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.