Cleaning Out Closets

I've been back in Chicago for a month this week, and I'm still unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, and trying to figure out where to put all this stuff.  I don't have nearly enough storage space.  The closets are a disaster.  So, as much as I've dreaded it, I'm culling old file folders and tossing out ratty bed linens, trying to find room anywhere I can.  I encounter a set of hideous placemats and happily place them in the garbage bag next to me.  The funny thing is that this drudgery is turning into a very rewarding exercise.  I smile when I stumble unexpectedly upon an item that conjures up a cherished memory.  "Oh, that takes me back.  I remember when so-and-so gave that to me.  Boy, was that a fun day!  I miss spending time with him/her."

During this season after Pentecost, when we focus on new life, revisioned identities, and altered trajectories, we can sometimes forget about all the stuff that we bring with us on this journey of the Holy Spirit.  And some of this stuff is good.  I'm not so sure that putting new wine into old wineskins, as the Gospel warns, is such a bad thing.  Especially if that old wineskin is me.  Maybe that's not a good biblical metaphor to develop.  Perhaps the Christian journey is more like an American or Canadian college student backpacking across Europe.  One starts out with his or her backpack half full, with some ready-to-eat food, extra pairs of socks, a First-Aid kit, and a book for those long train rides across unfamiliar landscapes.  A traveler needs to bring some supplies with him or her to make the journey comfortable and safe, but he or she also needs to leave room for items collected along the way: gifts for friends back home; souvenir maps, postcards, and other trinkets; keepsakes from hospitable hosts.  Many students will even adorn their backpacks with patches that serve as badges of honor to chronicle the countries they've traversed.  I certainly did, and I still have the patches to prove it.  At least, I think they're in the bottom of some box in a closet somewhere.

Today is the anniversary of the birth of the gay activist and politician, Harvey Milk, which should remind us that, as much as we may rightfully wish to focus on the future, we bring everything we have been with us into that future.  Our enthusiasm for the possibilities of the life yet to come shouldn't obscure us from the things within us that have gotten us this far.  I am who I am, because of what I have been; and what I will become, builds upon who I am now.  Current efforts in favor of marriage equality in the United States, for instance, must not lose sight of the many people and struggles that have come before and provided the foundation for the future sought.  Despite recent progress, we must remember that there are many who are enduring the first terrifying steps of coming out of the closet.  The teen in Idaho whose anxious coming-out letter I read recently.  The middle-manager who fears for his job and livelihood in a state that does not identify sexual orientation as a protected status in employment.  As dated as they might seem to some, the struggles of identity, belonging, and discrimination that Harvey Milk championed are as timely and real as ever, in the United States and around the world.

The truth is that coming out of the closet is an ongoing and iterative process that people experience every time they seek a new job, join a new church, move to a new community, or make new friends.  Each time this occurs, men and women have to decide what about themselves it is safe or desirable to share, which artifacts of their past to display and which hopes for the future to confide.  Out of that closet come wounds, scars (some undoubtedly badges of honor), and hope, that when integrated, allow people to live with integrity.  Harvey Milk was a person who embodied this experience, and as a Christian and a humanist, I am grateful for his example. I am often surprised and saddened by the number of young LGBTQ people who are ignorant of their own cultural history, of the sacrifices and struggles of luminary figures, such as Harvey Milk.  On days such as this one, may we all remember and share with others the stories of those who have gone before us and made the future toward which we are working realizable.  Old and new, history and hope, make us who we are.

Mystery Worshipper

It is a rare pleasure to be a visitor in someone else's pews on Sunday.  For the last several years, I have had to be in my own parish on Sundays, greeting parishioners and visitors as they arrived for worship.  But for the first time in a long time, I am free to visit congregations that I have only ever heard about or visited for a special occasion, such as an ordination or installation.  It's fun.  As I sat in an unfamiliar church on Sunday, I thought about the Mystery Worshipper column from the Ship of Fools website, which sends reviewers incognito to congregations to evaluate the worship experience.  Now, of course, I had not come to scrutinize or judge that parish's liturgy, but simply to worship joyfully alongside my brothers- and sisters-in-Christ.  I was incognito, in a manner of speaking; I wasn't wearing clericals, and so looked like any ordinary visitor.  And yet, being back in my home diocese,  I knew a few people. 

The interesting thing about the visit was the level of anxiety and awkwardness I felt upon entering the church.  I had forgotten what it was like to be a stranger.  Would I be welcomed?  Would anybody talk to me?  Or would they pretend that I was invisible?  Episcopalians can often be shy and uncomfortable greeting strangers.  Mainline denominations aren't known as the Frozen Chosen for nothing.  (There is so much we could learn from Baptists and Mormons!)  As a priest, I have had to confront many times peoples' hesitation to do hands-on evangelism and outreach in the wider community.  It's unsafe and scary.  There is the potential for an unpleasant response, for anger, for rejection.  But there is also the potential for transformation, for acceptance, and for intimacy.  The same risks emerge when strangers pluck up the courage to visit our churches. 

The difference between these two scenarios is the people that are made most vulnerable in the encounter.  When we wander outside the safe confines of our churches, we are the strangers.  But when visitors come to us, they risk invisibility or rejection.  I was used to being on the other side of the welcoming experience, the position of strength and privilege.  But now, the tables were turned, and I felt vulnerable.  For the record, the clergy were very welcoming and warm, and I was deeply grateful for their hospitality.  The sermon was outstanding.  The worship was authentic and inclusive.  It occurred to me that it is a good thing for people, especially clergy, to be the mystery worshipper from time to time.  It reminds us of how hard it is for the stranger to seek welcome and belonging.  It impresses upon us the seriousness of our call as Christians to offer hospitality and to be mindful of the stranger's vulnerability and trepidation--and hence, courage--in walking through our doors on Sunday morning. 

So, how welcoming is your congregation?  Perhaps the following questions from this mystery worshipper will help get you started in evaluating your hospitality.  My recent experience as a visitor certainly caused me to be honest about my own strengths and weaknesses.  Watch your congregation this upcoming Sunday, see how it fares, and then reflect as a community on your observations. 

How long did it take before a visitor was greeted by someone in the congregation?
Did someone in the congregation greet the visitor beyond simply handing him or her a service leaflet?
How many people greeted the visitor?
Did anyone ask the visitor's name?
Did anyone tell the visitor his or her own name?
Did rank-and-file parishioners greet the visitor, or only the clergy?
Did anyone ask the visitor to sign the guest book?
How intuitive and user-friendly is the service leaflet and other worship resources for a visitor?
How was the visitor greeted or engaged during the exchange of the Peace?
Did anyone invite the visitor to coffee hour or fellowship following the service?
Did anyone talk to the visitor during coffee hour?
Did anyone offer to follow-up and speak with the visitor sometime in the following week?
Did anyone invite the visitor to participate in some other aspect or event of the congregation's life?

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it is reflective of the kinds of concerns that float through a visitor's mind as he or she struggles to look comfortable in a new space among strangers, trying to participate in an unfamiliar liturgy.