And the Word was Made Flesh, A Christmas Homily

“And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.”  So, declares today’s reading from the Gospel of John, which usually ends every mass.  The challenge with this statement, and with today’s readings, generally, is that it is so philosophical and abstract.  Today’s lections are dense, doctrinal statements that would make even seasoned theologians’ heads swim, so how do we process these biblical passages in a way that is useful and practical for us as Christians?

Well, I’d like to begin with faces.  I’m remembering the face of an elderly man, named Kenny, who I visited often while he was dying of lymphoma.  My mother once said to me, “Ethan, I don’t know how you can stand being in the hospital, where there is so much disease and death.  Don’t you find it depressing?” “Well, Mom,” I said, “I often find it overwhelming, but not depressing, because one of the most deeply meaningful things I have ever done is to help Kenny die, and to die well.” As I held Kenny’s hand and looked into his face while the priest anointed him and administered last rites, I knew that Jesus was really present in that hospital room.

I am remembering the face of a homeless man at the Church of the Epiphany in Washington DC, who sat next to me during an early morning Eucharist.  Although he was initially embarrassed for being dirty and shabbily dressed, he accepted my outstretched hand during the intercessions and we prayed together hand in hand.  I can still picture his smiling face, and I knew Jesus was really present in that pew.

I am remembering the face of a young transgender woman as we talked while waiting in line for the restroom at this year’s Outfest.  She revealed that she had been hurt and damaged by religion, and yet she was eager to let me know that St. Clement’s presence gave her hope in religion.  She gave me a big hug as we parted and I knew that Jesus was really present in that embrace.

Theology is important and necessary, but when it is only an abstraction, a principle, it fails to reflect the fullness of God’s divine mystery.  God is more than a concept. God took on the fragility, the grittiness, and the flesh of humanity as a way of redeeming us from sin and death.  And he came into this world in the very same way we did, as a vulnerable baby, dependent upon the care and nurturing of others.  But in the cherubic face of this squirming infant, is the face of God himself, full of the inexplicable mystery of the Creator, as well as of the eternal Word of God that gave order to the Universe.  This Word has now become flesh, bringing God’s justice and mercy, God’s peace and love, into a broken world.  God has given a human face to the Logos that was and is and is to come.

One of the reasons that the Incarnation has been such an important event to Christians, and especially to Anglicans, is that the Word become flesh did not simply appear as a flash of light for an instant and then dissipate into the darkness.  John declares “in him was life, and the life was the light of men: and the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.”  The Word lived and moved among us, experiencing the joys and tribulations of brittle human existence, just as we do, interacting with Creation in a way that challenged and transformed it forever.  The Word gave light and shape to the void in the beginning of Creation, and when it became enfleshed in Jesus, this Word gave light to a world overrun by the darkness of sin, cruelty, and hatred.  And the light of Christ, of the Word Incarnate, illumines us still.

The challenge of the Incarnation, however, is that it goads us into seeing things in a new way.  It is not simply recognition of the familiar, but a re-cognition of it that demonstrates that the familiar is actually quite different than we imagined.  It calls into question “so-called” truths that we take for granted.  Few people could detect God in the small babe in the manger, and few could detect God in Jesus the social critic, Jesus the rabble-rouser, Jesus the miraculous healer.  And few could recognize God in Jesus the criminal nailed upon the hard wood of the cross.  And yet, God was really present, really embodied, in all of these Jesuses.  In so many ways, we are all Pharisees and Herods and Pilates unable to see in a face anything but what we’re accustomed to seeing. The same old same old.

But Christmas is about seeing in this baby and seeing in all human faces a deeper truth that has been unrecognizable before.  It is about seeing the divine imprint in the face of a dying cancer patient, in the face of a homeless man, in the face of a young transgender woman, and even in the face of our enemies.  The Gospel of John observes that “He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not.”  The world could not see Jesus for what he was, and could not accept the truth that he had to share.  How often in our own world we refuse to see the reflection of God’s presence in those sitting next to us.  That great Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey, said that “the Incarnation, with both cross and resurrection as its climax, is the divine self-giving, enabling men and women, through the now-indwelling Spirit to give themselves back to God in lives that are really a recreation of human nature in Christ.”

The Incarnation is therefore not just a renewed or expanding understanding of who God is and how God works, but it is also a call to live in a way, that we can more resemble the face of Jesus through our own self-giving.  This means learning to see beyond the surface of age, race, gender, and sexuality, embracing both those who have a roof over their heads and those who are homeless, giving equal dignity to those who are working and those who are currently unemployed, and joining hands with those you don’t like very much or identify with or understand.  As God has given himself to us in the flesh of Jesus, so we are to give ourselves back to him in our own flesh, in our hands and feet and faces in the world.   In our ordinary daily living, you and me.

But, more importantly, it is in our living as the body of Christ, as a community of believers, that Jesus will continue to be really present in the world, that the world will know him and receive him.  Merry Christmas, my brothers and sisters.

Today's World is Coming to an End

There has been much talk lately about the end of the world.  We have known for a while that the Mayan calendar runs out this Friday, December 21st.  The Gospel reading for the second Sunday in Advent, moreover, enumerates the various events of violence, destruction and suffering that will signal the coming of Jesus, ending on the verse, "Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away" (Luke 21:33).  I'm pretty certain that I will wake up on Saturday morning to find that the Mayans simply ran out of room on their calendar, and life will go on.  But in the wake of the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, I don't know that I can accept Jesus' words as signaling a better age to come that will replace the one in which we are currently living.  I imagine that life will go on much as it has for a while, and this concerns me deeply.

Crucifixion, Anthony van Dyk, 1622.

The trouble is that we are headed for destruction, and yet we seem surprised by the signs of this trajectory.  We are told in the Gospel of Mark, that "the Pharisees came and began to argue with Jesus, asking him for a sign from heaven to test him.  And he sighed deeply in his spirit and said, "Why does this generation ask for a sign?  Truly I tell you, no sign will be given to this generation" (Mark 8:11-12).  I suspect that an exasperated Jesus threw up his hands and said, "Good grief, how many more signs do you guys need!"  Besides, there is no point in giving signs to people who don't heed them and act in accordance with the truth and wisdom they convey.  Why tell folks the truth if they're not going to change their ways?  Fair enough, Jesus.  John the Baptist, too, told people to repent and to prepare the way of the Lord.  Some did, no doubt, but many--probably most--did not.  Hence, Jesus' sacrifice to redeem a wayward and sinful humanity.  If the image of our blessed Lord's broken body on the Cross doesn't offer a potent enough sign of the broken state of the world, I don't know what else can.

Grieving parents of Sandy Hook massacre.

But the signs are abundant.  Global warming, the melting of polar ice, and climate change demonstrate the way we have been slowly, gradually, bringing about the end of the world.  The ease of obtaining guns in this country in the absence of adequate and sensible legislation that exists in other nations, such as the United Kingdom, is wiping out a generation of our children through gang violence and events like the Sandy Hook massacre.  The absence of affordable and accessible mental health services through mental health carveouts by insurance companies means that psychological and emotional problems will often be neglected and unaddressed.  In fact, after working in health care policy for 11 years, I can't help wondering if Columbine, Virginia Tech, and Sandy Hook might have been prevented if those gunmen had been identified early and treated for mental illness. 

The point is that the end of the world is a situation of our making, through our action and inaction.  In that quintessentially apocalyptic book, the Revelation of John, the angel of the church in Sardis says, "‘I know your works; you have a name for being alive, but you are dead.  Wake up, and strengthen what remains and is at the point of death, for I have not found your works perfect in the sight of my God.  Remember then what you received and heard; obey it, and repent. If you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what hour I will come to you. [ ... ] Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches" (Rev. 3:1-4, 6).  The world that we know will end however we respond to the angel's exhortation, but it can be an ending that brings the finality of violence and death or one that inaugurates a future of peace and abundant life.

Advent Observance

I have often been accused, with some justification, of being insufficiently observant.  One afternoon many years ago, a good friend and I were browsing at a shoe store in a suburban mall.  After wandering about for a while, my friend said to me as we were walking out, "I wonder what all those cops were doing in there?"  "What cops?" I replied.  And then, my friend, incredulous, pointed to the 3 or 4 obviously uniformed police officers in the store.  "Hmm," I said casually, as if it were the most mundane scene in the world.  How I could have failed to notice something so noteworthy in such a small space remains a mystery to me.  But this morning, I experienced the exact opposite.  I seemed to be noticing everything in the smallest detail.  I was hyper-observant.

As I was saying Morning Prayer, for example, I became aware that I found the Sabon font in which the Book of Common Prayer is printed especially comforting and reassuring.  Perhaps it's like seeing the face of an old friend whose personality, laugh, and company you've enjoyed for years and years.  One instinctively smiles when it comes into view.  And then, as I was walking to physical therapy, I zeroed in on the many insignificant details that have become familiar to me on this oft-traveled route.  The fluttering of little birds around the bird-feeder in the St. Clement's garden. The smell of cigarette smoke outside a hotel on Cherry Street.  The banging of a hammer at that new construction site.  A drooping flower etched in the facade of a building facing the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.  The fetid billows of steam emerging from the manhole cover on 19th Street. The lines on the face of the man always hanging out in front of the Walgreens pharmacy asking for change. 

Taize service during Advent

Is any one of these things remarkable?  Probably not.  But I am cognizant that so much of life is a blur, and I am grateful for the moments--rare though they may be--when my senses seem to be heightened, and I am able to appreciate the richness of human experience.  Maybe there is something of the movement of the Holy Spirit in this, urging me to slow down and take in the details that form the substance of existence.  In Advent, we are encouraged to be reflective, contemplative, to attend to the basics of our faith and life, not just let them pass us by in one undifferentiated whirl of stimuli.  After a particularly over-scheduled week last week, I am relieved to have time to savor the details, the minutiae, and occasionally, the silence.  I am pretty certain, then, that one of my Advent lessons is to slow myself down, pause, and take life in--not only in my walking to appointments, running errands, and checking off the items on my task list, but also in my prayer life, by saying the daily office more slowly, meditating leisurely on each of the petitions in the Lord's Prayer, and calling to mind in prayer people I haven't thought about in ages.  The world will accelerate and thrust us along with it soon enough.  So, for now, my friends, slow down, pause, rest.

Put on the Armour of Light

"Creator of the stars of night" is one of my absolutely favorite Advent hymns, and as I rediscovered it at Evening Prayer this week, I remembered why.  Not only is it lovely poetry, the evocative imagery stimulating my imagination, but the theology is profound and powerful. There is a wonderful icon in my study that shows Jesus creating the stars, planets, and other celestial bodies, and when I first got it from a Serbian Orthodox monastery in Wisconsin, I thought, "what an odd image. It shows Jesus in the role of Creator of the Universe.  Surely that can't be right."  But, of course, it is.  It shows Jesus as the Divine Logos, the preexistent Word, that was with the Creator in the very beginning of it all.  If God is One, then Jesus participated in Creation, just as the Creator was with Jesus upon the hard wood of the Cross.  The season of Advent emphasizes the coming of God into human history, an act which sets us free from sin and provides us with a new beginning, a fresh start. So, not only was Jesus with Creation at the formation of the universe, but he continues to be with it throughout all time to rescue and preserve it, as the hymn declares : "Thou, grieving at the bitter cry / Of all creation doomed to die, / Didst come to save a ruined race / With healing gifts of heavenly grace." Eucharistic Prayer A says it well, too.  "When we had fallen into sin and become subject to evil and death, you, in your mercy sent Jesus Christ your only and eternal Son, to share our human nature, to live and die as one of us, to reconcile us to you, the God and Father of all."  I've heard those words countless times, but only now am I connecting them with the hymn, the icon, and so many other carriers of the Christian theological tradition.

After spending all summer and fall in the season of Trinity-tide, we now glide into Advent, where the same Trinitarian theology is present.  Advent does not anticipate the first coming of Christ in the form of this tiny baby, Jesus, in a manger; it acknowledges that Christ will be coming to us in a new way, in human flesh, "the Son of Man, yet Lord divine."  However, Christ was always there, the Divine Word was always already present with Creation, but God's love has visited us in great humility, taking on human form, as the Advent 1 collect says.  Even though Advent is not strictly speaking a penitential season, it is undoubtedly a contemplative one that calls us to conversion, to adopt a new way of living.  Advent encourages us to do some deep soul-searching, to take stock of our lives, and to commit to reforming ourselves, so that we may be more like Jesus.  Advent is one bookend of the story of human story of salvation, with the resurrection of Easter and the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost as the other, and so for this reason, our liturgical year is structured around these two seasons.  "All praise, eternal Son, to thee, / Whose advent sets thy people free."  If Jesus is coming to save a ruined race, then we must respond to that invitation to salvation with something active and concrete.  The collect exhorts us to "cast away the works of darkness" and to "put upon us the armour of light," which explains the inclusion of the theme of judgment in Advent theology.  If Jesus doesn't come to save us from ourselves, from sin and death, then what was the point of it all?  "To thee, O holy One, we pray, / Our judge in that tremendous day, / Preserve us, while we dwell below, / From every onslaught of the foe."

Might I suggest that we do a few extra things this Advent to evade the onslaughts of the foe?  By making more time for contemplative prayer or spiritual direction, or volunteering to feed the homeless, or visiting the homebound and lonely, or showing greater respect for the natural environment, or comforting those who find the holiday season a sad time.  That is how we prepare to receive Jesus, by putting on the armour of light, by renewed commitment to prayer, corporal works of mercy, and love for humanity and the rest of Creation.

Holding the Broken Pieces

Author Sara Miles

So, this week's blog post is a bit late, because I wanted to share with you some brief insights from the Episcopal Clergy Association of Pennsylvania clergy conference from which I have just returned.  I was asked to come to the conference to present a workshop yesterday afternoon (and also to repeat it this morning) on social media, which focused, not too surprisingly, on YouTube.  The workshops were well attended and received--and I had a great time doing them--but I was most uplifted by a series of talks by the keynote speaker, Sara Miles, from St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco.  Regrettably, I was not able to stay for the whole conference to hear all of her talks, but the session on healing prayer this morning was particularly moving, and I'd like to tell you why.

Blessing a prayer blanket in the summer of 2007.

When I first contemplated becoming an Episcopal priest, I attended a parish that attracted a lot of people who were hurting in one way or another. Some came to us, because they were dying from cancer; others were recovering alcoholics; and still others were lonely.  All of them had a need for some kind of healing.  Memories of these sisters and brothers flooded my mind as I listened to the presentation; and I found myself taking copious notes while Sara was speaking about what healing was and wasn't.  It's almost as if I had gone back to some very important roots in my vocation, roots to which I hadn't paid much attention in recent years.  Sara explained, for example, that healing does not promise a cure, or comfort, or an absence of pain.  In fact, Jesus is pretty clear in asking: do you want to get well if it's going to be painful? Or would you rather stay the same?  If you're going to be healed, it's probably gonna hurt.  After spending many weeks myself in physical therapy for my broken hand, you'll get no argument from me.  Healing hurts like hell sometimes.  Healing, Sarah argues, is essentially a mending of the woundedness of alienation, isolation, bitterness, resentment, fear and other existential voids.  Healing is a bringing of the person back into relationship with others, so that the broken and wounded pieces of himself or herself may be held and loved together with the whole and healthy bits.  And in healing others, we are healed ourselves; it is always a two-way street.   The three foundations of healing, Sara elaborated, are relationship, truth, and meaning, and none of these can be obtained on our own.  They aren't always experienced in this order, but they are always present at some point.

Holding hands during prayer - I'm on the far right :)

After the first half of her talk, we took a break, and then observed Sara and a few others demonstrate how healing prayer is done at St. Gregory's.  Finally, we gathered into circles of 4 or 5 people, joined hands, asked if there was someone within the group who wanted prayers for healing, and then took turns praying for the person.  We could then ask if he or she wanted to be anointed, and where the person would like to be touched with the holy oil.  The really interesting thing for me is that the moment I joined hands with others, I felt my body stiffen, my shoulders raise in anxiety, and my pulse quicken.  What was going on, I wondered?  I immediately realized, "oh, we just initiated intimacy, and I felt vulnerable. This is not what I'm used to in church."  Once I had acknowledged that, I was able to relax and be present to the prayers and the people with whom I was praying.  It not only proved Sara's point that healing happens reciprocally in relationship, but it also jolted me into a renewed awareness of the critical role of physical touch in healing and all sacramental activity.  The stiffness in my shoulders alerted me to the fact that we don't do nearly enough sacramental touching in the Church, and yet Jesus never hesitated to touch the diseased limb, the tongue that could not speak, or the eyes that could not see.  Perhaps we feel that the broken bits of ourselves and others are gross, unworthy of love, and need to be hidden, rather than be held and loved.  If I'm really honest, and I go back to those early roots of my vocation, then I have to confess that I, too, came to the church, because I was wounded and needed healing.  I sought a place to overcome anger, alienation, hurt, and fear.  I sought hands that could cradle my brokenness and bless it, consecrate it to God's use, and then pass the blessing on to others.

Praying for the Invisible

Present, and yet invisible.

"To the present hour we are hungry and thirsty, we are poorly clothed and beaten and homeless, and we grow weary from the work of our own hands. When reviled, we bless; when persecuted, we endure; when slandered, we speak kindly. We have become like the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things, to this very day. (1 Cor. 11-13).  St. Paul shares his own struggles as a follower of Jesus Christ to the fractious Corinthian community, but the reality of such daily suffering is not so foreign to our time, especially when we encounter scenes like the one in the photo to the left.  I stumbled upon this suffering man on the corner of 20th and Cherry Streets across from St. Clement's, as I walked back from physical therapy.  He was lying on top of a steaming manhole cover to stay warm, shaking and muttering.  It was a heartbreaking sight.

Absent, and yet, conspicuous.

Heartbreaking, in part, because we have become so accustomed to witnessing scenes like this and editing them out of our consciousness.  In fact, on the way from the train this morning, I passed a young homeless woman nursing her baby and, farther down on the same bridge, a elderly homeless man huddled against a wall sleeping.  Morning commuters rushed by on their way to work, seemingly unmoved.  Soon afterward, as I was saying Morning Prayer, I noticed that one of the psalms appointed for today affirmed that  "[The Lord] will look with favor on the prayer of the homeless; he will not despise their plea" (Ps. 102:17).  I am glad that at least God hears the prayers of the invisible suffering, because we other humans so often do not. 

When we pray for the homeless and other invisible, marginalized people, we usually pray for them in the abstract.  We do not see their individual faces; we do not speak their names during intercessions at mass or evensong; and we do not even know the content of their prayers that we might ask God for their fulfillment.  We fail to know them and pray for them as specific people, but merely as a group.  And we pass them by on the street without looking. "We have become like the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things, to this very day."  So, how are we to pray for the invisible, especially during this week of Thanksgiving? We often can't pray for our homeless sisters and brothers by name or face; but we can pray to God to make them more visible.  And we can help to fulfill this prayer by looking the homeless in the face, asking their names, and offering generosity when it is requested.  This may not be be enough, but it is at least an act of prayer that is personal, rather than perfunctory.

Generational Differences

Crying to one's bartender anime-style.

One of the things I like about being a priest is that people are eager to share stories and perspectives with me on religion and spirituality.  I guess it's kind of like how people tell their relationship woes to a bartender over a beer or a very old glass of scotch.  In both cases, it comes with the territory.  Today, I was sitting in my doctor's office for a checkup, and he was curious to know how my life was going as a priest in Philadelphia. Dr. B. is in his early 40s like me, but attends a Greek Orthodox church with his Greek wife, who is also a physician.  Every appointment begins with a well organized set of questions about the state of religion in this country, which he has clearly prepared beforehand in anticipation of my visit.  He and I both love a good intellectual tussle.  Too bad we only have a few minutes in the examination room, rather than a whole evening over beers or a very old glass of scotch.  What a privilege that would be.

Fr. Ethan looking playfully authoritarian.

I explained to Dr. B. that St. Clement's is growing and that I have been very gratified by the ministry I have been able to do there.  I confessed, however, that I have been disappointed by the intense social pressure against organized religion, particularly among younger generations of Americans.  At this point, Dr. B. perks up and declares that these generational differences are a serious barrier to getting people into church.  What's happening in mainline Churches, like the Episcopal Church, is also happening in the Greek Orthodox Church, he tells me.  "Can you believe," he thunders rhetorically, "that the priest in my church still refuses to give the sermon in English?" I am, of course, likewise, incredulous.  "And so younger generations of Orthodox, who don't speak Greek" he continues, "have stopped coming to church with their children, and now attendance has dwindled to my wife and me and a bunch of old ladies."  As an American, he also complained about the unwillingness of this priest to abandon a "Father-knows-best" leadership style in favor of a more collaborative, collegial, and consensus-based model more in keeping with the American democratic ethos. He was understandably very frustrated.

Norse storytelling in a Viking longhouse.

"So, how are you," he pointedly asks me, "going to reach out to younger generations of Americans who are down on religion, because they are taught that science is the only thing they can trust?"  "Well, funny you should ask that," I reply, "because one of the things I've been trying really hard to do is to overcome this generational barrier by talking about it openly online.  In fact, I just did two YouTube videos in that last month on this very issue."  Dr. B. was obviously pleased, but uncertain.  "But the problem is, " I clarified, "that people who are down on religion are often not given the tools or training to know how to process and make sense of the spiritual dimensions of human experience."  "Then, where do you begin?"  "By telling stories, stories of my own spiritual journey, and encouraging others to tell their stories. It's a lot more effective than spouting doctrine."  Now, I have to admit that this is a simplistic answer that ignores a lot of the nuance and complexity of the problem, but it's been a place for me to start.  I try to tell my stories, to be creative, and to reflect theologically in ways that might resonate with the lived experiences and perspectives of younger generations of spiritual seekers.  I try to do it with humor, occasionally with irreverence, but always seriously, which means that I have regrettably at times irritated or offended folks who would prefer a more polite and less prophetic kind of storytelling.  But stories are what they are; they are capsules of authentic human experience that need to be told.  I'm grateful that folks are sharing them around kitchen tables, at office water coolers, on the blogosphere, and in church.  Keep talking, everyone, and listen.

Back at the High Altar

This past week has been transformative for me, because after nearly two months since I broke my hand, I resumed my normal liturgical life at St. Clement's.  I have tried to take my injury in stride and count my blessings, but I confess that I have deeply missed serving as celebrant at the sung and solemn high masses on Sunday morning.  For years, I dreamed of censing the gifts on the altar, chanting the collects, and pronouncing the words of institution; so spending week after week just sitting in choir while Fr. Reid sung the masses has understandably made Sundays a little less joyful for me.  Don't get me wrong.  I've been very grateful that I have been able during my recovery to say low masses during the week and at 8 a.m. on Sunday.  But the experience just isn't the same as when I'm celebrating mass with all the bells and whistles.  So, yesterday was divine. For the first time in months, I was actually able to join my right index finger and thumb for the consecration of the host.  My finger was stiff and sore, but it felt very good.  I felt that, as a priest, I was once again fully myself. 

Server fellowship in the sacristy before mass. :)

It wasn't the only moment this week, however, that I had felt restored.  Getting the splint and bandages off my hand also meant that I could hold a thurible and serve as deacon of the mass.  I had missed serving as deacon, not only because I enjoy all that censing and singing, but also because sitting by myself in choir meant that I had missed out on all the camaraderie and bonding among the altar party that I was used to.  It was  truly wonderful to serve for the first time as deacon for the exuberant and easy-going Fr. Al Holland, who was the celebrant for the All Saints and All Souls solemn high masses.  The attendance on All Souls' Day was low as it always is--especially given that it was a Friday night after a hurricane!--but I didn't care.  Few of us in the altar party were familiar with the many idiosyncrasies of the All Souls' liturgy, so there was a great spirit of teamwork as we all learned together and tried to make it work, and I think it turned out pretty well. 

Fr. Holland setting the missal for All Souls' Day.

The best part of this week, though, has been the realization that the parish is growing stronger and happier as a result of the hard work, dedication, and enthusiasm of people in the parish.  Newcomers are showing up just about every Sunday and joining us afterward for coffee and conversation.  In one such conversation last week, a woman told me that as soon as she had walked into St. Clement's, she knew she had found her church.  She's now joining as a member.  Yesterday morning, I recruited a brand-new server; and our MC, Todd Grundy, began training one of the current servers, who is interested in doing more liturgically, to be subdeacon.  I'm always pleased to hear after high mass on Sunday that the weekly collection was good yet again.  It has been very rewarding for me to be part of this growth and vitality at St. Clement's, and to witness in concrete ways how the efforts of so many people are bearing fruit.  One person that doesn't get thanked enough, however, is our rector, Canon Gordon Reid, who set all of this work in motion and provided visionary leadership during a difficult transition.  I am especially grateful to him for the many ways he has been flexible and  accommodating of my injury during my stressful and painful rehabilitation.  I know that my broken hand has meant that we haven't been able to have solemn high masses very often, but Fr. Reid couldn't have been more gracious or supportive.  So, thanks to him and to the many others that have helped me out during the worst of the last couple of months.  It's nice to be back.

Theology of the Tempest

Hurricane Sandy photographed by satellite on October 25.

I'm sitting here barricaded in the St. Clement's rectory, waiting for Hurricane Sandy to hit the city and feeling much gratitude that this ramble of buildings will serve as a reliable bunker against the tempest.  Now, this may seem like an odd time to wax theological, but I'm always preoccupied by a natural event such as this, because in the aftermath, people raise difficult theological questions.  Natural disasters, such as hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunami, earthquakes, and forest fires, often precipitate crises of faith.  Suffering people quite understandably ask, "How could a just God allow so much destruction and loss of life?"  "Where was God in Hurricane Katrina?"  "Doesn't God care about us?"  These questions are troublesome, because they lead people to some really distressing conclusions. 
"If God has the power to intervene, but doesn't, then He must choose not to, because he doesn't care what happens to us." OR "If God doesn't intervene to save us, then maybe it's because he isn't all-powerful, in which case, God ceases to be God.  Or maybe he never existed in the first place."  Either way, it's pretty depressing.

So, how can natural disasters--or cancer or birth defects or any other natural cause of human suffering--be part of a divine plan constructed by a benevolent and loving Creator?  I confess that I don't have a tidy or uplifting answer, but perhaps a useful insight.  As a Christian and a theist, I accept as a foundational premise that God is all-powerful, and yet I also believe that God has granted to the created order the power to act, to create and to destroy.  Stars are born and die.  Planets, moons, and other interstellar bodies orbit, collide, and remake each other without God interfering.  Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and tsunamis reshape the face of the earth and the life that inhabits it.  Microorganisms, plants, animals, and humans engage in the procreation and propagation of their species.  God conferred on humanity, moreover, the special gifts of existential self-awareness and free will, which expand the scope of its agency within the created order.  If human beings have agency through free will, how might the rest of the natural world likewise exercise agency independently of their Creator?

Coconut palms sprouting in volcanic soil in Hawai'i.

Roman Catholic theologian, Elizabeth Johnson, has proven very useful to me in tackling this question.  In Quest for the Living God: Mapping Frontiers in the Theology of God (2007), Johnson points to the providential character of chance that God has embedded within the natural order.  The presence of random chance, she claims, allows the natural world to avoid the death of stasis and to evolve toward richer forms of existence, granting the universe some autonomy from the Almighty Creator.   I would argue then that chance accords to nature the independent agency that in humanity is made possible by free will.  In both cases, the divine imprint may be difficult to discern.  “Unpredictable upheavals might be destructive,” Johnson admits, “but they have the potential to lead to richer forms of order.  In the emergent evolutionary universe, we should not be surprised to find divine creativity hovering very close to turbulence.”   Chance and free will can equally lead to nurturing or destructive outcomes, but regardless of the moral valence we attribute to these results, we must conclude that autonomous agency is likely part of God’s divine plan for Creation.

Damage from the Indian Ocean tsunami, Dec. 26., 2004.

Now, this is not to say that God wants an Indonesian village to be swallowed up by a tsunami, or for a person to get cancer, or for a child to be born with a debilitating disease, or for people to be maimed, killed, and dispossessed of their homes and livelihoods.  This is not to say that bad things that happen to good people are fair, after all.  I believe that God suffers with us in adversity, that He does care when life is not fair.  But fair's got nothing to do with it.  What I am suggesting is that randomness and chance in nature may be part of God's plan, just as human free will is, and that in each case, the outcomes can be good or bad, life-giving or destructive.  God, though all-powerful, has given humanity and nature the autonomy to act for themselves, without interfering in the results.  I acknowledge that such a theory may not be comforting, or popular, or pastoral, but at least it gets us away from thinking that God doesn't exist, God doesn't care, or God is actively working against us.  What I have posited, of course, is not without its problems and weaknesses.  And there's another part of me that believes that God does intervene miraculously in human events in response to our prayers and cries.  So, we must continue to pray as the storm approaches.  Good Lord, deliver us. 

Praying is Not the Same as Saying Prayers

I've noticed that my prayer list has gotten much longer lately, so much so that I actually have to jot the names down on a slip of paper before I say mass and evening prayer.  Most of the people asking for my prayers have health issues.  My former sister-in-law, Amber, has been fighting ovarian cancer for three years; my friend, Luke, had major surgery last Friday on his Achilles tendon that will have him bedridden and in pain for weeks; my dear colleague, Mother Henry, underwent knee replacement surgery this morning; and my former co-worker in pediatrics, Eileen, is bravely facing the final days of her husband's battle with terminal cancer.  I try to remember each of these persons' names as I pray for their healing, release, or comfort.  Yet it's only now that I have really internalized Fr. Bob Orpen's incisive observation to me when I was a seminarian doing my Clinical Pastoral Education. "Praying," he said to me, "is not the same as saying prayers."  I sort of understood at the time what he meant, but now it has sunken in in a much deeper, embodied way.   Prayer, especially corporate prayer, can take on a rather perfunctory and formulaic character when it's done the same way often, so it's important that we make the effort to personalize these prayers and make them meaningful.  Prayers need to be more than mental notes; they need to stir the heart.

When I say that my praying has become more embodied, I'm not suggesting that I've started raising my hands charismatically in the air--not that there's anything wrong with that.  In fact, I really admire people so willing to share with others their experience of the urgings of the Holy Spirit within them.  What I mean is that this darn broken hand has blessed my prayer life in an unexpected way.  That's a strange statement, so let me describe my physical therapy appointment this morning to explain what I'm getting at.  When I walked in, I saw the same set of patients seated at the table where I get my fingers stretched and bent, my incisions cleaned, and my bandages changed.  We see each other struggling to move impaired parts of ourselves.  We frequently witness each other in pain.  It is a very intimate experience.  We often root for each other, share our excitement when something stiff finally moves, and empathize with each other when things hurt.  It's especially this last one that means the most, I think. In a very real sense, we pray for each other in these moments, taking within ourselves the physical pain and discomfort of our other sisters and brothers gathered around the table.  It is a very moving experience of embodied, human solidarity.

"Crushed by the Cross" by Adolfo Pérez Esquivel

As a Christian, this reminds me of one of the central concepts in Latin American liberation theology: the image of Jesus Christ as co-sufferer.  Jesus is not some distant and abstract figure sitting on a cloud indifferent to the sufferings of human beings, but shows great compassion for our pain and distress by taking them within himself, by empathizing and suffering alongside us.  It is a sign of the human Jesus' solidarity with humanity, the same solidarity that caused him to offer himself up on the Cross for our sake.  There is a holy thing going on at the physical therapy table when, like Jesus, we empathize with each others' pain and suffering.  Prayer is in part about reaching out with our hearts and bodies to those alongside us who hurt.  I feel a great convergence of authentic prayer as I travel repeatedly between the physical therapy table and the altar, calling upon God's power for the living and the dead, as I hope people in turn are calling upon God's power for my own healing and well-being.  This broken hand has certainly been inconvenient and painful, but I am grateful that it has taught me something vital about deepening my prayer life.  The Lord be with you.  Let us pray . .  . not just say our prayers.

A Response to Bruce Reyes-Chow on Social Media Use by Clergy

A few days ago, progressive Christian blogger, Bruce Reyes-Chow, published "An Open Letter to Pastors About the Dangers of Using Social Media," highlighting some of the pitfalls he believes clergy have experienced in trying to stay current and participate in social media platforms, such as blogs and Facebook.  It is an interesting and intelligent piece, and yet I found it unsettling.  Although Bruce's observations are useful as cautionary notes, I am concerned that they may serve to discourage or frighten clergy from expanding their ministry beyond the bounds of the parish to other places it may be needed.  Episcopal clergy are informed by the bishop at ordination that we are to participate in the larger Councils of the Church, as well as to care for all people through our engagement with the world, which may take the form of community activism, education, a regular column in the Huffington Post, and yes, even updating our status on Facebook.  What follows is my response to Bruce, but as I say to him, I encourage you to disagree if you think I'm off base or delusional.  It's been known to happen ... on occasion.

**********

Dear Bruce,

I am a new priest in the Episcopal Church, and although I appreciate the dangers to which you have alerted us--which are very real--I think that your letter is a bit more alarmist than it may need to be.  A lot of what you talk about hinges on perceived distinctions between the ordained person's pastoral identity and his or her "real" identity, as well as between the cyber-community and the specific congregation to which the minister has been called.

I'm glad you used the word "integrated," because I hope that I live out my ministry in a way that integrates my parish ministry within my larger vocation and my professional identity within my larger self.  My own experience is that many of the people with whom I engage on Facebook, YouTube, and my blog are already members of my parish, and those beyond our parish membership are often folks from neighboring Episcopal congregations and other Anglicans around the world, among other important personal networks.  Perhaps one might say that members of my parish are nested in the center of a series of concentric circles that emanate from my fundamental work in the parish. 

So, in many ways, the core to whom I minister online are already my own parishioners (or denominational tribe), and so I can teach, reflect theologically, encourage, foster amity and community, take risks and be creative, and a whole range of things I don't have the space or time to do in my traditional role in the church, such as in preaching or the liturgy.  And as for the bifurcation of my professional/private self(ves), my hope is that social media allows me to model more faithfully for my parishioners that clergy, like all people, are complex beings that resist idealized stereotypes and one-size-fits-all thinking.  Before I sign off, one small confession.  I have vented online from time to time, and in retrospect there were moments when I was undoubtedly in error, but the experience of being networked through social media platforms has been instructive, because I have been called on my mistakes by well-meaning people and have thereby grown more responsible in what post and share online.  I always try to make space for people to disagree with me or correct my errors. 

Again, thanks for your call for all of us to be vigilant and self-reflective as members of the online community and to avoid common pitfalls.  I don't think we can or should avoid social media, but I think we can do it better.  And, in keeping with that sentiment, here's a link to a recent video I made on why I think the Church needs to be on YouTube. 

Your brother in Christ,
Ethan+

The Rev. Ethan Alexander Jewett
Curate, St. Clement's Episcopal Church, Philadelphia

A Visible Witness of God's Love

Blessing a rosary for an Outfest attendee.

Yesterday started out cold and rainy, and I worried that our glossy brochures and promotional items for Outfest would end up a soggy, pulpy mess.  Fortunately, Marc Coleman very cleverly set up a tent over our table to keep us dry, and the rain subsided by about one o'clock.  Within the first few hours of the event, I walked up and down the streets looking for churches participating in this big gay street festival, but found only five.  And I didn't see any other identifiable clergy there, although they could have been there incognito.  The most visible and vocal religious presence were anti-gay protestors with signs and a megaphone spewing biblical verses and hate speech at the crowd, which engaged them and defiantly screamed back.  Several people came up to us and thanked us for being there, as they gestured at the man bellowing into the bullhorn.

No stranger to Gay Pride parades and LGBTQ street festivals, I am pretty well inured to ignorant anti-gay protestors.  While waiting in line for the bathroom, a 21-year-old trans woman suddenly noticing my collar asked me if I had taken the protestors to task.  I said to her that there's no point in trying to shout down the crazy or ignorant, which one must be if he or she thinks Jesus hates gay people.  I told her that I found it more useful to demonstrate to queer folk that one could be both Christian and gay and to assure them of God's love.  And that's what Ron Emrich, Marc Coleman and I tried to do yesterday.  Wearing our snazzy St. Clement's t-shirts, we talked to hundreds of people about the Episcopal Church, St. Clement's, and what we believed.  "Your church accepts gay people?" one young lesbian asked astonished.  "Well our priest is gay and married, and I'm here with my husband, Marc. Our church has lots of gay people," Ron would say.  "Wow.  I had no idea there were churches for gay people."

Saints, Sacrament, Smoke. Yup, that's us.

We had several conversations like this, but mostly, I blessed rosaries--about 200 of them.  People would look furtively at our table with the various colored rosaries, at our glossy signs outside the tent, at each other, and then tentatively approach us.  I'd say, "Hi, I'm Ethan.  Would you like me to bless a rosary for you?"  "You can do that?!" one young Latina chirped incredulously.  "Sure, I can. I'm a priest. What color would you like?"  The blue and glow-in-the-dark ones were the most popular.  "What's your name?" I asked. "Alyssa."  Grasping the rosary and making the sign of the cross over it, I improvised a blessing.  "Alyssa, I bless and hallow this rosary containing the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ's Passion that you may grow in devotion to Our Lady and increase in intimacy with God. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."  And then we would hand them their rosary along with our brochure on how to pray it.  People were thunderstruck that we were there giving away free plastic rosaries and blessings.  Marc, Ron, and I were equally thunderstruck by the eagerness of people, especially LGBTQ young people, to talk to us, to tell us their stories of struggle, to ask questions about God and the Church.  One young Latino asked me to bless 9 rosaries: one for himself, one for his boyfriend, one for his mother, one for his sick uncle dying of cancer ..."  A middle-aged African American man told me that it was a special day because it was the one-year anniversary of he and his partner getting back together.  "This IS a special day," I agreed.  "Would you like me to say a prayer for your relationship and to give you my blessing?"  "Oh, would you?!" he said surprised.  And so we prayed, and I blessed him.  This makeshift space had become a holy space where holy things were happening.  Marc told me that one visitor said that our tent felt almost like a chapel, to which I replied laughing, "leave it to St. Clement's to turn a few yards of nylon into a chapel."  Next year we'll bring a nice lace frontal for the table.

Always the Same, and Yet Not

From an early age, I was interested in family history.  My maternal grandmother and I would spend countless hours poring over family photos, diaries, and genealogical charts recounting the story of the Jewett beginnings, at least as far as we could trace them back to the West Riding of Yorkshire in the reign of Henry VII in the fifteenth century. Thanks to efforts by the Jewett Family Association of America since the nineteenth century, the story of our family now fills four huge tomes of cross-referenced genealogical charts.  I always felt a certain amount of pride, as I flipped through these pages, that the motto on our family's coat of arms was toujours le même, (always the same), a rather common heraldic motto, but one that evoked stability, integrity, and timelessness.  And yet, the four volumes of my family's life bear witness to the fact that change occurs within this larger context of stability.  People grow up, get married, have kids, and die, one generation yields its place to the next.  Things are never really always the same.

with Bishop James Montgomery

I was reminded of this truth this weekend when I came home to Chicago for a little R & R and to concelebrate at a mass marking the fiftieth anniversary of the consecration of James Winchester Montgomery, ninth Bishop of Chicago, to the episcopate.  When I was last at the altar with Bishop Montgomery, it was as a seminarian serving low mass for him during a weekday morning.  Now I entered the Church of the Atonement as a fully vested priest and curate returning home with a different identity and role within the Church.  I spent two years at Atonement as seminarian, and people got used to knowing me in that capacity, so I was deeply moved when they treated me as the same person they had always known and loved.  Not that I thought folks would be standoffish or awkward, but we've all moved on with our lives, so I it would be natural for us to cease to relate as we once did.  But that's not what I experienced.  I may now be a priest, but in many ways I'm still the same Ethan.  I felt that I was welcomed on a deeper level than just as seminarian or transitional deacon or priest.  I was welcomed as Ethan.  And I welcomed them not as a congregation, but as dear sisters and brothers that I care deeply for and have missed.

With the Bishop and my brother priests at the consecration

What this conveyed to me is that one way relationships can change is through expansion.  Some relationships alter--and sometimes needfully--through disconnection and discontinuity, while others build upon a prior foundation and bring the past along into a new understanding of the people involved.  I am very happy to have moved on to a new parish and a new stage in my vocation, but it was very meaningful for me to vest in that familiar set of white chasubles in my home parish with the priests that nurtured and formed me during seminary.  To be accepted into their company as a peer was like closing a loop, a completion of one stage in my process of becoming.  To be welcomed by the congregation as a priest, and yet as the same Ethan, articulates one of the greatest strengths of this particular parish:  we remain the same at our core even as we evolve and expand into new iterations of ourselves.  I, in turn, was pleased to be able to offer these old friends something more, now as a priest: the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for all, a first blessing for a brother priest, and an impromptu prayer and blessing for a friend.  This all came out of the same me in a new way.  As the rector, Fr. van Dooren, once said to me, we as priests need to develop a solid center, rather than a thicker skin.  This center ensures that whatever difficulties we face, we are always able to return that core of stability, integrity, and timelessness.  I hope all of us may be always the same, but in new ways.

Feed the Hungry by Doing a Neighborhood Food Collection

Human Limitations Commend the Inter-dependence of Community

The Youtube video above offers only a fraction of what I wanted to say about my experience of human limitations, so let me just add a few comments about theological anthropology, that is, what I believe about the nature of human beings in God's plan for Creation.

I am a very active and self-reliant person, but breaking my finger this week and temporarily losing the use of my right hand has been really sobering.  Having to slowly hunt and peck this blog entry instead of dancing effortlessly over the keys underscores how much I take for granted.  The good thing is that this impairment is heightening my awareness of and appreciation for the things I love to do:  censing during Solemn High Mass, lifting weights, cooking my favorite meals.  In a certain sense, I am entering a period of fasting from these activities, allowing me to abstain for a season from cherished components of my life and identity, so that I can freshly appreciate how fortunate I really am.

How fulfilling it will be for me, once my finger is healed, to tie my amice or my shoelaces all by myself, or benchpress on chest day at the gym, or cut a porkchop without it flying off my plate.  But I don't want you to think I'm feeling dismal about my injury.  I get a bit frustrated, it's true, struggling to shower without getting my cast wet, or to put on my collar, but I'm getting a lot of help from friends, and I'm focusing on all the things I can do.  I may not be able to pump my guns, but I can still run on the elliptical to stay in shape.  I may not be able to churn out the prose at the rate I'm used to, but I can still say something meaningful if I'm patient with myself at the keyboard.  I may not be able to preside at Solemn High Mass, but I can still do low masses with ease and dignity.  I can still do a lot of things, and I'm grateful to God for that.  It's a good lesson, after all, for a high-performer and perfectionist to have to rely on other people for a change, and acknowledge that his greatest strength is his dependence on community, rather than himself.  It has also been instructive to count my blessings when I see friends struggle with a cancer diagnosis, when I witness homeless people seek help in a world that pretends they're invisible, when I see differently abled people overcome much greater obstacles and achieve greater feats of human determination than I have. 

So, theologically, this recent injury has (1) reminded me to give thanks to God for the simple blessings I take for granted; (2) encouraged me to focus on abilities not disabilities; (3) pushed me to rely on the bonds of the Christian and human communities to which I belong; and (4) made me more sensitive to the suffering and challenges of others.  The limitations of my current situation serve as a good reality check for the human condition.  I am not self-sufficient, because it is part of God's plan for humanity that we should be a community, that we should be inter-dependent. 

People, Look East

The latest edition of the Anglican Theological Review landed on my doorstep a few weeks ago, and I was intrigued by an article by Stephen R. Shaver, entitled, "O Oriens: Reassessing Eastward Eucharistic Celebration for Renewed Liturgy."  At first blush, I was delighted, since as a freshly minted priest, I had just begun saying mass, which at St. Clement's, we do facing east.  The author reviewed many of the classic critiques of eastward facing masses, most of which addressed the separation of the clergy from the people.  It is true that there is a great deal of physical distance at St. Clement's between the chancel and the nave in the church, both horizontally and vertically.  When I am standing at the high altar, I am raised far above and far away from the faithful.  The distance is exacerbated, moreover, by the choir stalls, which partially obstruct our view of each other.  This is an unfortunate limitation of our building, and yet I would argue that laity and clergy nonetheless feel connected during the liturgy.  People who used to looking the celebrant in the eye might find it challenging, but one gets used to it.
 
Although Shaver encourages exploration of eastward facing masses within the (post)modern Church, his primary criticism is that the sort of liturgy we do at St. Clement's promotes clericalism.  I can certainly understand Shaver's argument, but I would like to share my impressions from the perspective of a new priest.  The image that comes to mind when I am the celebrant at the high altar is that of Moses going up on the mountain to encounter God and receive the law.  The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images notes that "mountains are associated with revelation and transition; the mountaintop is where Moses meets God, where Jesus is transfigured.  Mountains suggest arduous, painstaking ascent and sublimation, the widened perspective, the peak experience, the thin air of headiness and sublimity." To look God in the face, so-to-speak, as a priest does at the consecration, can be quite humbling, and even terrifying for a new priest, who feels his inadequacy before so great a mystery.  The effect is indeed dizzying, and so far from feeling superior to the people at the foot of the mountain in the valley, he can feel rather vulnerable and small.  I certainly do.  Maybe that will change with years and experience, I do not know.

But I can say that, for me, it has been a great comfort for priest and people to face the same direction.  To use one contemporary idiom, I know that my sisters- and brothers-in-Christ "have got my back," that I am supported psychologically, emotionally, and theologically by all the faithful ranged behind me.  It strengthens me to live out my vocation at the altar.  It is as if we are all pilgrims ascending the mountain together and looking into a common future beyond the altar: the Kingdom of God.  As Shaver explains, one limitation of masses versus populum is that it makes the priest too much the center of attention, as if he is performing on a stage for the entertainment of parishioners in the "audience," rather than sharing in a common journey.  In fact, a jocular priest at my previous parish used to call one awkward moment at the end of the high mass, "the Adoration of the Clergy," since parishioners ended up just staring blankly into the priests' faces, while they waited anxiously at the altar to leave.  We ended up solving that problem, but for a while, it was a bit like deer in headlights.  Even arranging worship in a circle can be problematic, since it can give the false impression that the gathered community is sufficient unto itself.  It is hard in such an arrangement to see who is missing, who is excluded.  It is hard for a stranger to join a circle, but easy to join a parade.

Now, don't get me wrong, I have no objection to facing the people.  In the other Episcopal parishes to which I have belonged, the priest always faced the people during mass, and I found great meaning in this.  But I also have come to appreciate the unique eschatological experience created by priest and people facing in the same direction.  This is especially true when  I say mass in St. John's Chapel (which oddly enough faces west since its renovation), where the vertical and horizontal distance between priest and people is greatly minimized.  And, as for the charge of clericalism, I would just suggest, as one of my friends--a layman--said recently, that it really depends on how the individual priest wears his vocation.  The style of liturgy doesn't necessarily make him humble or imperious, and to be fair, the congregation makes its own indispensable contributions to the spirit of the liturgy.  All of this, though, is just one new priest's experience, so I encourage you to add your own thoughts below to continue the conversation.

Community Spaces

Fr. Ethan's Conversion Story

Gym Etiquette and the Kingdom

I spend most of my time in two places--the church and the gym--and there's a lot of overlap between them in my life.  Both are integral components of my rule of life; both are sacred spaces that allow me to stay healthy and grounded; and both are places of great discipline and commitment.  I often work out pastoral problems or sermon ideas when I'm lifting or running, and there's more than just a passing resemblance between lunges and genuflections.  More importantly, each milieu has its code of conduct, its rules for proper behavior that have been formed by the consensus of the assembled community.  When these rules are transgressed, the community reacts negatively, and often chastises the naughty party for their misstep.  So, I want to kvetch on a subject that's rarely addressed these days: etiquette.

Growing up a scrawny, rather unathletic kid, I became attracted to the gym because of its focus on personal empowerment and commitment to a disciplined way of living.  No doubt I gravitated to the church in part for the same reasons.  Over the twenty-three years I've been working out, I have become initiated through trial-and-error into gym etiquette.  Unfortunately, gym neophytes aren't usually presented with a list of "dos" and "don'ts," and so they often inadvertently violate gym culture taboos.  Although I try to be patient, I have to admit that I too have my pet peeves. The following list may sound a bit harsh, fussy, or uppity, but please just bear with me.  There is a theological point to all this nagging.  So, here are my Ten Commandments-style "Thou shalt nots,":

1. Thou shalt not stand right in front of me in the mirror after I've already started lifting.  I'm short, so I can't see over you to check my form.  Besides I can't move huge pieces of equipment to accommodate where you want to stand.
2. Thou shalt not monopolize the same piece of equipment for a half hour or longer.  I agree that the Smith machine and the pec deck are awesome, but there are others who want to use them, too.
3. Thou shalt not monopolize several pieces of equipment at the same time.  I know you think you're doing a "circuit," but actually you're just preventing the rest of us from getting through our workouts.
4. Mainly for the guys:  Thou shalt not grunt or shout obscenities when lifting heavy.  You may be a man's man, but it's very distracting and unpleasant for other people.
5. Mainly for the ladies:  Thou shalt not do thy calisthenics and stretching in the free weight area.  I realize that the big mirror in the free weight area might seem like a great place to watch youself do calisthenics, but it's really exasperating when I'm doing 85 lb. dumbbell flies and you're dancing around me while I'm trying to lift the equivalent of a person over my face.
6. Thou shalt not leave the weights on the machine or lying about.  Put them back where you found them.  You're mother isn't here to clean up after you, and dude, wipe your sweat off the equipment.  Gross!
7. Thou shalt not sit on a piece of equipment doing light reading, talking on your cell phone, or having an extensive conversation with someone else, and then get angry with me, when I ask if you're still using the equipment.  This isn't a library or Starbucks.
8. Thou shalt not talk loudly on thy cell phone.  Not only is it distracting, but I'm not really interested in being included in your fight with your girlfriend, your conference call for work, or your plans for Friday night.
9. Thou shalt not invade my privacy while working out.  I know some people use the gym as a place to socialize, which is fine, but I'm actually here to work and to have some me-time, so trying to engage me in a full conversation when I'm gasping for breath on the elliptical is kind of annoying.  Let's talk afterwards or go out for coffee.
10. Thou shalt not invade my personal space.  Gyms can get really crowded, especially at peak times, so please don't hover over me, take up too much room, work out a mere inches from my bench, or throw weights down by my feet.

If this litany of offenses sounds like a gym rat's intolerant rant, I apologize.  My tone may be a bit snarky, but that's because these behaviors are considered rude by most seasoned gym-goers.  Many people who commit these heinous crimes, however, just aren't aware that they are breaches of gym etiquette.  One needs to be initiated into a culture in order to understand which behaviors are considered polite and which are considered discourteous.  I, too, made my own missteps and was corrected, sometimes gently and sometimes not.  In the postmodern world, so much emphasis is placed on individual choice and needs that there is often insufficient attention payed to courtesy, politeness, and consideration of others.  I am often shocked by the lack of common courtesy I witness in public places like gyms, restaurants, shops, and highways.  The truth is we've all gotten a bit boorish, and it would be no bad thing if we got a refresher from Miss Manners on how to be more respectful of each other.  We've all learned NOT TO USE ALL CAPS in our e-mails, since it signifies shouting in cyberspace, so we can certainly learn to be more civil to each other at the gym and other places, too.

This is where I think the Church can be of some help.  Wherever else people may slack off on courtesy, they still tend to be on their best behavior in church.  We don't usually have to worry about folks shoving each other out of the way to get to the coffee, shouting obscenities down the nave, texting or talking on their cell phones during the sermon, or discarding their garbage casually on the floor.  I suspect this good behavior is driven less by fear of eternal damnation than by a shared understanding that there is a code of conduct everyone is expected to observe when they walk through the doors.  Church is still a place where etiquette reigns.  As a space that is considered sacred, we are expected to observe a higher standard of behavior than we do out in the rest of the world.  Yet this is theologically misguided.  To distinguish between so-called "sacred" space and "secular" space is to claim that parts of God's creation are less holy than others, less worthy of good behavior.  So, my challenge to gym-goers is to practice everywhere the same degree of courtesy and politeness as we do in church.  And, of course, it is not restricted to gyms, but to workplaces, grocery stores, and rush-hour traffic.  The Kingdom of God with its harmony, love, and good will cannot appear if we only practice Christian charity in church.  It must extend to all the places where we live, and move, and have our being.  Etiquette still matters.  And if you're still unclear, my copies of Emily Post and Martha Stewart are sitting on the top shelf in my office next to the Bible.  Feel free to help yourself.