we to understand our relationships with our brothers and sisters in Christ once they have swum the Tiber? And how should we remember them in the long view of history?

There are no doubt many reasonable answers to these questions, but my own response seeks to embrace the whole course of a person's process of spiritual and theological discernment, rather than to limit my focus to his or her ultimate destination. With Newman, I attempt to view the man's life globally, rather than as a figure at only one point in time. Indeed, I do not have to agree with Newman's decision to go to Rome in order to value his writings and work as a Church of England priest within the Oxford Movement. I can agree with his subtle theological arguments, without assenting to the conclusions that he draws from them, most particularly, that Rome is the only true Church. When I read Newman, I come to a very different set of conclusions, perhaps much as Keble or Pusey did. Some Catholic Anglicans have arrived at convictions that have called them to Rome, while others have arrived at ones that keep them in Canterbury. (And let us not forget the scores of Roman Catholics who have swum the Thames for similar reasons of conscience and become Anglicans!)

What I respect above all, however, is the common struggle we have experienced, wherever each of us has landed. I have been moved by the accounts of Newman's theological wrangling and nagging conscience, for they are reminiscent of my own struggles to formulate solid theological propositions and construct an Anglo-Catholic identity within the Episcopal Church. Newman and I doubtless wrestled with some of the same theological problems, and so I find much solidarity and companionship in reading about his journey, which had great integrity. As one of my theology professors in seminary insightfully noted, "every theological proposition solves one problem and opens up another." I think we can thus thank Newman for showing us that going to Rome does not necessarily get round the difficult theological questions; it may only delay answering them and sometimes can even expose new problems. Indeed, for many in the Church of England, such as Keble, Pusey, Selwyn, Gore, and countless others in later generations, giving up on the hard questions related to the Catholic nature of Anglicanism was not an option; they stuck it out, wrestled with it some more, and got us a bit closer to the truth. Newman explored one solution, and his Oxford colleagues explored others.

Despite his decision to quit Anglicanism, I am indebted to Newman, as well as to his Oxford companions, for the inspiration he has provided during my own formation as a priest. Newman's place in the Kalendar may be justified by the fact that even now younger generations of Anglo-Catholics just like me are still drawing great strength from him, not because of what he ultimately became--a Roman Catholic--but because of what he contributed to and achieved for the Church of England, and in the fullness of time, Anglicanism. Anglo-Catholicism might be much poorer today had not Newman been a key leader in those first formative years of the Oxford Movement. I am therefore grateful that he is remembered by the Church, when other Anglo-Catholic luminaries, such as Frank Weston, have not been honored with a day in the Kalendar.

It can be difficult in this day to be an Anglo-Catholic, for the word means many different things to many different people, and each of us is bidden to figure out how we are going to understand and live out this identity. Society and the Church can also be unkind in their treatment of people who use this label, sometimes based largely on stereotypes or misinformation. Much of what Newman wrote as a catholic-minded priest in the Church of England, for example, provided deep nourishment and comfort for me as a seminarian whenever I encountered anti-Catholic prejudice and invective in both of the seminaries in which I trained. As someone who left one faith in sad protest as an adolescent, wandered aimlessly for a couple of decades, and then found a new faith, I am inclined to be generous in my estimation of Newman. I am sympathetic to his struggle. So, in answer to my original question about how we might understand or remember Newman, I would say that we might respect his decision to walk apart, and yet still be grateful for the time we spent walking together.

Paul's Conversion from Fear to Hope

2012-01-24T20:09:00.000-08:00

Orthodox icon of Sts. Peter and Paul.

The apostles Peter and Paul are frequently paired with each other, particularly in the names of cathedrals, since they are regarded as two founding pillars of the Church. According to Holy Scripture, Peter was the first among the original twelve apostles, the rock on whom the Western Church was built, while Paul was known as the apostle to the non-Jewish population of the eastern Mediterranean. In fact, Paul claims in his Letter to the Galatians to have met Peter (or Cephas, as he was also called) and some of the other apostles at the Council of Jerusalem in around 50 CE, and there is an alternative account of this meeting in the Acts of the Apostles that is interestingly much less flattering to Paul. The Feasts of the Confession of St. Peter and the Conversion of St. Paul are thus unsurprisingly quite close together--only a week apart--not only because of the traditional pairing of the two apostles, but also because there is something quite similar about their struggles as people of faith. If Peter was the faithless apostle that out of fear denied Jesus three times, Paul was the unlikely apostle who had hunted down and murdered Jesus' followers in the early years following the Crucifixion. Each had a checkered past. Each had denied Jesus and had worked against His divine mission and yet was transformed into a key supporter of this same mission and proclaimed Him as Lord. But in Paul's case, what is the nature of this "conversion" that we observe today?

St. Paul by Masaccio.

Contrary to popular understanding, Paul did not convert from Judaism to Christianity. The man's name change from Saul to Paul does not signify some transference of allegiance from one institutional religion to another. This is mainly because the Judaism of the first century CE was not one monolithic entity, but a combination of many sects, perspectives, and priorities that defied easy oversimplification. What we know as Christianity, moreover, did not yet exist as either a consolidated identity or as a distinct alternative to contemporary Judaism of any stripe. Followers of Jesus were known as adherents to "the Way," but many of them considered themselves faithful Jews, as did the apostle Paul, who was also a Pharisee. Current Pauline scholarship has attempted to reclaim the Jewish identity of Paul, which one will discover is well supported by reading Paul's undisputed epistles: Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, 1 Thessalonians, Galatians, Philippians, and Philemon. The authorship of the other epistles attributed to Paul are generally in dispute, but almost certainly are not his original work. A good introduction to Paul's Jewish identity and the epistles is Pamela Eisenbaum's 2009 book, Paul Was Not a Christian: The Original Message of a Misunderstood Apostle.


Caravaggio's take on Paul's conversion.

My belief is that Paul's conversion is rather one that opened his eyes to a larger perspective on humanity's future to which he had been blind. Like Caravaggio's painting to the left suggests, Saul's encounter with the risen Jesus on the road to Damascus unbalanced him, threw him off his high horse, and knocked the wind out of him. This unseating was necessary and purposeful, for his narrow and limited viewpoint had made him an opponent of Jesus and a vicious persecutor of his disciples. He needed to learn to see differently. This condition is emphasized in Acts 9 by the blindness that afflicts Saul for three days following his unexpected meeting with Jesus. It is only when the disciple, Ananias, lays hands on him at Jesus' command, that Saul receives the Holy Spirit and regains his sight, which inspires him immediately to be baptized and embrace a different path. Peter's previous faithlessness and Paul's former violence against the followers of Jesus should remind us to remain open to the ever unfolding truth that God wishes to communicate to us, however frightening it might seem to be at first. The scariness of crucifixion and the threat posed by Jesus' followers to the status quo should encourage us, like Peter and Paul, to avoid reacting out of fear. Fear can be a very powerful force that leads us away from God. In moments when fear blinds us and encourages us to persecute like Saul, we must resist the urge toward violent acts and speech and rely on the hope offered by the risen Christ. If the Gospel really is good news, then we should respond as Peter and Paul ultimately did, and preach a message of good news that is gracious and seasoned with salt, as Colossians commends. With this in mind, I can think of no better way to end than to quote the collect for this feast of Paul's conversion:

"O God, who through the preaching of the blessed Apostle Saint Paul, hast caused the light of the Gospel to shine throughout the world : grant, we beseech thee; that we, having his wonderful conversion in remembrance, may show forth our thankfulness unto thee for the same, by following the holy doctrine which he taught. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who livest and reignest with Thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, ever one God, world without end. Amen."

Confession and Confession

2012-01-18T14:23:00.000-08:00

"Christ Handing the Keys to St. Peter,"
Pietro Perugino, 1481.

Those of you who read my blog with any regularity have probably noticed that I rely heavily on the Church's calendar for my reflections, while many of my blogger colleagues focus primarily on current events, social issues, politics, the media, or family life. This is not because I think these issues are trivial compared to observing St. So-and-So's feast, or because I lack imagination, am insufficiently activist, or am overly entangled in the institution of the Church. I would like to suggest rather that it is because the cyclical nature of the Church year brings me into regular contact with a vast witness of people with struggles, failures, and integrity that keeps me grounded as a Christian. In reading the stories of these flawed and yet faithful people, I often stumble upon some statement, image, or theological notion that is so compelling that it invites me to engage it in a very personal way. Today is no different. Today we observe the Confession of St. Peter the Apostle, which is also known as the Commemoration of the Chair of St. Peter at Rome. As I read the Divine Office this morning, I encountered that critical verse in the Gospel of Matthew that Catholic Christians regard as the basis for the Church's authority and divine sanction. Jesus declares, "And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven" (Matt. 16:18-19).

If one reads the two preceding verses, one discovers that this powerful statement is a response to a pivotal event: Simon Peter's profession of Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of the living God. This declaration, in fact, serves as Peter's answer to Our Lord's essential question, "But who do you say that I am?" (Matt. 16:15-16). The back-and-forth dialogue of this passage illustrates the fundamental mutuality embedded in the relationships fostered within the Church. It is a covenant in which the Church proclaims for all time that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God, a proclamation that requires something from us. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that this confession of faith is closely linked to another confession, the confession of sins. Many Anglicans--as well as many Roman Catholics--have little experience of the sacrament of confession, or reconciliation as it is sometimes called, perhaps conjuring up some old-fashioned black-and-white image from the 1950s that would seem to have little relevance to life in the twenty-first century. "After all," I have heard some friends argue, "we have a general confession and absolution in the mass. Doesn't that do the same thing?"

The confessional where I go to monthly
confession, whether I need it or not.

Well, my answer is "yes" and "no." I would not argue that the priest's absolution in the mass is less effectual than in auricular (private) confession. But I would say that my experience of each is different. A couple of years ago, I had several conversations about my spiritual formation with an elderly priest, who told me that I should get a confessor, which I did. It was literally a life-changing move for me. The sacrament stirred something deep within me when I named for this priest the specific sins I had committed, engaged in conversation about them, received moral guidance, received absolution, and then performed the penance he assigned me. The penance was usually to recite a particular psalm, and I was struck by how relevant the content of that psalm was to the issues weighing on my conscience--so much so, that I often returned to that psalm in the weeks that followed. My very seasoned confessor apparently knew exactly what I needed to reflect upon. I was equally struck by his advice, not only because it was so helpful and insightful, but mainly because it was usually not what I would have expected. I know that there are many people who are nervous about revealing the most closely guarded secrets of their hearts to a priest, for fear of being judged harshly, but as I have been repeatedly reminded, we come to confession for forgiveness, not condemnation. And if that doesn't make you feel better, it is also likely true, as I have been told, that there are few sins a person can reveal that an experienced priest has not heard before or been guilty of himself or herself. Indeed, Peter was subject to many lapses of faith, fidelity, and courage, so who better to absolve us than one who has been where we are many times? It is absolution from the position of the priest's own humility, not moral superiority. That is what it means for Peter, or the priest, to loose on earth and in heaven. Those keys are a way back to the covenantal relationships that we violate and from which we stray from time to time. To be anonymous and forgiven in the mass is one experience, and to be known in all one's complexity in the confessional and be forgiven, is yet another. I would invite those who have not done so to venture into the confessional to risk the encounter with a confessor and oneself and learn how far the Messiah's forgiveness goes.

The World through the Eyes of My Dog

2012-01-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

A noble countenance.

Since adopting Becket this past spring, I have learned that dogs have an extraordinary ability to expand human beings' worldview beyond the narrow field of vision we usually inhabit. This may sound like a rather grandiose claim, but people with dogs will get what I'm talking about. What interests and concerns them is often quite different from the things that captivate humans. I had one of these grounding moments of clarity yesterday morning, while Becket and I were out for a walk and he was dragging me frantically down the block toward one of his favorite trees. I said to him--yes, I talk to my dog like he were a person--"I don't know, Becket. I think it's a little too early for the squirrels to be out." Well, he was going to check that tree anyway. After all, this is where he was used to seeing them. In the last several months, taking walks has become a major part of my life, one that has forced me to focus my attention in different ways. Before Becket, I never gave any thought to where the squirrels were or when they came out to forage for food, and I certainly never cared if one crossed my path. But when I see one now, Becket and I chase it as if this moment were the most important event of earthly existence. Barreling down the sidewalk at full speed, we chase it up some tree and skulk below vigilantly waiting for it to come down. Some of my neighbors who witness me running and laughing may think me insane or undignified, but I can tell that many find it amusing and delightful. To be quite honest, it's fun. Running with Becket is refreshing and enlivening, because it gives me permission to play and be silly in ways that I haven't done since I was a child.

At St. Joseph, Michigan with the pup.

Now, let me just say that I am not turning into one of those people who become obsessed with their pets. But I am grateful that Becket has forced me to see differently. His eye-level is not my eye-level, so I am learning to shift my eyes downward to where he lives most of his life, as well as far upward to the treetops where the squirrels are. This has helped me to notice things to which I had previously been oblivious, or at least, neglectful: the beauty of the trees and sky, the vibrant life of birds and squirrels, and the hazards of broken glass and garbage on the pavement. I realize that as I write this, my reflection has a kind of saccharine and childish quality to it. As an academician, theologian, and soon-to-be cleric, this is not writing that I am used to. But, then again, I am noticing that I need a bit of a break from all the seriousness to appreciate simple things, which are no less important than the matters and concerns that usually dominate my thoughts and actions. Unfortunately, we adults often unlearn how to appreciate simple joys and to play extravagantly as if nobody were watching. Becket acts as a corrective influence, forcing me several times a day to stop the serious work I'm doing to play fetch with him in the hallway of our apartment building--he especially likes squeaky tennis balls--whether I like it or not. Becket is quite vocal in pointing out that it is not all about me.

Becket having a good therapeutic romp in the grass.

In all this frivolity of squirrels and running and playing fetch, there is a serious theological opportunity. I know that this undercuts my argument for less seriousness, but it is actually a rather simple message. My walks with Becket provide sobering reminders that the human point-of-view is not the only one in Creation. One of the great sins of human existence is the anthropocentric arrogance that we often adopt with respect to the rest of the created order. The notion of humanity's stewardship of Creation, often practiced as domination and exploitation, is indeed supported by the Book of Genesis and other texts, but it is not the only Biblical perspective on Creation. The psalms, for example, offer a different account of who speaks and acts and responds to God's promptings. Psalm 104, in particular, portrays Creation as being active and responsive to God: "You make springs gush forth in the valleys; / they flow between the hills, / giving drink to every wild animal; / the wild asses quench their thirst./ By the streams the birds of the air have their habitation; / they sing among the branches./ From your lofty abode you water the mountains; / the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work" (Ps. 104:10-13). The canticle, The Song of the Three Young Men, moreover, exhorts the natural world to praise and exalt God forever, including the mountains and hills, waters and streams, and the animal kingdom. "Glorify the Lord, O beasts of the wild, and all you flocks and herds," it declares (Book of Common Prayer 1979, 89). It is a simple message that acts as a corrective for strip mining, ozone depletion, and overlogging the rainforest. It calls us into relationship with other creatures and forces us to consider perspectives other than our own. I could pontificate further on this point, but Becket is urgently thrusting his nose into my face, reminding me that it's time to go outside for a walk.

Unveiled Faces

2012-01-05T19:57:00.000-08:00

This week has been full of predictions about, or at least musings on, the future: New Year's resolutions, the new Anglican Ordinariate, winners and losers in the Iowa Caucus, Mayan prophecies for the end of the world, and so on. I too have been reflecting, in my own self-involved way, on how different 2012 will be, although I admit that most of my time has been spent slogging through this week's General Ordination Exams, planning my ordination to the transitional diaconate, engaging movers, and trying to decide on paint colors for the curate's flat in the S. Clement's rectory. In my free moments, though, I have been compelled by the overwhelming mystery of this new year that will bring so much change for me. This mystery inspires both excitement and raw terror. And it is probably no coincidence that I am writing about this experience on the Feast of the Epiphany, when we contemplate the manifestations of Christ's divinity.

It must have been terrifying and upending to realize that this human Jesus was also divine, and that because of this revelation, life would never be the same again. When one's eyes are opened to such a profound truth, one is forced to live in a different way, to take risks, to relinquish control, and to let the mystery unfold. One hopes that everything will turn out alright, that one will do the right things at the right moments, but the outcomes remain unknown. Perhaps what the Epiphany is encouraging us to do is to muster the courage to trust that God will help us to live in this new way. Just as we are bidden to see Jesus in a new and enhanced light, God calls us to see ourselves and each other in this new and enhanced light. It may mean letting go of places of safety and comfort, but it may also mean that God is leading us into new places that will be even more nourishing and life-giving. To stay forever in the same place is to halt the fundamental dynamic of living and, well, imitate death. 2 Corinthians declares that "all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit." We can only trust that God knows something we don't, and that we will remain ourselves even as we are challenged, stretched, and changed.

Eavesdropping on the El Tracks

2011-12-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday afternoon, I was standing on the Belmont El platform waiting for a brown line train to arrive, huddled in a small heated nook of the platform with about half a dozen other people. The cold wind whipped mercilessly across the platform and cut through the shivering crowd as we tried to retreat further into our scarves and coats. We seemed to be waiting rather a long time, so I eventually noticed that a young woman behind me was talking quite loudly on her cell phone. Considering how tightly we were packed into this small space, it was impossible not to eavesdrop, and I unintentionally began to attend breathlessly to her conversation. The brief snippets I heard behind me didn't give me much to go on, but I knew it was about religion, and the tone was not positive. "Well, I used to go to church, because I was raised Catholic," she announced, "but it was . . . I don't know . . . like fake." I waited for the next damning line. "Uh huh. People seemed so hypocritical . . . uh huh . . . but yeah, they were totally fake. But she goes there, and so I told her . . . " I have no idea who the "she" was, but as a churchy person, I instinctively rallied to this unnamed woman's side against the naysayers. Then the conversation took on a surprisingly theological tone. "The Dalai Lama was reincarnated, but Jesus died and came back to life." This was quite a chat, and I almost wanted to turn around and ask the young woman what her friend was saying so I could get the full play-by-play. But I didn't. I faced the other direction and kept my big mouth shut.

It was a fascinating conversation, at least the little of it that I heard while waiting under the heat lamp. I wonder what this woman would have thought, though, if I had told her that I was waiting for a train to take me to church to watch a colleague get ordained to the priesthood. I'm sure it would have been an instructive chat, and I would have welcomed an opportunity to talk about this church experience that she so indicted with the word fake. It's an indictment that I take seriously and to which I am very sympathetic. I have visited several congregations, for example, that have described themselves as friendly and hospitable, and yet nobody from these churches said one word to me or even gave me a nod of recognition while I was there. I was invisible. It is too bad that this young woman and many others view the church as fake, hypocritical, judgmental, elitist, and a host of other attributes that conflict with the understanding of koinonia, Christian community experienced as communion or participation.

Photo courtesy of Sue Cromer.

When I arrived at the ordination at All Saint's Episcopal Church, the feeling was the complete opposite of what the young woman had described. Here was church that was authentic, instead of fake. In retrospect, I wonder if I should have invited her to come with me--although she was clearly on her way somewhere else--to offer her a different vision of this Christianity that had so failed her. Perhaps she would have nodded her head when the preacher talked about the many ways Christians are called to look the hurts and needs of the world in the face and respond through active ministry. Citing the prayer for the feast of St. Nicholas whom we were commemorating that day, she would have heard the preacher emphasize that the Church's mission is to "work for the happiness of children, the safety of sailors, the relief of the poor, and the help of those tossed by tempests of doubt or grief." At communion, she would no doubt have been stunned to watch the deacon pop the corks off of bottles of champagne and empty their contents into the chalice as a sign of the celebratory hope and joy embodied in the life of the Church. And someone would have certainly welcomed her and asked her her name. What would she have thought? Would it have made a difference?

I have always said that theology begins at the front door, which is why I am usually to be found before mass on Sunday on the front steps greeting people as they enter. But I am aware that this is profoundly inadequate. No one is ever going to revise his or her experience of the Church as fake or hypocritical if we never bring this alternative vision of welcome, joy, celebration, and sincere compassion to the El platforms and other public places, where we encounter people who wouldn't dream of darkening the doorways of our churches. That is why I am so grateful to those Christians who provide a visible witness of their faith as a force of justice, mercy, and peace in places where others would not expect to see it, such as in administering ashes to commuters on the El tracks and downtown plazas on Ash Wednesday. Surely we can engage in more moments like this. I am not suggesting, of course, that every congregation start popping bottles of champagne, but rather to embody, in their own authentic ways, the spirit of new life that can come with belonging in the Church.

Patrons and Companions: An All Saints' Sermon for Seminarians

2011-11-02T11:26:00.000-07:00

St. Nicholas was the churchthat I attended when I first came to Christianity in 2004, and it attracted alot of wounded people. We seemed to be abeacon for people dying of cancer, recovering alcoholics, gays and lesbians,and especially, disaffected Roman Catholics, who made up the majority of thecongregation. In many ways, ourspirituality was very traditional and very Catholic for an Episcopal Church,including a shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary and veneration of thesaints. This latter devotion was soprofound that the walls of the church were filled, absolutely crammed, withicons of the holy ones who had gone before us. Among them were familiar faces: the 4 evangelists, the 12 apostles, MaryMagdalene, Benedict, Francis, and Dominic. But they also depicted more contemporary luminaries, such as HarveyMilk, Dorothy Day, Martin Luther King, and Mahatma Gandhi. Over the course of my years at St. Nick, wegradually developed a vision of saintliness that took on a less rarifiedquality and assumed dimensions that were far earthier.

Yet the Feast of All Saints, whichoccurs today (November 1^st), still invokes for many people images ofdistant, mystical figures etched in stained glass that walked stoically towardgruesome martyrdom, or practiced extreme asceticism, or foundedmonasteries. Some saints undoubtedly didthese things, but this traditional characterization is a bit of a stereotype,and I would like to suggest a more expansive understanding of what makes aperson saintly, and hence, worthy of veneration and emulation by futuregenerations of the faithful. It was thisunderstanding that led us on one All Saints' Day to intersperse pictures ofevery member of the congregation among the icons of the saints to indicate thefellowship of ordinary people in the work of making the world holy. Now, I realize that most of you belong todenominations that do not have a history of intensive devotion to thesaints. So, in my reflections thismorning, I would like to do three things: first of all, to explain a little bitabout the history of this feast, then unpack some of the key themes in theScripture readings appointed for this day, and finally conclude with somethoughts about the role I think the saints can play in shaping our understandingof our vocation as seminarians, and ultimately, as ministers of the Church,whether as ordained or lay leaders.

The Pantheon, Rome

A feast to commemorate allthe saints began in the eastern Church in the 4th century, and was originallyrestricted to martyrs, to those who had suffered death for the sake of thefaith. In the first few centuries, thedate for the feast moved around considerably and varied by geography. The Feast of All Martyrs initially occurredon the first Sunday after Pentecost in the Western Church and Greece; but in Syria, it was held on the Friday after Easter. In the 7th century, Pope Boniface IV moved itagain when he transformed the pagan temple of the Pantheon in Rome into a church, and according to a contemporaryaccount, filled it with relics of the martyrs that supposedly filled 28 wagons. Since the dedication of the building as achurch occurred on May 13, 610, that day was fixed for its perpetual observance. It is suggested, however, that the difficultyof obtaining food in the spring for the floods of pilgrims who descended enmasse into the city for the feast caused Pope Gregory IV to transfer the feastonce again to its current date of November 1st, when the fallharvest would have made food more plentiful in the city. It was only at this point in the 9th century that the pope extended the observance to all of the saints. Now, I offer you this brief historical note notjust to provide you with some background information, but also to underscorethe widespread and enduring popularity of the feast with the Christian faithfulover the centuries and down to our own day. There is something in this commemoration that resonates strongly withthe understanding of Christian vocation as an endeavor that is done in community,and in communion with generations past, present, and future.

It is a powerful idea, and itis the vision presented to us in our reading from the Revelation of John, whichdeclares that “there was a great multitude that no one could count, from everynation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.” These great crowds of people are assembledwith all the company of heaven to offer God praise and worship. We are toldthat they are accorded this place of honor in heaven, because “these are theywho have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and madethem white in the blood of the Lamb.” This description clearly articulates two key features of the early yearsof the Christian community, the eschatological expectation of Jesus’s imminent return, and theomnipresent threat of persecution and martyrdom for the faith. The Jesus these saints encounter in the imageof the Lamb is one who responds with love and compassion to their suffering andsacrifice, relieving them from hunger, thirst, scorching heat, and offering themcomfort. In this beatific vision,Revelation assures us that “God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

The second reading from theFirst Letter of John expresses hope for this beatific vision, which has yet tobe revealed. In this moment of revelation,the faithful will see God as God actually is in heaven, but in the meantime, the saintsmust remain patient and steadfast in the faith in the midst of this waiting,this expectation, of Christ’s imminent arrival in the parousia. The author of the epistle affirms that “allwho have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.” This leaves us with the question of what suchpurification looks like or entails. Isit self-mortification by scourging, or fasting, or penance, or some otherpenitential discipline?

A preliminary answer to thisquestion may be found in the Beatitudes in Matthew, which is the Gospel readingappointed for today. To experiencepurification then is to be poor in spirit, to mourn, to be meek, to hunger andthirst for righteousness, to be merciful, to be pure in heart, to make peace,to be persecuted for righteousness sake, and to suffer persecution on Jesus’saccount. In other words, to be pure asJesus is pure is, first, to embody the justice and mercy that I would argue arepart of the essence of God, and second, to be willing to risk and endure theworldly consequences of this way of living. Faithfulness to godliness, to holiness, to the beatific vision ofrevelation is to suffer persecution in the here-and-now. It might smack some of you as cold comfortfor the evangelist to end the Beatitudes with the words, “Rejoice and be glad,for your reward is great in heaven,” with the prospect of so much humansuffering before us. I imagine it mayhave appeared so to many of the first saints when they heard it, as well. And we as Chicago Theological Seminary students, have become hyper-aware of the ways the promise of bliss inthe afterlife can be a dodge, a cop out, for ending human suffering andoppression here on earth. So, what arewe to do?

St. Mother Théodore Guérin

A couple of days ago I ranacross an article by James Martin in the most recent issue of the Catholicweekly, America, which examines the pitfalls of the two ways Roman Catholicshave traditionally understood their relationship to the saints. The saint as patron often suffers from amoral idealization that fails to honor the ways in which the holy man or womandisplayed gritty human foibles, defied and ran afoul of the institutionalchurch, and messed things up as all humans generally do. The saint as companion, on the other hand, suffers from the oppositetendency, to focus so narrowly on the earthly life of the holy person that hisor her saintly qualities become obscured. The trick, Martin says, is to steer a course between these twoextremes. “A healthier (and more accurate)model,” he says, “is to see the saint as both patron and companion: the manifestly human being whose earthly life shows thatbeing a saint means being who you are, but who now enjoys life in heaven andintercedes for us.” Martin then gives usa couple of very colorful examples of women saints who resisted theseextremes. St. Mother Theodore Guérin, themost recent American saint, fought incessantly with her bishop, who attemptedto have her ejected as the superior of the religious community she founded,because he did not like the fact that a woman was successfully buildingconvents all over his diocese. The nunswere so defiant in supporting Mother Guérin that the bishop, in an act ofdesperation, actually locked her in his house, until the Vatican stepped in and had him replaced. On the other end of the spectrum is St.Bernadette Soubirous, the saint who first received visions from Our Lady in Lourdes. It may soundwacky in this day and age to believe in miraculous visions and healingseffected by the prayers of saints, but then again, numerous are the accounts ofhealings for which scientific and medical professionals can give no otherexplanation. Besides if we believe thatJesus raised Lazarus from the dead, and we ask our family and friends to prayfor us here on earth, why not St. Bernadette, or Grandma in heaven? God is God after all, and having created theentire universe, why could God not receive the prayers of a saint on behalf ofa person with cancer?


Jesus preaches the Beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount

So, with these two paradigmsof sainthood before us, how are we as seminarians to purify ourselves as Christis pure, and yet still honor our full humanity? I would suggest, for a start, that we make our peace with the notionthat our lives may be beset by more suffering and sacrifice than otherpeople. If we are called to be ministersof the Church, we are called to work with the saints to bring the beatificvision of John’s Revelation into being here on earth by pursuing the justiceand mercy that Jesus commends to us in the Beatitudes. Such a prophetic commitment will require thatwe risk more than many of those outside the Church, and that we accept therepercussions of defying worldly powers and vanities that seek to keep thestatus quo firmly in place. A secondstep might be to model Martin’s middle course of being who we are and intercedingfor others through the prayers of our lips, our hands, and our feet. We must not be merely icons on the walls, buticons in the world. Yet if we are to beicons in the world, there must be something conspicuously holy, and at timeseven counter-cultural, about how we live our lives, while still holding on tothe earthy ordinariness of our common experience as human beings. Being both a patron and a companion is theway we purify ourselves to resemble the purity of Jesus, in whom divinity andhumanity were fully united and expressed. This is what the saints, as the Church has traditionally understoodthem, have sought to model for the rest of us that we might emulate in our ownbodies and contexts their struggles to resemble Jesus.

In one of his own sermons forthis day, the Venerable Bede said, “Only in this short and scanty life is therewrestling and working, but the crown and the prize endureth for a life which iseternal. The work is soon over, but thewage is paid forever.” But this is hardwork, for which we need the prayers of this great cloud of witness, to sustainand assist us in this transformation within ourselves and within theworld. So, I would like to conclude byinviting you to join me in the prayer appointed for the Feast of All Saints:

AlmightyGod, you have knit together your elect in one communion and fellowship in themystical body of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord: Give us grace so to followyour blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to thoseineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you; throughJesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, oneGod, in glory everlasting. Amen.

10 M-arks of Anglo-Catholicism

2011-10-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

Last week, I spent four days at the Society of Catholic Priests' annual meeting in Detroit, during which we explored the future of Anglo-Catholicism in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada. We attended educational workshops, prayed the daily office together, celebrated mass, and engaged in joyful fellowship and collegiality. But mostly we shared with each other what it meant for us to be Anglo-Catholics, and from these conversations, it became clear that Anglo-Catholicism is a diverse movement that embraces a wide range of local contexts, cultures, and concerns. I was delighted by this rich variety, as well as by the markers of our faith that we held in common.

At one point during a discussion, a seasoned priest playfully invoked a well-known list of attributes of Anglo-Catholicism, all of them beginning with the letter 'M'. My friends and I then had a good deal of fun brainstorming to expand the list and reflect seriously on what it means to be an Anglo-Catholic, both historically and in the twenty-first century. The following 10 markers is hardly a definitive or rigid description of Anglo-Catholic identity, but it's a starting point, and I encourage others to add to it. I should also offer the caveat that some of these may not be limited to Anglo-Catholic piety and practice, but may indeed apply to other congregations and sensibilities.

1. Matins- The Daily (or Divine) Office provides the anchoring rhythm of the Anglo-Catholic prayer life, whether it is practiced according to the Book of Common Prayer, the Anglican Breviary, the Roman Catholic Liturgy of the Hours, or another devotional book. Morning Prayer was formerly known among Anglican Catholics as Matins, which is the earliest morning office in communities that still practice the old monastic offices. I myself adhere to the daily offices of the Anglican Breviary, saying Lauds, Sext, Vespers, and Compline, supplemented by the Angelus and the Rosary.

2. Mary - The devotion to Our Lady recognizes the pivotal and unique role the mother of Jesus played in God's plan of salvation for humanity. The Angelus and the Rosary are a concrete recognition of the primacy of the Mother of God among the saints who intercede for us with the Father, our Creator.

3. Mass - The mass is the central act of worship in which we continually plead the sacrifice of Christ, who offered himself as both priest and victim, on our behalf to the Father. In the mass, we also offer a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving for our redemption, that renewed through the Body and Blood of Christ, we are sent bearing God's healing and love into a broken world.

4. Monstrance - Eucharistic adoration, particularly Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, has long been associated with Anglo-Catholic devotion as a recognition that Jesus is truly present to us in the Sacrament of the altar. It is a response of gratitude to the extravagant generosity and selflessness of Jesus.

5. Maniple - Lest we forget, the Oxford Movement that brought about a Catholic revival of Anglicanism in the nineteenth century ultimately restored many of the outward signs of the Catholic sacramental life, including eucharistic vestments, such as the chasuble and maniple, a short strip of cloth worn on the celebrating priest's left forearm.

6. Mea culpa - In an age that expresses discomfort around the concept of sin, stepping into a confessional may seem antiquated. However, Anglo-Catholic piety embraces the Sacrament of Reconciliation (or Penance) as a way to restore ourselves to right relationship with God and each other. Repentance requires contrition, confession, penance, and amendment of life, and although there is a general confession and absolution in the mass, there is no substitute for the deep soul-searching and admission of specific sins that happen through auricular or private confession with a priest. I can say without exaggeration that monthly private confession has fundamentally changed my life.

7. Miter - Anglo-Catholics have always regarded bishops as of the very essence of the Church, even when these same bishops have opposed Anglo-Catholic worship and devotions. Bishops ensure the continuation of the sacraments of the New Covenant, and as the successors to the apostles, they preserve Church order, teaching, and authority from one generation to another.

8. Melisma - This is just a fancy word to indicate that a composer has set a long series of notes to a single syllable of a word in a musical work. The Anglo-Catholic musical tradition, through luminaries such as John Mason Neale, has been characterized by lush and extravagant music, including hymnody, Gregorian chant, and classical settings of the mass, among other forms. A rich musical setting is an appropriate accompaniment to the mass, which lifts us humans into the heavenly places where we participate with the angels and archangels in the worship of God.

9. Monasteries - One of the magnificent achievements of Anglo-Catholicism has been the restoration of religious and monastic communities to Anglicanism, which has deepened Anglican spirituality and service in response to the needs of the world.

10. Mission - Stereotypes of Anglo-Catholicism often omit the great commitment of the movement to service among the poor and the spreading of the Gospel into new places. Anglo-Catholic priests were known far and wide for their ministry among the poor in the urban slums of the industrial cities of Britain and America. Anglo-Catholic bishops, moreover, were responsible for much of the evangelism that occurred as the nation expanded westward. It is for this reason that the Midwestern United States has been known as the Biretta Belt.

Ending this reflection on mission is an intentional reminder that everything we do in the Church calls us into mission in the world. I would argue that a faithful living out of Catholic identity requires an embodied commitment to not just worship and prayer, but also to movements of peace and justice in compassion and solidarity with the oppressed, the poor, and the marginalized. That, too, is a mark of true catholicity.

The Public Role of Religion after 9/11

2011-09-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

The press this week has been abuzz regarding the role of religion in the public sector, and evangelicals in particular have been perturbed for being left out of some of the events marking the ten-year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. New York Mayor, Michael Bloomberg, for example, has been accused of treating the United States as if it were a secular state, and Washington National Cathedral was criticized for having no evangelicals scheduled to speak before the venue was moved to the Washington Hebrew Congregation. I am not here to contradict or to endorse evangelical claims on this issue, but merely to indicate that this event has underscored Americans' fundamental uncertainty about the role that religion is supposed to play in public life. During the heyday of American Christianity in the 1950s and 1960s, no one would have contested how religious institutions were supposed to engage in the public sphere. They were unapologetically front and center.

Evangelicals are certainly correct that the United States has become increasingly secularized, especially when compared to the 1950s. The current pluralist ethos, moreover, has broken the monopoly that mainline Protestantism had enjoyed for so long, even though evangelical Protestants have worked hard to fill the void and can claim some noteworthy successes in the 1980s and thereafter. The critical question this leaves us with is: What do churches have to offer a grieving nation that nobody else can provide? Religion's loss of prominence in the public sphere means that our churches have to earn what was once taken for granted as an entitlement. I must thank Fr. Dave Hedges for pointing me to the photograph at right of a solemn high mass among the urban rubble of World War II. It poignantly declares the need for the Church to be present as a locus of stability and strength in the midst of chaos and destruction. The altar in the image stands as a sign of Christ's victory over death, of his affirmation of peace over war. This is a message that still has resonance within American society, even in its most secularized incarnation. The flood of people that sought refuge in our churches during the harrowing trauma and carnage of 9/11 proves that religion still functions as it always has in life's most critical moments. May we envision this anniversary of our national tragedy as an opportunity to do what religion does best, to offer a place of stability and strength where grieving people can encounter the hope and promise of Christ's resurrection.

Struggling with Traditional Language in Postmodernity

2011-09-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

Recently at a seminarians' retreat, a colleague asked me how I could stomach the traditional language of thees and thous in worship and private prayer, what in the Episcopal Church we call Rite I. She was respectful, but challenging, both from the perspective of Elizabethan English's relevance to contemporary spirituality and to its sometimes outmoded or objectionable theological and anthropological content. No one talks like that anymore, and surely words like "heathen" and "Gentiles", which she had encountered in the historic Coverdale Psalter, perpetuate an othering that is demeaning and highly offensive. I saw her point, and even sympathized. In fact, I come from and currently serve in parishes that use contemporary English for everything, except perhaps for the Lord's Prayer, so that when I began to say my Daily Office using the traditional language of the Anglican Breviary, I had not only to adjust to a plethora of words ending in -eth that still tend to make me tongue-tied, but also to engage content, including exclusively male language for God, that chafed against my inclusive and liberative ethos.

Rabbi Fish and I at my bar mitzvah when I was 13.

So, how do I defend the use of traditional language in this day and age? Well, first of all, as I said to my seminarian friend, every kind of language has its strengths and its limitations. It depends on what we privilege. For example, I grew up in a synagogue that belonged to the Conservative branch of Judaism, in which worship was conducted almost entirely, except for the sermon, in biblical Hebrew, rather than in the English vernacular of the worshippers. Because my synagogue had a very strong connection to tradition, using the tongue of their ancestors--which is different from modern Hebrew--reinforced the worshippers' sense of rootedness in the eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, and their spiritual, ethnic, and linguistic kinship with the patriarchs, matriarchs, prophets, and other figures of the Hebrew Bible. So, biblical Hebrew served as a mark of continuity with the identity of their forebears, and among a people that has repeatedly suffered exile, diaspora, pogroms, and refugee status, fostering continuity among generations is a critical religious priority. Language is only one tool among many in this effort. But this Hebrew is not the modern language spoken in Israel; it is a purely liturgical language, just as ecclesiastical Latin is within the Roman Catholic Church, among other contemporary examples. I would contend that Elizabethan English, like these languages, is set aside for a special, distinctive purpose and is distinguished by its function from the everyday language we use for everything else. It connects us to our earlier Anglican roots, allowing us to affirm continuity with the generations of English-speaking Christians who came before us.

A schema for French registers of language

But even this contention, that we use our vernacular uniformly for everything else, is spurious. When I was studying French at the University of Caen in France, we Americans were especially targeted for our failure to recognize what the French call niveaux and registres de langue, levels and registers of language, which are strictly enforced in French society and its educational institutions. Sparing you the exhaustive detail, common French is divided into intellectual, middle, and popular levels, each of which can be adjusted according to the situation, as the figure at the right illustrates, into familiar, very familiar, and vulgar on one side, and polished and very polished on the other. My basic point here is that the kind of vocabulary, sentence structure, and other linguistic patterns we employ vary depending on the context and setting. Writing, in general, tends to be more formal than speaking. With our friends, we use a great deal of slang that we would never think of employing at work. In academic and professional settings, many people use technical jargon specific to their disciplines that would be out of place in ordinary conversation. Newspapers and journalists limit to varying degrees (think of the difference between People magazine and the New York Times) the educational level of the language they use in order to be accessible to a wide reading public. So, even what we describe as "contemporary English" is not uniform.

Now, of course, all this techno-babble does not provide adequate justification for language that people experience at oppressive or offensive. It is simply meant to demonstrate that language is extremely diverse and fluid, even among forms we think of as fixed. When I encounter a word like "heathen", for example, in the Coverdale Psalter, I consciously remind myself of the context (historical period, place, cultural outlook and attitudes, social context, etc.) in which the translation was rendered and look upon it as a dated interpretation that I take into account as I recite the verses. In some instances, I cut the language some slack and recognize it for what it is: a limitation. In others, I replace the word with a more palatable translation, such as "peoples" or "nations", which I regard as a more faithful translation within my own historical context. Since language is adaptable to context, I do not feel bound, particularly in private devotions, to accept everything as is or to let it get in the way. Above all, I try to remain focused on what a particular language makes possible theologically and spiritually. Unlike the New Revised Standard Version translation, the Coverdale Psalter may indeed contain some objectionable language, but it is also sublimely poetic and lyrical, evocative of a particular time and place in our history as Anglican Christians, and allows us to affirm a connection to our roots that really reinforces the communion of the saints, the great cloud of witnesses that came before us and join their ongoing prayers with ours in the great liturgy of Heaven.

Jesus' Extreme Makeover: An Alter Christus Indeed

2011-08-30T07:43:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, the Guardian newspaper came out with an article entitled, "A very muscular brand of Christianity: Why Jesus has undergone a macho makeover." I thank my friend, Ron Emrich, for passing this item on to me, because as a self-professed gym rat, I have always struggled with the notion of a pure and sanitized Jesus, stripped of every hint of grit, edge, and masculine hardness. So, to imagine Jesus as a buff biker dude with tattooed guns restores a certain authenticity in my mind to the Word made flesh. If Jesus were to appear among us today, he might very well look quite unlike some of the traditional depictions of the Savior that we are used to: the doe-eyed, airbrushed Good Shepherd of our illustrated Bibles, or the icon vested in the magnificent robes of Christ the King or Jesus Christ the Great High Priest. The graphic and unsettling embodiedness of the crucified Jesus is suggested in artist Stephen Sawyer's evocative images, such as the one above. This is not to say that I have any problem with the traditional images of Jesus; in fact, I cherish them, and the walls of my study are adorned with Orthodox icons of Christ Pantokrator, Christ the Great High Priest, and the Madonna and Child.

But above my computer for many years has hung a picture of a man's back tattoo of the Crucifixion. This picture has served as a reminder that the the Christian faith would not be what it is without the raw, enfleshed suffering of the Crucifixion by which humanity was saved from sin and restored to right relationship with God. I was deeply moved when I first saw this picture, for I perceived that to carve an image of this event in one's own flesh is to share in the suffering of Jesus' own passion. It is to proclaim Christ crucified, died, and risen. As one who has endured the intense pain of the tattooing process several times, I can tell you without any hint of melodrama that I have never experienced so poignantly or personally the physical suffering of Christ as when I'm getting inked. In fact, the pain was so blinding during my first tattoo that I spent the two-and-a-half hours in the chair reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary through clenched teeth. Later on, I also discovered a certain resonance between this experience and the Shewings of the medieval mystic, Blessed Julian of Norwich, who described in rather gory detail her sharing of our Lord's physical and spiritual suffering through a series of visions. Julian's accounts seem gratuitously bloody and even pathologically masochistic to modern sensibilities, but there is something in them that truthfully expresses the depth of the connection between Our Lord's passion and human suffering. Suffering and sacrifice is a raw truth of human existence.

To be sure, I did not get ink because I relish suffering, but because I wanted some way to publicly and indelibly declare my commitment to becoming a priest, so I got a Celtic cross on my right arm when the bishop made me a postulant and a dove of the Holy Spirit on my left arm when I entered seminary. As a believer in the sacrificial nature of the priesthood, I never wanted to forget that my vocation was supposed to cost me something, that the priesthood was a difficult life and identity to take upon oneself. As odd as it may sound, the painful process of the inking had something sacramental about it, making the sacrificial commitment truly enfleshed, not just abstract. The pain-memory of the tattooing has followed me as a reminder of my commitment throughout the formation process in seminary, during the search for a call, in the radical reordering of my life. I know that, especially for some of my traditionalist friends, the idea of having a tattooed priest, may lead you out of your comfort zone, and that's OK.

But if the Catholic understanding of priesthood is true, as I believe it is, that at ordination the priest becomes an alter Christus, another Christ, then we may need to expand our understanding of what a priest looks and acts like. Instead of only being icons of airbrushed holiness, priests (and I would argue all the baptized) should also embrace the grittier and more embodied dimensions of our personhood that may not cohere with a narrow vision of pure and sanitized sanctity in a cassock and chasuble. I am not suggesting replacing one image or persona for another, but rather the healthy and authentic integration of identities that honors the fullness of who we are and who Christ was and is. I have so admired friends and colleagues that have modeled for me the authentic both/and approach over the traditional either/or paradigm. They are both gay AND Christian, priest AND marathon runner, traditional AND progressive, morally holy AND prophetically embodied. For us to be an alter Christus is to honor both Christ the Great High Priest and the biker dude with the tats. The Gospels very clearly illustrate the many ways Jesus rubbed against the grain of the respectable establishment and power structures of his day by challenging social norms and consorting with the disreputable biker dudes and edgy folks on the margins. So, personally, I dig this new Jesus with the tats. I think Sawyer got something right, but I still like my Orthodox icons and my cassock.

I don't wanna mess up my hair!

2011-08-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

This week, my friend, Dr. Regina Benjamin, the U. S. Surgeon General, attended the Bonner Bros. International Hair Show, to promote exercise as part of a healthy lifestyle, particularly among African American women. When asked why she attended the event, she said,

"Actually it’s the perfect event. My priority as surgeon general is prevention. Everything that we do is to try to build a healthy and fit nation. What we find when talking particularly with African American women - I’m later finding this with other women, too - was that when we talk about exercise, we hear, 'I don’t want to sweat my hair back or I don’t want to mess up my hairstyle. It cost me too much to get my hair done this week.'”

What I love about Regina's comment is her perspicacity and creativity in approaching a critical barrier to human health and well-being, seeking obstacles and solutions in seemingly trivial places. Hair styles, really? You bet. I've heard the same excuse from priests who have resisted wearing a biretta during mass. "Well, I don't want to mess up my hair."

Regina's interview, which can be seen on CNN Health here, points to a number of practical barriers to doing things that are good for us, whether it's getting to the gym or going to church on Sunday morning. "We haven't been able to make it to church, because . . . fill in the blank (the kids have soccer practice, it's my only day to sleep in, we have a family thing, we're renovating the downstairs bathroom)." I'm not trivializing these reasons/excuses/explanations, but simply suggesting that we should find ways of working around these other demands to make time to nourish and nurture our souls. Is the condition of our spiritual health really less important than soccer practice or the downstairs bathroom? Regina explains that she works out at night, so that if her hair gets messed up, it's no big deal, since she's at home for the rest of the evening anyway. Or you could get a lower maintenance hairstyle like mine, so that neither the gym, nor a biretta, nor hurricane force winds could mess it up.

Besides, there is a great deal of overlap between these different areas of our lives; they all have an impact on each other. When I was working in health care policy, we always promoted the holistic model of human well-being, encompassing the full spectrum of biopsychosocial health, and to this I would add spiritual health, as well. Shouldn't we be looking after our complete selves, without sacrificing any integral component? As a matter of fact, Regina insightfully points out that the hairdresser is the perfect place to talk about health issues, since people will talk about anything with their stylist. "When you’re sitting in the chair," she notes, "it’s a good place to have conversations about sensitive issues, public health issues… about getting HIV testing - everyone should get tested - things like diabetes and heart disease, strokes and getting your blood pressure checked." It's true. People talk to their hairdressers about everything. And on the flip side, I have hairdressers that confide all sorts of things to me, too, particularly when they know I'm training to be a priest. So, the next time I go and sit in the chair, maybe I should ask my stylist what he is doing on Sunday morning . . . or at least invite him to the gym for a workout.

A Jewish son's playful reflection on the Assumption of Mary

2011-08-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

It has always seemed odd to me that so many people struggle with the doctrine of the Virgin Mary's assumption into heaven. "This event has no basis in Holy Scripture," they say, as if that statement somehow settles the argument. Scripture, it is true, is a primary source of Christian belief and teaching, but it is not the only one. As a Jewish son myself, I can hardly imagine a faith where Mother Mary is left down here below. That just doesn't make sense to me. I must say with a certain amount of both seriousness and impishness that the stereotypical closeness between Jewish mothers and their sons has a bedrock foundation of truth that cannot be overlooked or dismissed, despite the supposed lacunae of Holy Scripture.

Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has noted that the unity of doctrine is articulated through analogy, which is essential, for example, to integrating the salvific narrative of the Old Testament with that of the New Testament. Our reliance on analogy helps us to see even in our own stories, our own lived experience, the Christian faith and witness in new forms, and yet preserve Christianity as something distinct and identifiable. Williams explains that "'Is it the same God?' is a question not to be answered apart from the question, 'Is it the same hope? or 'Is it the same pattern of holy life?'" (Williams, On Christian Theology, 24) Through this analogical approach, we can perceive whether these potential glimpses of truth are consistent with the underlying story of salvation that God is trying to reveal to us. The doctrine of the Assumption is an excellent example of this process. "To explore the continuities of Christian patterns of holiness," he says, "is to explore the effect of Jesus, living, dying, and rising; and it is inevitable that the tradition about Jesus is re-read and re-worked so that it will make sense of these lived patterns as they evolve" (Williams, 25).

So, as I read the Scriptural accounts of Jesus' relationship with his mother, I draw analogically upon my own experience as a Jewish son, and declare unequivocally, "Well, of course, he brought his mother into heaven. What kind of son would he be if he didn't!" Needless to say, this intuition is not limited to Jewish sons, and even without this cultural background, I think I could get what the doctrine is about. It is about the relationship between mother and son, and the mother's role in the story of human salvation. For example, the wedding feast at Cana in the second chapter of the Gospel of John reminds me of my own Jewish mother's guidance about hospitality and good manners. I smile as I think about Mary chiding Jesus, "The wine has run out. I thought I raised you better than that? Hop to it, Jesus--and you servants, do what he tells you." Jesus at first balks petulantly about his time not having come yet, BUT he complies with Mary's wish and turns the jars of water into wine. Some might consider this Jewish mother a little domineering perhaps, but the nagging is all for the good, and Mary discharges her responsibilities admirably. Her ascension into heaven is but an affirmation of her integral role in the story of Jesus' salvation of humanity. To bear (and raise) the son of God is no small vocation, and it certainly would require a formidable woman to pull it off. No wimps here.

As the old joke goes, "all Jewish mothers think their sons walk on water, but in Mary's case, it just so happened to be true." My mother has always articulated great pride in me. I have her to thank for the solid character-building that I received growing up and that has made me the good person I am today. And goodness knows, I sometimes I lapse into bad manners or thoughtlessness or fail in my filial duties, so I am grateful that my mother still calls me to account. If Mary is anything like the other awesome Jewish mothers I've known, for Jesus to leave Mary down on earth would no doubt result in some pretty harsh and justified rebukes: "You don't call. You don't write. This is the thanks I get for carrying you in my womb for 9 months? After all the sacrifices I've made for you . . . you'd think you'd be a little more grateful." Well, all joking aside, she'd be absolutely right; so despite Holy Scripture's silence on the subject, let's give Mary the place of honor in heaven that she so clearly deserves. After all, would we do any less for our mothers?

Abraham at Mamre: Church Websites offer only one chance to make a good first impression

2011-08-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

As a member of Generation X, which is still considered relatively young for churchgoing folk, I have occasionally provided some consulting to churches on the development of their Websites, particularly poor, rural, and small congregations. Now, I am by no means an expert in Web design, programming, or online marketing; in fact, my technical skills are woefully out of date. I am sensitive, though, to the importance of having a Website that allows a congregation to put its best foot forward with a very discerning public. Regrettably, I have all too often seen churches undercut their best efforts at growth and vitality by producing a site that looks like it was last updated in 1999. Animated gifs are a no-no. Pages that are "under construction" or "coming soon!" are an abomination. Splash pages are sacrilegious to the sensibilities of current users. In fact, such features are likely to discourage a visitor from visiting either your Website or your church.

The most heinous sin, however, is a home page that bears as its visual centerpiece a picture of the parish's building. I find it odd that members of a church would think that a pic of an empty building would be a big draw for people who are looking for a new congregation. Since joining a church involves at its core forming intimate relationships and integrating into the life of a community, wouldn't it make more sense to showcase pictures of people interacting? When people are looking for a new church home, the questions they are asking themselves as they gaze upon a Website are: "Does this feel like a place where I will fit in? Are there people here like me? Is this a community where I will be nourished and supported?" Obviously, it's pretty hard to answer these questions with a picture of a vacant nave or sterile exterior.

The good news is that more and more folks are becoming wise to this, and are focusing on illustrating relationships, rather than facilities, and I have been fortunate to worship in congregations where this has been the emphasis. A successful Website is foremost about offering hospitality and telling people about who we are as a community, before they even arrive on our doorstep. This is not to say that buildings are not important, but it is more compelling for prospective visitors to witness what the building makes possible instead of existing for its own sake. We need to answer the critical question: Who are the people inside the building, and what happens there? This morning I ran across an article by Jamie Stup on Business2Community, which did not explicitly address church Websites, but was useful in reminding me that a church's Website is the first public experience of a congregation, and so it should be very intentionally designed to make a clear statement of identity and relationship. Stup observes quite insightfully that "whether you realize it or not, you experience a subconscious reaction to the site before you have even read one bit of content. You have a first impression based on the overall look and feel of the site," and this includes, he explains, not only pictures, but even layout, navigation and color.

With this in mind, I have always thought of church Websites as mechanisms for "outreach," rather than "inreach," since people who already belong to our churches are likely getting information on what's going on from other sources than the Website. People who do not yet belong, on the other hand, are going to experience in an instant by every detail of the Website whether they are going to be welcomed. If it's clearly set up for those who are already initiates, rather than people on the outside, then people will rightly assume that they are viewed as outsiders. A Website that articulates that we are going out of our way to reach people where they are and that we are trying to make it easy for them to learn about who we believe ourselves to be says that they are truly wanted. Hospitality even in a Web environment does not place the burden of effort on the other, but on us. It is hardly hospitable to state even implicitly that we expect the stranger to do all the work and to meet OUR expectations for belonging.

All of this reflecting about Websites reminded me of the story in the book of Genesis, chapter 18 about Abraham's hospitality to three strangers. The story opens with the statement that "the Lord appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground" (Gen 18:1-2). Abraham does not know he is greeting God (or his messengers, as it is often read), but is simply observing the custom of the land that required extravagant hospitality to be offered to the stranger and the traveler. Abraham offers to bring water to wash their sore and dusty feet, invites them to rest under a neighboring tree, and then asks his wife, Sarah, to bake cakes, while he and his servant slaughter and prepare a calf for the meal. They fall over themselves to welcome and nourish the hot and exhausted strangers in a way that obligates us, I believe, to practice hospitality extravagantly on our Websites. The reward for Abraham's and Sarah's hospitality is a renewed relationship with God that results in the birth of a son to the barren Sarah and fulfillment of God's promise to Abraham that He will make him the father of many nations, including the Israelites.

The story of Abraham and Sarah at Mamre invites us to attend to every detail of Web-based hospitality that will make what we offer more about the needs of the visitor, rather than our own preferences, needs, and concerns. This focus might well involve minimizing "church speak" that only we as the current initiates will understand, cutting pictures of empty church buildings that we regard as the apex of architectural prowess but will be meaningless to the stranger, and offering navigation and information that will favor the outsider over the insider. It is not easy to shift from our understanding of the church Website as something that is "OURS" to an understanding of it as a gift that we offer to others. But how else are we going to convince people we do not yet know that the welcome they will receive when they meet us face-to-face will be worth the drive or subway ride or walk to our church?

Too many typos

2011-07-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

This morning's New York Times includes an opinion piece by Virginia Heffernan on "The Price of Typos" in book and online publishing, which is available here. She explains that the move to digital publishing has pushed editors in the big publishing houses to abandon the scores of copyeditors and proofreaders that they used to employ to ensure orthographic perfection. Heffernan notes that, although online mistakes can be corrected within a matter of seconds, even minor spelling errors can lead to a huge decline in online revenue, inferior ranking in Google and other search engines, and the loss of respect among discerning advertisers, consumers, bibliophiles, and others that have come to expect the professional polish that used to characterize the publishing industry.

I couldn't agree more with Heffernan's call for a more attentive attitude toward spelling (and I would add, grammar), whether online or on paper. Maybe it's my training as a word nerd that has made me so intolerant of poor orthography. I have both a bachelor's and a master's degree in French language and literatures (yes, literatures plural), and I have often felt that if I have to sort out the quagmire of words that end in -ence and -ance in both languages, it certainly cannot be too much to ask other Anglophones to just get it right in English. In fact, I used to despair when correcting undergraduate papers or reviewing resumes from prospective employees that were simply awash in spelling atrocities. These mistakes communicated to me that the author was too sloppy, too careless, or insufficiently professional to get it right. My partner, who is a terrible speller, thinks I'm just being overly punctilious and fussy. He often says that on the issue of spelling, I'm just like Hermione Granger in Harry Potter, whom Professor Snape calls "an insufferable know-it-all". He's probably right.

Yet I would argue that poor spelling is hardly a trivial matter, because it is symptomatic of a much larger problem in our fast-paced, disposable, consumerist culture. I often feel that in the postmodern era we care more about cranking out any old garbage as quickly as possible, than about producing a high-quality product by exerting a little extra effort to apply a professional polish to our work. To give things the attentive care they deserve is a reflection of our values, of our very selves. It shows that we care; it shows that we believe that what we have produced has value. Of course, spelling is but the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Consumerist carelessness can also be perceived in the paucity of correspondents who still send hand-written thank-you notes for a gift, a lovely evening in someone's home, or a thoughtful visit during a hospitalization. I have also encountered it in the inability of a person to remember my name, even though I've met him or her several times. I don't buy the argument of the naysayers in Heffernan's article that claim that spelling errors display one's humanity, making the author seem more accessible and down-to-earth. How many of us feel an individual is more accessible when he forgets our name for the eighth time?

Now, before I am condemned for being too harsh, I must confess that I am as susceptible to the same foibles as everyone else, not usually in spelling, but certainly for other sins, especially remembering the countless names of people I meet through my work in the Church (about which I feel quite guilty) and in neglecting the niceties that make living in human society an edifying experience. Heffernan's article reminded me that contemporary culture can be a nasty business, making living more about the expeditious production and consumption of goods and services, than about the quality of our relationships, our efforts, and our creative potential. So, to the poor spellers out there, let's begin by putting just a little more effort into spelling things right. Dust off that thick bound volume on your shelf called a dictionary, particularly if you don't feel confident in your computer's spell-check. If you're just not sure, ask a nit-picky friend to cast an eye over your work. And as for the preceding rant, if you find any nistakes, just send them to the pubilsher.

War and Peace

2011-07-10T13:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, after years of civil war, bloody disputes over oil fields, and sectarian enmity between Christians and Muslims, the Republic of South Sudan became a sovereign nation. This should certainly be news for rejoicing, to see peace emerge in a decisive way in one of the most violent regions of the globe. More locally, in the last several weeks, the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago in which I live has been shaken by a wave of violence and mob action that has generated much fear and racially charged invective.

These two events have preoccupied my thinking, making me wonder how to move forward toward peace in an atmosphere of such rancor and mistrust. In both the Sudanese and American situations, violence has constellated as it always does around the central question of power: who has it and who doesn't. Control over the rich oil fields of Abyei has been a critical (and still unresolved) sticking point in the struggle between north and south in Sudan. In Lakeview, we have seen fear bring to the surface unresolved issues of race and economics that pit white and black Americans against each other.

I am not, of course, going to offer a tidy, simplistic solution to the complex dynamics of either situation. I am convinced, however, that peace is the product of a long, painful and sacrificial process that requires us to attend to the undergirding issues of power that drive violence. It is very easy to caricature and "other" those on the opposite side of the issue, whether Arab or black, Muslim or Christian, gay or straight, black or white, wealthy or poor. To resort, for example, to racial or ethnic stereotypes is to ignore the deeper systems of oppression that drive American society. To talk about religion without talking about oil or history or ethnicity is to oversimplify the Sudanese situation. Expanding the discussion does not mean a denial of the violence that is being committed, or exoneration of those committing it--far from it--but doing justice to the complexity of human society.

Peace cannot emerge from violence by merely skimming the surface of the issues at play in conflict. Peace requires a commitment to going deeply into the intricate network of drivers and systems that undergird violence. And, lest I be accused of Pollyannaish optimism, I admit that in doing such work, one may well discover that there are some for whom violence, chaos, and retribution serve their self-interest. These people may want no part in establishing peace. That is a sad reality. But despite such obstacles, it is only through both sides working in solidarity with each other, through painful perseverance and listening to difficult truths, that peace can be achieved. Today is indeed a day of celebration for The Republic of South Sudan, but it would be naive to regard peace as a fixed state. It must be an ongoing commitment, ongoing labor. There is no doubt much work ahead for the South Sudanese, as it is for us in Lakeview.

As we live into this difficult work may we ground our vision for the future in the words of St. Paul's Letter to the Philippians: "And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Lord Jesus, guard our hearts and minds, that your peace may prevail in South Sudan, in Lakeview, in all the broken corners of the world.

Apprentice priests: abide in the essentials

2011-07-06T20:24:00.000-07:00

I just arrived home this evening after attending a beautiful service at St. James Cathedral, Chicago to receive a Roman Catholic priest into the clergy of the Episcopal Church, what might in Roman parlance be called "incardination." As I approach my own ordination and first call as a priest, I think about how I have been prepared for the priesthood and the many gaps in my formation that will affect how well I practice my vocation.

Many may not know that I have spent the last four years as a member of our diocesan Congregational Development Commission, which has been an incredible formation experience, schooling me in a wide range of models for congregational growth and vitality. It has also brought me into contact with congregations and clergy that have struggled to survive under some very trying circumstances, many not of their own making. Although we in the Episcopal Church continually stress the ministry of all the baptized, I have witnessed congregations rise and fall on the strengths and weaknesses of the priests that lead them. That is a terribly unsettling thought: that a congregation's future depends so much on my abilities, my gifts, my pathologies. To have that kind of responsibility is unnerving, to say the least.

Lack of financial and administrative skills in a priest can bring a parish to the brink of disaster, but I have also met priests, who are excellent bureaucrats that lack pastoral sensitivity and spiritual depth. Unfortunately, seminaries don't teach us everything we need to know. They can teach us Greek and biblical exegesis, Church history and liturgy, and yet nearly every day I encounter some skill set or ability that I know would make me a better priest: Web development skills, training in accounting and marketing, community organizing, Jungian analysis, new spiritual disciplines and devotions, and the list goes on and on. The range is mind-boggling. So, how is a new priest to wrangle with this unending litany of demands?

In some ways, seminary education has missed the mark. "Why is it," I would often muse, "that seminary doesn't teach me what I want to know?" Recently I have been thinking that the old apprenticeship model of priestly formation has a lot to recommend it. As Seminarian-in-Residence at the Church of the Atonement in Chicago, I have been blessed to be surrounded by about a dozen priests, many of whom are retired, who have offered me insights on saying mass or transferring a feast or hearing confession or doing a funeral that I would never have learned in seminary even if I had thought to ask. And there was a time, moreover, when a priest's first curacy was designed to give him--at that time, it was always a him--indispensable on-the-job training to fill in the gaps left by the seminary. Comments from fellow seminarians have helped me to appreciate that few people nowadays receive this good old-fashioned apprenticeship. Last Sunday in the sacristy, a seasoned priest, Fr. Dunkerley, said to me with great passion that he was so glad that I would learn to celebrate the old Tridentine Mass in my first curacy, because it had shaped his entire spirituality and priesthood forever. Needless to say, I was surprised and awed by this statement.

And I was deeply grateful. How wonderful it is to sense one's own inadequacy for the challenges of the priesthood in this day and age and then be surrounded by mentoring priests who are willing to support the apprentice with their collective wisdom and experience. I realized that as much as the world calls us to develop new skills and stretch ourselves, we must be grounded in something solid. As usual, I had been making things too complicated, and my mentors guided me back to what was important: saying the Daily Office, going to Confession, attending early morning masses, proclaiming the Word of God, theological study, and listening empathetically to peoples' stories of joy and anguish. These are among the anchors of our faith.

One particularly powerful moment of my apprenticeship emerged on a cold January day at Seabury-Western Theological Seminary. After listening to one of my rather fervid rants about some theological fine point that was distressing me, my Anglican theology professor, Fr. McMichael, looked at me bemused and said simply, "Ethan, abide in the essentials." I was stunned by the pure simplicity of it, and yet it made sense and brought me so much comfort. I heaved a great sigh of relief. Stressing myself out by doing too much and never getting caught up with everything on my to-do list had caused me to lose sight of what was really important. Faithfulness, not perfection, as a priest. "Ethan, abide in the essentials," he said. Here endeth the Lesson.

A candle before the limitless ocean of God

2011-07-01T20:57:00.000-07:00

"We can know God in the same way a man can see a limitless ocean when he is standing by the shore with a candle during the night. Do you think he can see very much? Nothing much, scarcely anything. And yet, he can see the water well, he knows that in front of him is the ocean, and that this ocean is enormous and that he cannot contain it all in his gaze. So it is with our knowledge of God." -St. Symeon the New Theologian.

I stumbled upon this quote from St. Symeon the New Theologian recently while reading a book on contemplative prayer, and I was instantly struck by the Byzantine mystic's great humility before the immensity and elusiveness of God. (I should marginally note, however, that despite his appellation of "new," Symeon lived from AD 949 to 1022, which makes him rather old to those of us in the Western Church, and yet relatively recent within the Greek Orthodox theological tradition.)

In any event, Symeon's words cut me to the quick during a period when I encountered a lot of polarizing language from several quarters about orthodox belief, right doctrine, and base heresy. It issued from the mouths of Catholics and Protestants, conservatives and liberals, women and men. I heard it in the pulpit, saw it on Facebook, and witnessed it in casual moments in the sacristy. And I blush to admit that I even had my own moments of theological rigidity. Mea culpa. There was much invective about who was right and who was wrong, and I noticed that rather than bringing people together, this language alienated fellow brothers and sisters in Christ. More than the content of the claims, it was the meanspiritedness with which some of these denunciations and differences of opinion were delivered that disturbed and saddened me.

Now, I consider myself to hold quite orthodox beliefs--the Trinity, the divinity of Jesus, bodily resurrection from the dead, the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist--and yet I must still acknowledge that doctrine is but an imperfect human description of God's reality. We often treat doctrine as if it were empirically provable according to modern standards of scientific evidence, rather than as a signpost that points to a mystery we explore through stumbling and groping in the dark. Symeon rightly describes our limited human faculties as a candle flickering weakly before the immense mystery of God.

I am not, of course, suggesting that our inability to comprehend the fullness of God through doctrine should lead us to discard what the Church teaches. Doctrine is an important starting place for discovery, and it reflects centuries of the Church's collective wisdom and insight that merits preservation. That great Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey, described the traditions of the Church, including doctrine, as the "divine paradosis--which is the Greek word for something that has been 'handed over' or 'passed on.'" Ramsey explains the value of our theological patrimony in the opening pages of The Anglican Spirit:

For when we Christians speak of tradition, we mean the experience of the Christian community lying authentically within that which God through Christ has handed over for the revelation of himself and the salvation of men and women everywhere.

Ramsey is pointing to the truth--not the fact--embedded in tradition, and yet recognizing that paradosis involves authentically engaging with something that is beyond our full understanding. I am cautioning us, therefore, to model Symeon's posture of humility in both the experience of and speaking about God. Those that assert with such confidence that they know exactly what God is about and treat with contempt those that differ in their religious convictions are falling short of God's call to humility and erring dangerously into idolatry by constructing God in man's image, rather than the other way around.

In the midst of this divisive talk, a very wise priest and friend stepped into the fray and gently counseled those who labeled themselves as "faithful Catholics" (being one himself) to be faithful by practicing another Catholic virtue, generosity, to acknowledge that others might have a piece of this truth of God that they did not possess. Perhaps their candles before the immensity of God reveals some detail that has escaped us. Generosity and humility cohere well with the Church's notion of its catholicity or universality. To be generous, without being rigid or supercilious, can be helpful in engaging with people at various places along the theological spectrum. One may be a faithful Catholic, or a faithful Protestant, or a faithful evangelical, or whatever, by acknowledging our own limitations before the limitless ocean. Generosity brings us closer to realizing the four marks of the Church, what we call the esse or essence of the Church: one, holy, catholic, and apostolic.