Differently Visible, Not Vanishing

Selfie at AAP National Nominating Committee
meeting with pediatrician, Dr. Sarah Stelzner.

The Atlantic published an article yesterday by David Wheeler entitled, "Higher Calling, Lower Wages: The Vanishing of the Middle-Class Clergy," that discussed the high-debt load and poor job prospects of clergy.  Shrinking and aging congregations have resulted in fewer full-time, paid positions for seminary graduates, who have had to seek secular jobs to supplement their parish incomes or support them entirely.  The Church has labeled these clergy "bi-vocational" or "tentmakers."  This is, of course, old news.

In fact, I remember, when I was a lay person in the early stages of the ordination process, talking about the likelihood of gainful employment with the Canon to the Ordinary (who, incidentally, is now a bishop).  When I showed up at Canon Hayashi's office at the appointed time in my suit and tie, instead of asking me to sit down, he lamented that his elliptical machine had just broken and wondered if I'd be willing to get a little exercise.  It was deep into the Chicago winter, so we worked our way through the corridors that connected the diocesan offices to the cathedral.  As we power-walked around the perimeter of the nave, he challenged me to rethink the decision to pursue ordination.  I had worked with him for several years on a diocesan commission, where we had developed a good rapport, so I was surprised to hear discouragement instead of a pep-talk.  He was very pastoral, but he laid out honestly the grim state of the job market for clergy.  He had always encouraged my call to ordination, so I suspect he was trying to spare me disappointment and sacrifice, for which I remain grateful.  There are simply too few parish jobs, and there's no point in sugar-coating that fact. 

As I read the article, with its take-away message about bi-vocational clergy, essentially, "the job market is bad, but we're making the best of it," I remembered Canon Hayashi's kind attempt me to steer me along a safer career path.  I don't deny the dearth of full-time paid clergy positions; and I respect those clergy who take on multiple congregations, or get some other job just to pay the bills.  More alarming still is the stark reality that for many clergy a full-time parish job may not provide an adequate income to cover the cost of seminary and other educational debt, save for retirement, and sustain a reasonable standard of living.  We all do what we have to do.  However, I question the assumption that the job market is necessarily bad news, that the sky is falling, or that the Church is no longer relevant.  I believe that the current state of affairs may be calling clergy to serve in different capacities, as well as in traditional parish settings.  Sure, we have hospital chaplains and seminary professors, but there must be other places where we can be life-giving and productive, not in spite of the fact we are clergy, but because we are clergy.  Unlike Mr. Wheeler, I'm not discouraged; I'm actually quite hopeful.  I would argue that clergy are still relevant even in this increasingly secular culture.

With women members of the AAP Board of Directors.

Like many new clergy, I found the parish job hunt daunting.  And I wasn't entirely sure I wanted a full-time job as a curate, vicar, or rector.  At least, not at the moment.  I considered returning to my prior career in health policy with an unpaid Sunday gig at some poor mission or a parish with an overworked rector who could use some help.  As it happens, I became a staff executive for the American Academy of Pediatrics, a not-for-profit organization for pediatricians that does research, education, child advocacy, and policy.   Although my clergy credentials were unusual, they proved to be an asset in the interview process, since the position's complex relational, administrative, and leadership development responsibilities were remarkably similar to parish ministry.  In fact, several members and staff shared how glad they were to have someone with a clergy background in the position.  Everyone knows I'm a priest, so staff and members frequently seek me out for pastoral care and spiritual guidance--in addition to my official duties--which has expanded my understanding and practice of priestly vocation.  As unexpected as it may sound, I believe that my training and identity as a priest are benefiting the organization; and similarly, I also know the organization is benefiting me as a priest by teaching me skills valuable to parochial ministry and the wider Church, such as managing a multi-million-dollar budget, doing leadership development, conducting policy and advocacy work, and enhancing administrative competence.

Censing the Lady Shrine at Choral High Mass.

In the Episcopal Church, vocational deacons and many professed religious support themselves through secular employment, which means they may have much to teach us priests about how to engage our priestly identities more fully and creatively outside the familiar parish setting.  One clergy colleague approached me after mass one Sunday, and asked where I was now serving. "I assist here on feasts, evenings, and Sundays, but I work for a not-for-profit during the week,"  I said brightly. "Oh," she said as she gently touched my arm and donned a sad smile, as if to convey, "I'm so sorry.  How awful for you."  I'm sure the sympathy was sincere, but I was disappointed and a little hurt that she was not able to perceive that both parish and not-for-profit work were healthy parts of my priestly vocation.  I need to say mass, to do pastoral care and community outreach, to baptize and bury.  I say the Daily Office, go to confession, and see a spiritual director.  But I care for people at work, too; and this is a very fulfilling part of my life as a priest.

I admire my priest colleagues who are doing full-time parish ministry, and I am not suggesting that this should change.  At some point, I may wish to join them there.  I loved being a parish priest, and often miss aspects of it.  I offer my perspective and experience simply to encourage those clergy for whom a full-time paid parochial cure may not be feasible or desirable, to say, "do not despair; there is life after parish ministry."  In many instances, our skills as clergy are transferable and applicable to other professional settings.  The Church has not been very effective, however, in re-visioning priestly ministry outside congregations or in helping clergy leverage and promote their skills for work in other professional settings.  Younger generations of clergy will need to take the lead in this area as paid parish positions continue to decline, but with initiative and imagination, the Church and its clergy can still be relevant and responsive to a world in desperate need of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.


Peace and Blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

The Rev. Ethan Alexander Jewett, SCP
Convenor, Chicago Chapter-in-Formation, Society of Catholic Priests
Assisting Priest, Church of the Atonement, Chicago
Director, Executive Services, American Academy of Pediatrics

Disciplines of Easter Joy

Now that Easter has arrived, we can resume our consumption of alcohol and chocolate, empty the swear jar, or ease up on whatever Lenten practices we may have taken on during the Church's season of repentance.  It seems odd to me, however, that we don't have a response for the 50 days of Easter like we do for the 40 days of Lent.  If the Christian response to John the Baptist's call, "Repent," is to adopt disciplines of contrition and penitence, then should we not also have a meaningful response to the joyful message of Easter, the resurrection of Jesus?  The Gospel of Matthew says:

But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.  He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’

The Resurrection by Carl Heinrich Bloch

Surely, this message requires some answer from us, but not just saying Jesus has risen.  The reaction of the disciples was to encounter the risen Savior, to recognize him anew, to put their hands in the wounds in his hands and his side, and now as believers in the Resurrection, start to to live differently.  Ultimately, Jesus would leave them, send the Holy Spirit into their midst, which would begin to lead them into all truth. The Church would then be born to carry on Jesus' work of new life.  So, as the inheritors of the Resurrection and those first disciples, what might we be called to do?

The general structure of the Sacrament of Confession or Reconciliation provides us with the answer.  We begin Confession with a feeling of true contrition, followed by the declaration of our sins to the priest, absolution, penance, and finally amendment of life.  It is this last piece that is the Christian response to the message, "Alleluia, Christ is risen."  When we answer, "the Lord is risen, indeed. Alleluia," what we are really doing is assenting to the invitation to embrace a life of greater holiness.  After repenting in Lent, we agree to amend our lives in Easter. 

Easter joy leads to a new life focused, not on repenting for past sins and transgressions, but actively seeking to start again with a holy and healthy way of life.  Easter holiness may entail returning to regular recitation of the Daily Office or attendance at Mass on Sunday, periodic Confession or work with a spiritual director, practicing patience and generosity, daily exercise and healthy eating.  When these become our everyday rule of life, rather than a seasonal exception to the rule, we proclaim the truth of the Resurrection and live into the promise of new life that Jesus opened up for us. 

With Paschal Joy,

Ethan +

Faith Is All Around Us

Love, Actually is one of my absolutely favorite films, in part, because of its optimistic outlook on the ubiquity and variety of human loving relationships.  Even though it’s a Christmas movie, I watch it year-round, especially on those days when I’m feeling a bit blue and in need of an emotional pick-me-up.  The movie’s opening and closing scenes take place at Heathrow Airport, featuring numerous vignettes of family members, lovers, and friends greeting each other at the gate, some clearly after a lengthy separation.   The narrator’s essential point is that, despite all of the media coverage of wars, violence, and apathy, love is actually everywhere; hence, the movie’s name.  And a tragically cheesy version of the song, “Love is All Around Us,” serves as the movie’s unofficial theme song.  Some folks consider the film saccharine drivel, but I love it.  It’s hopeful, and in a world full of terrorists, gun violence in schools, and human trafficking, we can use all the hope we can get.

I write this as I fly back to Chicago after spending the weekend in Florida celebrating my mother’s birthday and baptizing my eldest sister into the body of Christ.  Whether it was coincidence, my own heightened awareness, or the movement of the Holy Spirit, I noticed that, like Love Actually, faith is actually everywhere.   Much has been made of the decreased role of religion in public life and the gradual drop in church attendance.  Research studies have unequivocally documented the overall decline in membership among Christian denominations and organized religion, generally, and the emergence of a generation of people who consider themselves “spiritual, but not religious.”  I don’t deny any of this, but I do believe that we are making too much of these trends.  I don’t think God is dead; and I don’t think Christianity’s best days are behind us.  The problem with religion—especially Christianity—these days is that we expect it look like it did in the 1950s in order to regard it as vibrant.  We hold on stubbornly to metrics of success that fit a world that no longer exists.

We may no longer be able to take it for granted that our political leaders, intellectual elite, and captains of industry will be people of faith.  We may not be able to assume that our neighbors, in pursuit of suburban respectability, will go to church every Sunday and keep up with the Joneses.  Instead, we should assume that the United States (and other nations) is a pluralistic society where religion no longer holds sway the way it did half a century ago, but that faith is undergoing a variety of transitions and permutations in order to stay relevant and viable.  The very notion of “spiritual, but not religious” is a challenge to organized religions to adapt in order to respond effectively to the spiritual hunger postmodern people are experiencing, by recovering ancient traditions, exploring innovative models of worship, service, and community; and adopting more sophisticated forms of theological education and catechesis.  If many people find religion useless, maybe it's not because human spiritual yearning has stopped, but because we're offering stale answers to increasingly challenging questions.  Religion cannot rely simply on its established authority as a social institution to keep people in the pews.  Those days are gone.  For people to come to us for more than the odd wedding or funeral, we have to answer their toughest questions better than we are doing.  I think it's a shame that many seminaries have stopped teaching apologetics, because that's what we really need of both clergy and laity right now:  apologists.

During my trip home this weekend, faith has been everywhere.  Sitting at the gate in Tampa was a priest in a black suit and clerical collar working on his iPad.  Walking through the terminal were several Orthodox Jews in traditional dress.  Sitting next to me on the flight to Cleveland was a man reading a book on Catholic spirituality.  In the nearly barren Cleveland airport, there was a Muslim man kneeling for evening prayers near a water fountain.  If religion really didn't matter anymore, it is unlikely that any of us would see as many signs of faith as we do.  I think it far more likely that people have gotten used to just shutting off their awareness of religious and spiritual life, and many of us have cooperated in playing down our faith and making it less visible.  Are we not paying attention?  Faith is all around us. If religion has become discredited among many, then it is our job as people of faith to redeem it in the eyes of those who think it has nothing to offer.  So, I charge all of us, in this Resurrection season, to work to become better apologists and answer the tough questions.  In a postmodern, post-Christian society, the default position is no longer fides quaerens intellectum--faith in search of understanding--but understanding in search of faith.  Let us help those bereft of faith find it.

Easter Joy and Blessings,
Ethan +

Ashes to Go, Palms on the Way ... What Next?

An Atonement parishioner with "Radar"
Photo courtesy of Atonement.

"The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them.  A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.  The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, "Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!"  When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, "Who is this?"  The crowds were saying, "This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee." Matthew 21:6-11

Yesterday, we did it again, as we do every year at the Church of the Atonement; we reenact Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem by processing around the block led by our friend, Radar, the donkey.  Arrayed in red vestments, holding palms, with bells pealing, we offered a witness of the Christian faith and story to the urban neighborhood in which we live.  I always look forward to it.  Once around the block, and then back inside for the Passion, the homily, the Eucharist, coffee hour, and the rest.   But that procession was just the first steps of the entire Holy Week journey to the cross, the tomb, and new life.  We walk with Jesus this week, marking out the places and events that define the essence of Christian identity.  And hopefully, we will be changed by the experience. 

Clergy in procession on Sheridan Avenue.
Photo courtesy of  Atonement.

Yet we often walk this journey, as so many congregations do, in an insular sort of way.  Not intentionally, to be sure, but I'm always left thinking about how brief our foray into the community is on those rare days when the church's life is on display--I mean REALLY on display. The procession can be seen as an invitation, encouraging people to be curious about who we are, what we do, what we believe, and what we stand for.  Unfortunately, it offers little opportunity in the moment to engage the neighborhood in conversation about religion, spirituality, and faith--about why we're marching down the street holding palms and wearing red, about who Jesus is for us, and why we identify as Christians.  I wish we could have those conversations a bit more often, and more organically.  Many parishes contribute to the community, as Atonement does, in some deeply meaningful ways by hosting cultural events, donating to the local shelters, food pantries, and soup kitchens, and volunteering in community-based programs.  These are all wonderful things. 


Through formal community engagement, we meet many spiritually hungry people, but there are many we don't meet.  The procession may be an invitation to these other folks, but it can also be a spiritual "hit-and-run" experience, that cleanly tosses the ball in the other person's court, and relies on his or her initiative to inquire further.  What an intimidating thought.  The Church meets me where I am, but before I can ask a question or have a conversation, it's passed by me.  You mean I have to venture inside that imposing building down the block to find out more, to learn what that spectacular parade was all about?  The procession is a great beginning, but it may not be enough.  The Palm Gospel above provides some insights on what might be required of us.  The faithful go out in procession, SHOUTING to invite the whole city to learn about Jesus.  The curious ask what all the turmoil is about, and Jesus' disciples in the crowd convey some pretty startling news.  The procession is a means to an end, a disruption to tell the whole city about Jesus.  That conversation changed everything, and here we are millennia later acting it all for the benefit of another generation.  So, how might we do a better job of inviting people to explore the Christian faith?

Mthr. Kate Guistolese passes out palm crosses.

The popularity (and effectiveness) of "Ashes to Go," in which churches go out into the streets to administer ashes to people in the community, has given rise to a reevaluation of how the Church lives, more generally.  Atonement conducted a similar outreach event for Palm Sunday, called "Palms on the Way," in which clergy and parishioners offered palm crosses to passersby with a card inviting them to join us for worship during Holy Week.  I hope that many new people will show up for the Triduum and Easter Sunday, but even if they don't, there is value in having even a brief conversation on a street corner, answering questions (and people did have questions!), and just being visible.  Perhaps it will plant a seed that germinates over time and leads to something spiritually fruitful and life-giving.  Perhaps it will dispel misconceptions about what the Church is or isn't.  Perhaps it will suggest that there really isn't much difference between sacred space and secular space, between the Church and the world outside its walls.  Perhaps it can push the procession a little farther down the block and invite more people into the community and mystery of the Christian life. 

But it will take more than good signage or an advertisement in the local paper.  It will take ashes, and palms, and other hands-on invitations that build relationships.  It will likely ask us to try different and uncomfortable things.  Imagine, for a moment, a Church that would offer to wash strangers' feet in public as a sign of servanthood--on a street corner, in a prison, in a park.  And then feed them.  What kind of message would that send to the world; what kind of invitation would that be to a stranger?  Reflect on that as you hear the Word of God, and have your feet washed, and eat and drink, and strip the altar bare.

Many blessings for a very Holy Week.

Ethan +

Lenten Unity

Archbishop Justin Welby and Pope Francis

I was very moved this week to learn of the collaboration between the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, and Pope Francis (and others) to combat human trafficking and slavery.  It is projected that this exploitative industry may afflict upwards of 29 million people.   It seems fitting to draw the world's attention to a sin of this magnitude during Lent, to promote repentance and healing around an issue that receives insufficient coverage and visibility, at least in the developed world. 

Pope John Paul II and Archbishop Rowan Williams

But my heart was also strangely warmed, to quote John Wesley, by the photo of the two religious
leaders shaking hands, displaying unity within a divided Church and world.  In the early years of Christianity, schism was one of the greatest sins that could be committed, and yet it has become our daily reality, which makes me wonder if promoting Christian unity might be a better Lenten discipline than giving up chocolate or alcohol.  Many of us within the Church take division as a given, as if schism was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  I remember in seminary wading through abstruse arguments defending the validity of Anglican ordination against Roman Catholic refutations, being called on by evangelicals to justify the Episcopal Church's progressive stance on social issues, and being quite rightly challenged by colleagues on my own ecclesiological prejudices.  Not that theological differences of opinion aren't important.  As one of my seminary professors, Fr. Ralph McMichael, said, "it is better in communion than to be right.  But it has to be the right kind of communion."  We have to be honest and name the convictions on which we are not of one mind.

Archbishop George Carey and Pope John Paul II

Lent is an aspirational season in which we seek to be better than we have been, to right wrongs, to mend moral defects, to repent and become whole again. This is a tall order, and utterly impossible for humanity to affect without the grace and mercy of God.  But I think God wants us to reach out and seek that wholeness by looking past the conventional litmus tests that tend to divide us and focus on the unity toward which we can work now.  The Anglican-Roman Catholic International Commission has been crafting a way way forward for decades, and now our shared work on human trafficking and slavery is another step we can take together.  Unity is not an all or nothing proposition; it is a spectrum of intimacy along which we can grow and converge.  Anglicans and Roman Catholics, in particular, share a common heritage that gives us a place from which to grow on things that matter. And the same plea for unity applies to our relationships with our Lutheran, Methodist, Congregationalist, Jewish, and Muslim sisters and brothers.  We all have a place from which to grow together.

Pope Paul VI and Archbishop Michael Ramsey

So, what am I proposing?  Just a few small things.  1) Begin by intentionally praying for each other and your respective ministries, Roman Catholics and Anglicans.  2) Anglicans, take a Roman Catholic friend to church with you one Sunday.  Roman Catholics, take an Anglican friend to church with you. Maybe say Evensong or Vespers together.  3) Find something you can do together as Anglicans and Roman Catholics, like serve at a soup kitchen, food pantry, crisis center, or other ministry.  and 4) Finally, be patient and humble with each other.  No one of us has the complete truth.  Remember that in a Church that is divided, each of us is damaged, deficient, and deprived.  We cannot say that we have no need of each other; for only together are we truly the body of Christ.  May we all in this Lenten season acknowledge the reality of the broken body on the Cross and work to emulate the image of the resurrected Christ.

Blessings,
Ethan +

Bonded by Ashes

With Fr. Robert Cristobal and Mthr Kate Guistolese
braving the elements.

In the two years I have been ordained, I have found  Ashes-to-Go a deeply rewarding and transformative experience, and was of course excited about venturing out onto the street corner again this year with my pyx.  This is a ministry that begs to be shared, and so I thought it might be fun to invite two of my closest clergy friends to join me.  Neither of them had done it before, but both have an adventurous spirit and were eager--forgive the pun--to get their hands dirty.  But I'm not going to talk, as I have in years past, about the many wonderful people who were touched by the Church's attempt to seek them out in the community.  Instead, I want to share one of the unexpected outcomes the day: good old-fashioned clergy bonding.

It is very easy for many clergy to feel isolated, even if their cures are happy and satisfying.  Few parishes are able to support a large clergy team, let alone a single curate or associate to share ministry with the rector/vicar.  So, many of us work alone in our parishes, in chaplaincies, or secular employment.  Sure, there is Credo, clergy conferences, and the deanery clericus, but these often don't provide adequate space for authentic, safe, and deep bonding.  Having lived in a clergy house with other priests, I have been fortunate to live the daily rhythm of going to mass and Evensong together, eating at the same table, answering unexpected knocks at the front door, and sleeping under the same roof.  It provides an environment of support that is hard to duplicate.  And yet, this week I recaptured a bit of that spirit.

Even though the three of us gathered at my apartment the night before to ensure we would get an early start on Ash Wednesday, the time together amounted to more than just good logistics.  We cooked and ate together around my kitchen table; we prayed together; we shared stories of our respective vocations; we asked for and offered each other counsel.  We stayed up talking until 2 am, and then we slept under the same roof.  We woke up at six, vested, and gathered (a bit bleary eyed)  around the table to make holy water and bless the ashes.  We ate a light breakfast and prayed before setting out for the EL platform.  Over the course of the day, we reflected on the experience of ashing people in front of the Starbucks, and how this informed our understanding of ourselves as priests.

At the end of the evening rush hour, we retreated to the warmth and safety of the coffee shop, and were graced with a half-hour conversation with a man curious to understand the theological significance of the ashing.  He had been hurt by the Church, but was very open to talking about religion.  He had studied Zen Buddhism and was now exploring Kabbalah.  It was instructive for us to watch each other think on our feet and offer him a piece of the theological puzzle--as best we could make out.  After he left, I said to my friends, "That conversation was definitely the Holy Spirit offering us an encouraging capstone to this day."  It was as if the Lord had hit us over the head and said to us, "Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear."  And, then, we walked together to church for the Ash Wednesday mass.  We joined the congregation in one of the pews with our heavy winter gear still on and our dirty thumbs, and we prayed and received communion.

The lesson for me, at least, was that I'm not nearly as faithful or effective a priest alone as I am when I'm bonded with other clergy.  I learn so much from them, and I gain strength and nourishment for my ministry from their mere presence, as well as from their prayers, advice, and spiritual gifts.  The same can be said for many lay people I know, and with whom I have ministered.  But, there is a special bond that comes from sister and brother priests that trust each other and know each other well.  This is one reason that I have found the Society of Catholic Priests (SCP) in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada such a blessing to my ministry, especially in difficult times.  We are in the process of establishing a chapter in Chicago, and so, I will end with the Society's prayer as an invitation to others to join us, expand our circle of fellowship, and nurture the spirit of clergy collegiality that makes all of us better priests:

Father, we thank you

that you have called us to your service,

to feed your people by word and sacrament.

By the power of your Spirit,

keep us faithful to you and to those in our care.

Keep united in the bonds of peace and love

the members of our Society,

that by sharing in Christ's priesthood here on earth,

we may come to share

in the joys of his eternal kingdom,

where he reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,

for ever and ever. Amen.

Terms of Endearment

Bubeleh is a Yiddish word, used as a term of endearment in the Jewish community to address someone precious.  It means "little grandma," but translates more generally as "sweetheart" or "darling."  Adults use it with children and with each other, with elders, and close friends.  My mother called me that, or it's diminutive, buhbie, throughout my childhood.  In fact, even at the age of 42, I'm still her baby, and she still calls me buhbie.  But even if you're not Jewish, I bet you've experienced something similar.  Our proper names are undoubtedly precious, but we often manifest an increasing degree of intimacy when we move beyond the names people use at work and on government documents, and adopt a pet name, a nickname or other term of endearment for those we love.  After all, doesn't it seem a bit stilted when you see couples address each other formally as "Joseph" or "Mary," instead of as "sweetheart" and "honey?"

In this morning's Daily Office reading from the First Letter of John (1 John 3:18-4:6), the author addresses the community as "little children" and "beloved."  At first blush, the language may sound a bit infantilizing or condescending to our modern ears, but actually, it's rather wonderful.  The author is not necessarily expressing a hierarchical relationship between himself and his audience, but rather reminding them that he and they are all children of God, dependent upon and loved by God.  It is a parental, fatherly image of God, to be sure, but certainly loving.  To address the community as "little children" and "beloved" is an expression of kinship with God and with each other.  "We are of God," the author says, and that means that we belong to each other.  We are the Body of Christ.  And that belonging is not just a philosophical thing, but also a relationship that is manifest and articulated in ways of living.  "Little children, let us not love in word or speech, but in deed and in truth."  Words are cheap, but actions provide the evidence that we love each other as God loves us.  If we look for the core message of the 1 John reading, we find: "And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he had commanded us."

Next week is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, when we return to the basics of our Christian faith, life, and witness.  Ashes are imposed on our foreheads as a reminder of our common humanity and mortality.  Ashes also serve as a deeper theological reminder that Jesus Christ opened up for us the possibility of a world free from sin, hatred, and oppression.  This simple act of humility encourages us to reflect on our relationships with other human beings, both those we love and those with whom we feel no kinship.  For those looking to assume a penitential discipline for Lent, one useful practice might be to mentally precede statements we make to others with the word, "BELOVED," as the author of 1 John has done, and as God does when he speaks of Jesus.  In next Sunday's Gospel reading, for example, God declares to the disciples observing Our Lord's Transfiguration, "This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!"  Listening to him means paying that belovedness received from God forward to all our brothers and sisters.  Encountering people as BELOVED instead of strangers, enemies, or nonentities might make a huge difference in the way we shape the dynamics of our work, life, and community. 

Accept my deepest prayers, beloved, that we may observe a holy, transfiguring Lent.

Ethan +

Remembering Agatha and Other Holy Women: A Commentary on the Kalendar of Saints

St. Agatha

It's on days like this that I cringe and groan when praying the Daily Office.  I use both the BCP Daily Office Book and the Anglican Breviary, alternating between them depending on my mood and the offering of feasts, and sometimes incorporate elements from both in my recitation.  In the Breviary's Kalendar, today is listed as the feast of St. Agatha, virgin and martyr.  As I begin the collect, I'm immediately reminded, "oh yeah, this is one of those horrible collects I have to rewrite on the fly."  The collect goes:

"O GOD, who among the manifold works of thine almighty power has bestowed even upon the weakness of women strength to win the victory of martyrdom: grant, we beseech thee; that we, who on this day recall the heavenly birth of Saint Agatha thy Virgin and Martyr, may so follow in her footsteps, that we may likewise attain unto thee.  Through . . ."

This demeaning language always upsets me.  Do I say the words printed on the page or not?  I do not.  I remember standing at the altar to say Mass, bristling, and firmly amending the language in the Missal:  "O GOD, who among the manifold works of thine almighty power has bestowed EQUALLY UPON WOMEN strength to win the victory of martyrdom."  I feel like both the Missal and the Breviary force me into a difficult ethical and theological position on which I must take a stand, so I do.  In the Episcopal Church, we often celebrate the progress made on the full inclusion of women in the Church, and yet we can forget how much work remains to be done to reform our widely varying liturgical materials and to stand in solidarity with our sisters in other churches and faith communities.  This week, Angela Bonavoglia wrote an incisive and challenging letter in the Huffington Post, "For Pope Francis: A To-Do List on Women," that I encourage everyone to read.  It's a good reality check.

Now, some folks may quite sensibly say, "well, don't use the Missal or Breviary, then, if the language is so oppressive."  I don't use the Missal anymore now that I'm in more mainstream Episcopal parishes--and despite its overall beauty, this is a great relief on days like today--but I do find the Breviary a rich supplement to the Prayer Book for proper antiphons, collects, and office hymns for both feasts and the liturgical seasons.  I hate to give it up, and I salute Dr. Derek Olsen's ongoing work to convert the Anglican Breviary to an electronic format, but I am mindful that the only way we can preserve our great liturgical heritage is to purge it of oppressive language and outmoded theology.  That's one of the major challenges that progressive Anglo-Catholics in the twenty-first century must face head on.

Renee Jeanne Falconetti as Joan of Arc, 1928

I use today's feast of St. Agatha merely as an illustration of a critical issue as the Episcopal Church seeks to come to consensus on the commemoration of saints.  The Standing Committee on Liturgy and Music has distributed a proposal on the revision of the sanctoral Kalendar that responds to much of the feedback on the trial use of Holy Women, Holy Men.  In general, I am favorable to the proposal for a two-fold resource: a core Kalendar of saints, such as apostles, martyrs, and evangelists, generally accepted by the whole Episcopal Church, and a secondary compendium of  "A Great Cloud of Witnesses," that supports regional and contextual commemorations of individuals that have inspired Christians in different places and times.  This latter focus is certainly in keeping with the traditions of the early Church.  Cults of individual saints emerged organically in local communities, where they were celebrated sometimes for centuries until they spread to the entire Church.  Joan of Arc was regarded as the Patron Saint of France for centuries before the Roman Catholic Church finally canonized her in 1920.  She only made it into the Episcopal Church's calendar in the 2006 edition of Lesser Feasts and Fasts.


With these considerations in mind, I propose a few suggestions moving forward:

A rather European-looking
St. Augustine of Hippo

• If we really want people to embrace a relationship with the Great Cloud of Witnesses, then there needs to be more comprehensive exposure to the lives of the saints in our regular pattern of worship.  Since most Episcopal congregations do not offer a daily Eucharist, Morning Prayer, or Evening Prayer, we should encourage the restoration of the minor propers and other relevant materials to the Sunday Eucharist, so that the saints make more than just an occasional appearance in a congregation's consciousness.  The intent is not to overshadow the Sunday propers, but to integrate the saints into the ongoing narrative of salvation articulated through our weekly Feast of the Resurrection.  We and the saints are part of that narrative.
• Not only must we encourage diversity through the inclusion of new saints in the revised sanctoral calendar, but we must strive to represent authentically those who are already included.  To venerate a saint is to acknowledge her or his full humanity.  This means addressing issues of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and other attributes.  One of my womanist seminary professors rightly pointed out that St. Augustine was most likely African, not Caucasian, despite many Western depictions.  And women saints cannot be reduced to passive virgins and conjugally dutiful matrons.  And there were same-sex loving saints, too.  
• Saints are supposed to be both patrons and companions, models of exemplary holiness, and yet sinners in need of God's mercy, just like us.  Hagiography can often be a glowing list of non-threatening virtues, without acknowledgment of moral ambiguity, failings, or--in a more wonderfully prophetic strain--subversiveness.  If we are to draw strength and inspiration from the saints, then we need more than just sanitized and domesticated narratives; we need nuanced stories of faith that preserve the tension between human frailty and the human striving for perfection.
• Finally, I would caution all of us to apply a critical eye to the received narratives of the saints.  It is important for us as a community to lift up problematic issues, such as institutionalized abuse, humiliation, and inequities of power that the saints' lives raise: to point out who has agency and who has none; who has a voice and who is silent; who enjoys the dignity of a name and who is unnamed.

To return to St. Agatha, I was deeply troubled to read the Breviary's story of her martyrdom, for the violence is not of a generic sort, but is focused on the erasure of her womanhood, which should raise questions for us about not only who we include in the calendar, but how we include them, and how we tell and interpret their stories.  If Agatha's courage as a martyr is commendable, her mutilation and the depiction of violence against women is not.  If we are to be responsible storytellers, then we must challenge the Church's telling of her story as a weak, passive, and vulnerable handmaiden that bravely endured violence.  It must serve as a warning to all of us that violence, under the euphemistic guise of "martyrdom," is never to be framed as a victory won--not if we believe our God is a God of peace, justice, and love.

On this feast of St. Agatha, let us therefore pray for an end to violence against women, and against all people, and for a fulfillment of our baptismal vows to strive for justice and peace and to respect the dignity of every human being.  If we can use this framework for a commemoration of the saints, then we will be making a very positive contribution to the life of the Church.

Blessings,
Ethan +

When Poverty is Personal

This week marks the fiftieth anniversary of President Johnson's War on Poverty.  I have listened to several news stories on National Public Radio during my long drive into work; and today I am sitting in a hotel conference room with my organization's executive leadership discussing its agenda on childhood poverty.

The news is not hopeful.  The face of poverty in America is changing, appearing increasingly in the suburbs--not just the inner city--and yet is less visible in other places.  The poor includes the underemployed and working poor, the unemployed, the mental ill, the elderly, and people you would never, ever imagine.  Poverty is one of those social determinants of health linked to obesity, malnutrition, and diabetes.  It is correlated to poor dental health, mental health and cognitive development.  If affects social interaction and performance in school and the workplace.  It impacts family relationships.  When we are reminded that twenty-three percent of American children live below the federal poverty line, we know we still have a formidable problem.

Soundbites from Washington have indicated that poverty is not a partisan issue.  It was noted this morning that the two political parties differ primarily in the strategies they advocate to solve the problem, such as job creation and tax breaks on the right, and government safety-net programs, such as WIC, SNAP, and Medicaid on the left.  What strikes me as a Christian is that poverty, like many social issues, is frequently treated as an abstract topic like any other.  Policy wonks quote data sets, and legislators weigh accretions to and deductions from government programs.  But that seems woefully inadequate and dehumanizing to me.  If we want to take poverty seriously, then we need to base our engagement on life, rather than statistics.

I am convinced that Jesus had a special love and concern for the poor, not out of any particular
theological sophistication (although I did take liberation theology in seminary), but because I remember the pain and shame of being poor as a very image- and peer-conscious teenager.  I  rarely talk about this part of my childhood, because it felt humiliating at the time, and because my mother made such great efforts to shield my sisters and me from any sense of deprivation.  I honor her attempt to put a (more) cheerful face on a difficult childhood.  But I remember eating popcorn for dinner, going without new school clothes in the fall, being shunned by the synagogue, and losing our large suburban house. Perhaps I'll never know what extreme poverty is, but when the experience of want is personal, I think we tend to engage the issue a bit more authentically and humanely.  One reason I came to love Jesus was because I felt his compassion and solidarity in my remembered experience of being poor, even if it was only a temporary state.  I especially hope it gave me empathy and shaped the way I view people for whom poverty is an ongoing, daily reality.

What I would like to hear in the debate on poverty, therefore, is more compassion, and less rhetoric, grounded in real human experience and relationships.  To be a faithful follower of Jesus means that we see poverty through the eyes of the poor we know or the poor we've been.  Jesus loved and cared for the poor, because he shared their poverty, emptied himself to take on their suffering, and claimed it as his own.  In this season of Epiphany, identifying with the plight of the poor is one of  the clearest manifestations that Jesus is Emmanuel, the incarnate God with us.  It proves that he is alive within us, which should give us hope for this broken world.