Twelve Years

The readings during Eastertide have showcased the disciples' difficulty in recognizing the Risen Lord. Mary Magdalene mistakes him for the gardener when he appears to her in the empty tomb. Thomas is highly skeptical until he puts his hand in the wounds in Jesus' hands and side. The disciples don't recognize Jesus on the beach until they cast their nets and lug them out of the water heavy with fish--153 of them, to be exact. What is extraordinary about these stories is that the experience of new life is greeted initially with uncertainty, and even suspicion. Instead of shouting the good news from the rooftops, everyone is a little tentative. Haziness and confusion surround the truth of Jesus' resurrection. No one seems to see what's right in front of their eyes. Saul of Tarsus, as a matter of fact, emerges from his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus blind as a bat, completely helpless and vulnerable. 

Last Sunday, as I stood at the altar celebrating Mass, I was also celebrating the 12th anniversary of my baptism, recalling my own experience of profound vulnerability in the chilling water of the font. Like Saul, I had assumed a new identity. I hadn't, of course, been in the middle of a murderous rampage when the call to follow Jesus came, but it was no less transformative for me. It was a pivotal step in a lifelong struggle to know God that has always been characterized by failures, mistakes, and cluelessness, as well as grace. For twenty years, I walked away from God out of hurt and anger, and I languished in my perception of his absence. Maybe it's good to have time to cool off, so that when God calls again, we are receptive to the divine urging. That's what happened to me. Fr. Steve Martz asked me one Sunday, "are you not receiving communion because you're not baptized?" I responded, "yes," "Well, would you like to be?" he continued. "Yes," I said without skipping a beat, shocking myself. "Now, where did that come from?" I puzzled. I had been sought; and I had been claimed. I knew that God was speaking to me the first time I heard in the hymn that "Jesus sought me when a stranger wandering from the fold of God; he to rescue me from danger interposed his precious blood." 

And I was rescued. Twelve years ago I wouldn't have thought it possible that I would spend my time the way I do. My baptism ultimately led to a new life that has given me so many moments of joy and fulfillment. In the past few days, I have celebrated the Eucharist in my parish and in the chapel of our cathedral, offered counsel to people struggling with homelessness and spiritual barrenness, enjoyed the preaching voices of some really insightful parishioners, and shared coffee with friends learning about their vocations. I have also continued to learn about myself, about my own tentativeness and blindness, about the ways I fail to see both the crucified and risen Jesus around me. I think we spend our whole lives trying to know Jesus better. It begins in baptism, in promising to "continue in the apostles' teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers." And in repentance, proclaiming the Good News of God in Christ, serving Christ in all persons, and respecting the dignity of every human being. It is in doing these things that we like Peter attempt to convince Jesus, "you know, Lord, that I love you." It is a daunting and overwhelming call, but I am thankful for the 12 years that I have been saddled with it. Thank you, Lord, for the grace of a new life, and thanks to the many people that have helped me shoulder the burden along the way. I am truly grateful. I pray that you will be there for me for another 12 years, as I will try to be there for you.

Easter joy and blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

#TractSwarm: The Language of Fasting

On the first Sunday in Lent, I recited the Exhortation from the Book of Common Prayer to emphasize for the parish the penitential character of the season we had just entered. I had never been in a congregation that used the Exhortation, and so this was a new experience for me, as I imagine it was for many of our parishioners. The severe, chastening language of Rite I, including the Exhortation, was a brusque change from our usual affirming and hope-filled outlook. To say in the confession that "we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness" might at times seem over the top and disingenuous for people who believe in the inherent goodness of humanity and see the glass as at least half full.

Yet, it has been useful to step out of our customary ways of praying and theologizing to confront the reality of human brokenness and sin. In a sense, we have been fasting from the normal language that nourishes our prayer and worship, and we miss it. It is a deprivation we feel in our very bones. If the function of fasting is to purify ourselves by dismantling the idols that keep us from a healthy relationship with God, then relinquishing our dependence on our linguistic comfort zone is a step in the right direction. If our customary language obscures the truth about human sin, which we'd rather not face, then it is meet, right, and our bounden duty to take a break from it and use language that forces us to see a different side of ourselves, even if it is our underbelly.

In the midst of all of the harsh "I am a worm and no man" language, however, there is a gentleness that can easily be obscured if one is not attuned to the Lenten theme of God's mercy.  The Exhortation, for instance, emphasizes that humanity is not beyond help or hope. God loves us extravagantly, and for this we are thankful:

Having in mind, therefore, his great love for us, and in obedience to his command, his Church renders to Almighty God our heavenly Father never-ending thanks for the creation of the world, for his continual providence over us, for his love for all mankind, and for the redemption of the world by our Savior Christ, who took upon himself our flesh, and humbled himself even to death on the cross, that he might make us the children of God by the power of the Holy Spirit, and exalt us to everlasting life.

Instead of just abandoning us to our endless wickedness, God's people are given useful strategies for overcoming their shortcomings. The Exhortation tells us to adopt a renewed reverence for the Eucharist, to forgive each other, to scrutinize our consciences, and if we are overwhelmed by guilt and sinfulness, to "open your grief to a discreet and understanding priest, and confess your sins, that you may receive the benefit of absolution, and spiritual counsel and advice; to the removal of scruple and doubt, the assurance of pardon, and the strengthening of your faith." In this way, the disciplines of Lent, such as fasting, confession, and Station of the Cross, prepare us lovingly to receive the joy of the Paschal feast. Fasting may take on many forms: abstaining from food or drink, resisting the temptation to judge or speak harshly of others, or adopting a more disciplined, healthier lifestyle that will honor the body as God's temple. However we fast, the sacrifice should dismantle the idols--even our language--that enslave us and distract us from our relationship with God.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Let the Little Children Come to Me

When I came to the Episcopal Church, after a twenty-year hiatus from organized religion, the congregation in which I landed was full of families with young children. Perhaps this is why I've never understood the angst and resistance many congregations express in heated debates about incorporating children into Sunday-morning worship. Having kids in church is as natural to me as having a priest at the altar. In fact, it seems weird to me not to have children in the sanctuary, with all the delightful chaos and disruption they bring. When I assert this position, I am sometimes met with objections, such as:

• "Well, the kids are noisy and fussy and disturb other parishioners." 
• "They don't understand what's going on, and they get bored."
• "We have a wonderful children's program in the basement."  

Yes, kids can be noisy and fussy. They may cry, or babble, or try to make a break for it and run around the sanctuary. They may get bored by sitting so long in an uncomfortable pew, or by the incessant chattering we adults tend to do--what the children at my current parish call, "talky-talky." So, what? It's not the end of the world. And perhaps your congregation does have a sensational Godly Play, Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, or Sunday School program. Those programs may indeed be very edifying and important. But, in the end, none of that matters to me. The only argument regarding children in worship I really care about comes from our Lord himself:

• "People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’ And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.'" (Mark 10:13-16).  There are similar passages in Matthew and Luke, as well.

In fact, if Jesus weren't a great enough authority on this question, I am absolutely convinced, for what it's worth, that children DO get what's going on. I don't care if the worship is as simple as bread shared around the kitchen table or as rarefied as Solemn High Mass in the Presence of a Greater Prelate presiding from the faldstool. Children get it. And adults may not be able to tell. Kids may not have fancy theological terms to articulate what they are experiencing; they may not intellectually understand what's going on. But they know something special is happening, and they want to be a part of it. I have seen children gaze with rapt awe as the priest consecrates the bread and wine at the altar, and then attempt to imitate the gestures themselves. I have witnessed a six-year-old catechize her three-year-old sister in the sacred mystery of the Eucharist by placing her hands in the shape of a cross to receive the consecrated bread in her tiny palm. I have been surprised to find that the children sitting on the floor shouting remembered some story I told in a sermon about a saint's life, when I was sure their short attention span had led them a million miles away to something far more fascinating. I wouldn't trade these chaotic moments for anything--no matter how polished, choreographed, or talky-talky.

The best way children learn about what it means to be a Christian is to practice, to worship alongside their parents and accept the mysteries that God makes present in whatever ways their developmental stage allows. To practice by doing it over and over again, so that it becomes second nature, embodied. That's what good catechesis looks like. This may include a fair bit of shouting, crying, running around, and general commotion. Perhaps our tendency to blame children for failing to appreciate the very important and serious work we're doing in the sanctuary should be turned back on us. Perhaps we adults should ask ourselves how we've failed to engage children in the joy of the Gospel.  If kids aren't interested in worship, as many adults claim, then maybe we should give them something worth paying attention to. Could it be that they are trying to teach us something important about what worship should or could be? Maybe sometimes worship should be messy and unpredictable. Not a free-for-all, just not tame. Not what adults would have it be. If, as Jesus says, we need to learn how to receive the kingdom of God as a child, we should be trying to learn from children how to to receive Jesus without reserve, without affectation, with the pure joy and commotion of the Hosannas that accompanied his triumphant entrance into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. I suspect that even then there were children teaching the adults the proper way to behave in our Lord's presence.

Abundant blessings,

Fr. Ethan+

Why Episcopal Identity Still Matters: Part I

This Sunday, I will conduct the first in a series of four classes on the Episcopal Church, what are often known as "inquirers classes." Although this is standard practice in Episcopal congregations, many might ask if this is still relevant. In a pluralistic, post-denominational society, does it matter whether we are Episcopal, Lutheran, Methodist, or Presbyterian? Haven't we evolved past these distinctions?

The answer is both yes and no. I firmly believe that ecumenical and interfaith collaboration is vital to the future of the Church, but I also feel very strongly that denominational identity is still worth building and nurturing. This belief is not the result of some abstract, intellectual exercise, but rather, the experience of my own formation as an Episcopalian. Below are five reasons why I think Episcopal identity still matters.

In Washington National Cathedral.

1. Common prayer. At the heart of the Episcopal identity is the notion of common prayer. As the old Anglican maxim goes, lex orandi, lex credendi, the way we pray shapes what we believe. Although many congregations now pray from Sunday bulletins, rather than pew copies of the Book of Common Prayer, worship is still based largely on the forms and rubrics of the Prayer Book. I can't count the number of times I have been in an unfamiliar city for work or vacation and have wandered into the local Episcopal parish for a Sunday Eucharist or weekday Evening Prayer. Whether it is in a country church, like the one my great-great-great-grandmother founded, or Washington National Cathedral, the patterns of worship remain familiar and consistent. In a strange environment, Episcopal worship has offered a locus of stability and belonging that I have greatly valued in a very fluid and tumultuous world.

2. An appeal to intellect, emotion, and the senses. As one elderly parishioner once said to me, "the Episcopal Church is the thinking man's church." The Anglican tradition has relied heavily on deep theological thinking, informed by Scripture, tradition, and human reason. However, the Episcopal Church has also encouraged people to peer beyond theological inquiry and debate to embrace experiential ways of knowing that engage the emotions and the senses. There is something deeply transformative about sitting in deep silence with others, walking the labyrinth, offering up prayers in great clouds of incense, or joining an entire congregation as they chant the Nicene Creed. Episcopal identity and worship engage the whole person.

Let my prayer be set forth in thy sight as incense.

3. Both ancient and modern. The Episcopal Church has been described as a creedal, rather than a confessional, church. This means that the Episcopal Church does not have a checklist of denominationally specific articles of faith to which members are expected to assent. Episcopalians ground themselves rather in the the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds, which articulate a heritage of faith and belief that goes back to the earliest days of the undivided Church. We may struggle to accept some of the content of these ancient creeds, but we recite them as a sign of our relationship with the generations of Christians that have come before us. But that is not all we are. We are also open to the new things the Holy Spirit has to teach us about what it means to be children of God and followers of Jesus in our own unique contexts. In the Episcopal Church, we value the tension between continuity and discontinuity, between tradition and new discoveries about God.

4. A democratic polity. The governance of the Episcopal Church was deeply influenced by the democratic, representative ethos of the United States, which was born in the same era. The Episcopal Church may be organized around the leadership of bishops, but these bishops are elected democratically by the clergy and lay leadership of each diocese.  At the national level, moreover, the Episcopal Church establishes official policy on a wide range of issues through discussion and shared decision-making that includes bishops and elected representatives of both the clergy and laity of each diocese.

Neighborhood peace vigil.

5. A social conscience. One of the reasons that I came to the Episcopal Church was its progressive stances on social justice issues, such as immigration policy, the ordination of women, and the inclusion of LGBTQ people. However, I have also respected that fact that the Episcopal Church is a very big tent, incorporating people who may not agree with me and supporting a diversity of convictions and outlooks: liberal and conservative, traditional and experimental, mystical and intellectual.

The attributes I have just described are not all unique to the Episcopal Church, but in the aggregate, they shape and define our shared identity as Episcopalians. In order for an individual or a congregation to understand who it is, it needs to be steeped in the larger tradition to which it belongs, to identify where there are shared connections, and whether there is divergence.  Next week: Part II.

Blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Baptism and a Broken Clutch

This past weekend, I had the privilege of participating with family in two major milestones, the baptism of my partner's two nephews on Saturday and my first Sunday as Interim Rector of Grace Episcopal Church in Chicago. Both were events of deep joy for me as a priest. And they both illustrated the truth that as much as we may try to plan, organize, and perfect our lives, circumstances can overtake us and thwart our best efforts. Then, we have to improvise. Fortunately, the Holy Spirit does some of her best work on the fly, and often shows up when we feel things are coming apart.

Welcoming the newly baptized.

We had been talking about Jordan's and Jose's baptism for a while, but the timing and logistics had been difficult, particularly because two of the godparents had been living in Alaska. The planets, however, had finally aligned to get the two boys, their parents, and their grandmother to Chicago for a long visit, during which we would do the baptism. The day before, however, the parish's liturgical coordinator--who is a master of executing complex liturgies despite the hindrances of befuddled, but well-meaning, clergy like me--was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital. I walked into church not knowing if I would find everything I needed, who would assist me, or exactly how the liturgy would unfold. But the rector and parish staff pulled together and stepped into the breach to help me. It didn't go as planned, and yet the Holy Spirit showed up, and the experience was beautiful.

Selfie with nearly stranded parents.

Later that day, I received a phone call. Ever since the start date for my new cure had been set, my mother and stepfather, Randy, had been planning to drive from Florida to surprise me on my first Sunday in my new congregation. I answered the phone, and Randy informed me that they were in Chicago. I was stunned and delighted. He explained that they had hoped to amble in on Sunday morning as I was greeting parishioners before the main service at 10 o'clock. But . . . it turned out that, even after a thorough maintenance check prior to leaving, the clutch started to give out somewhere in Indiana; and by the time, they were within ten miles of their hotel in Chicago, the car just gave up. Fortunately, they managed to get it off of the highway and onto a quiet side street. My parents were understandably disappointed that the surprise hadn't gone according to plan. From my perspective, though, I was grateful that the car hadn't died in the middle of a cornfield or 100 miles from the nearest gas station. They were safe, and I was close enough that I could jump in the car and pick them up in a matter of minutes. And I was granted the pleasure of an unexpected dinner with my family.

The next day, I was, of course, excited to worship with my new parish, with my family sitting in the congregation. Although I had read the service bulletin carefully, I found myself at several points in the service falling into old liturgical patterns. For example, I got confused during the Gloria, defaulted to the traditional Lord's Prayer, and neglected to use the special final blessing printed in the bulletin. But God showed up all the same, and it was beautiful. In a touching gesture, members of the vestry presented me with the former rector's white stole, which I kissed and placed over the green chasuble I was wearing, before gathering the community for the Liturgy of the Table. It is in moments like this that I am reminded that improvisation can be a blessing, allowing us to let go and grant the Holy Spirit space to move among us. The fruits of that movement are often unexpected, but beautiful. They remind us that it is sometimes OK for us to relinquish control. It is fine for things not to go as planned, because the Holy Spirit shows up and compensates for our uncertainty and stumbling. In those moments, we can relax, because God is in charge.

All Religion is Local

Vie de Jesus Mafa, The Transfiguration

If "all politics are local," as the old adage goes, it's probably equally true that "all religion is local." Or at least we tend to behave as if that were true.  The day-in and day-out of parish life persuades us that the way we do things in our parish is normative for others in our tribe, such as the Episcopal Church.  The way we worship, the language we use, the hymns and music we sing, the way we run our meetings.  Now, even if we don't assent intellectually to this idea, we can often act unconsciously as if OUR way is THE way. We assume quite innocently that this is just how Episcopalians (or Lutherans, or Baptists) do things.  But religion is, at its heart, deeply contextual.

Bishop Lee installs the new vicar.  Photo from Br. Ron Fox.

Which is why I'm really grateful to gather on occasion with other Episcopalians to be reminded that I am part of a community much larger than what I know and do.  Over the last four days, I've been to three different Episcopal congregations to either lead or participate in worship. What is remarkable to me is the way that each of these communities of faith--as unique as they are--embodies the concept of the Church, with a capital "C."  As member congregations of the Diocese of Chicago, all three are firmly rooted in the Anglican/Episcopal tradition, despite the great variety and diversity of worship styles and cultural contexts.  It can be a wonderful experience to be thrown off kilter, pushed out of our comfort zones, and be invited into something unexpected.

On Thursday evening, I participated in the installation of my dear friend, Fr. Robert Cristobal, as vicar of St. George and St. Matthias Episcopal Church, an historically African American and Afro-Caribbean congregation on the south side of Chicago.  Much of the music was unfamiliar to me, and I noticed several visitors surprised by the exuberant engagement of the congregation with the preacher during his sermon.  And yet, here was the fullness of the Anglican tradition: the bishop, the Eucharist, the Book of Common Prayer, clergy and people of the Diocese worshipping together as one.  It was beautiful and joyous, compelling and powerful.

Chicago Chapter-in-Formation of the Society of Catholic Priests

On Saturday morning, I gathered with other members of the Chicago Chapter-in-Formation of the Society of Catholic Priests at the Church of the Atonement, Chicago for a Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary, followed by the chapter meeting.  The service was a solid Rite II Eucharist from the Book of Common Prayer with the usual Atonement embellishments. We shared our latest news over brown-bag lunches, talked about the contributions we could make to the life of the Diocese, and engaged in a theological reflection based on the words of the new Presiding Bishop-Elect, Michael Curry.  On Sunday, I drove out into rural/suburban Kane County to celebrate Mass with St. James Episcopal Church in West Dundee, IL, which, as a rural parish, was preparing for its upcoming Rogation celebration.  It had been several years since I had done a Rite I Eucharist, and so I tripped over the King James English, which had at one time been so familiar.  Of course, their customs for celebrating the Eucharist differed a bit from mine, and we laughed over the imperfections and miscommunications we committed, such as when the server failed to do the ablutions after communion, and I forgot to return to the chancel following the dismissal for the announcements. We are all a product of our patterns, our routines, our contexts.

St. James window in West Dundee

I picture for myself the scene at Jesus's Transfiguration.  Matthew 17 records that right after Jesus appears transfigured in dazzling white, flanked by Moses and Elijah, "Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’"  One cannot help but wonder what Peter would have come up with if he had been allowed to build those dwellings.  Would they have all been identical?  Would Jesus, Moses, or Elijah have had any say in what their dwellings looked liked, how they were laid out, or how they were decorated?  Would James and John have been included in the design and building?  Would the three apostles have divided up the work and each taken responsibility for one of these dwellings?  Would they have fought for creative control or would they have collaborated harmoniously?

As it happens, each of them is credited with building a version of the Church in various places, all of which look very different from each other.  These apostles too understood that the Church is contextual, shaped by the unique identities, experiences and situations of the people in a particular time and place.  The lesson for us is to embrace the possibility that the Church can look and behave differently than we are used to, and yet we can find a place for ourselves in this new and unfamiliar incarnation of the Body of Christ.

Peace and blessings,
Fr. Ethan.+



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