I Will Go, Lord.

On the Tuesday of Holy Week, Bishop Lee, the clergy, and laity gathered at St. James Cathedral for the annual renewal of ordination and baptismal vows. The bishop also blessed the holy oil called chrism for use in baptisms. The closing hymn of the Chrism Mass was "Here I Am, Lord," and it was very moving to sing the chorus, "Here I am Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night. I will go, Lord, if you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart." Those verses have always resonated with me in a very personal way, much as the words of another hymn we sang at that liturgy, "Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God, he to rescue me from danger, interposed his precious blood."

The essential message of those hymns is that, left to our own devices, we wander aimlessly, but if we rely on God to lead us, he will lead us toward new life. We are all called to serve, and God leads each one of us to serve in different ways; but as we enter the Easter Triduum, we must not lose sight that we are taking this journey together, with Jesus and with each other. We will wait together in the Garden of Gethsemane. We will walk together along the path to Calvary. We will witness the crucifixion and mourn together. And we will greet the resurrection with abundant joy--together. And through it all, we must be attentive to God's promptings to each one of us to go where God directs, and respond, yes, "I will go Lord, if you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart." God calls each of us. Where is God leading you? That is part of the Paschal mystery that we will explore together.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

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+

Preserving the Nicene Creed

I am just back in the parish after having been on the road for a solid week, first at the Society of Catholic Priests annual meeting in Denver, and then at the Diocese of Chicago's clergy conference. Both events provided a stirring experience of the universality of the Church, the fact that we live out the Christian faith in our own distinct contexts, animated by different cultural traditions, pieties, and musical styles. And our theologies are often varied, as well. We discussed, debated, and even argued about what constitutes solid Anglican teaching. Are hospitality and justice, for example, sufficient reasons to change, say, the Church's official position on the communion of the unbaptized? Do they provide an adequate justification for revising the marriage rite in the Book of Common Prayer to encompass same-sex couples, or is more theological work needed?  And then, there's the Nicene Creed, another topic on which much digital ink has been spilled this week.

The core issue of the Nicene Creed is its status in a revised Prayer Book. Should it be included, and if so, why? In what form should it be retained? Should it remain a normative and integral part of the primary service on Sundays? Regardless of our different ministry contexts, the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds serve as a focal point of unity in the Anglican Communion. It will probably not surprise you to hear that people of good conscience have expressed a variety of views on this subject. And I am among them. So, here are my top five concerns about the Nicene Creed:

1. Restore the original Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed. My beloved read the words Niceno-Constantinopolitan over my shoulder and said it sounded like an exotic ice cream medley. I laughed and admitted that this blog entry might seem a bit esoteric and pedantic to some, so if it is, my apologies. But, in all seriousness, I think the Nicene Creed is a topic worthy of thoughtful debate. As "Crusty Old Dean," Tom Ferguson, has colorfully argued on his own blog, the Episcopal Church should decisively get rid of the filioque clause in the Nicene Creed that claims that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father AND the Son. For one, the filioque muddles and problematizes orthodox Trinitarian theology. Secondly, it was a unilateral decision to counter the Arianism of the Teutonic Christians, who viewed Jesus as inferior to the Father. Originally added at the Council of Toledo in 589 and later enforced by Charlemagne, the reason it was contrived no longer exists. To revert to the original Creed as formulated at the Ecumenical Councils of Nicaea in 325 and Constantinople in 381 would more faithfully recapture the sensus fidelium of the early Church that we embrace and pass on to future generations.

Archbishop Michael Ramsey

2. Pass the torch. Each generation of the faithful is charged with passing on the core tenets of the faith to the next. Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey, wrote on the first page of The Anglican Spirit,

"I want to talk about some of the main enduring characteristics of Anglican tradition, the way in which the Anglican Church has in its life and teaching, theology and sacraments, given over that divine paradosis--which is the Greek word for something that has been 'handed over' or 'passed on.' For when we Christians speak of tradition, we mean the experience of the Christian community lying authentically within that which God through Christ has handed over for the revelation of himself and the salvation of men and women everywhere" (Ramsey, 1).

So, for example, what is the point of the catechumenate if we fail to hand over the core beliefs of Christianity as preserved in the Nicene Creed. In the current version of the catechumenate in the Book of Occasional Services, the direction is given that "it is appropriate that the Apostles' (or Nicene Creed) be given to the Candidates for Baptism on the Third Sunday in Lent and the Lord's Prayer be given to them on the Fifth Sunday in Lent." If we dispense with the Nicene Creed, then exactly what faith are we passing on? What statement of belief are they receiving?

3. Prayer Book revision. This leads me to Prayer Book revision. Dr. Derek Olsen has addressed a number of concerns that have arisen from a recent statement on Prayer Book revision from his colleague on the Standing Commission on Liturgy and Music, The Rev. Dr. Ruth Meyers. Dr. Meyers described the Nicene Creed as a stumbling block for many, and proposed that it not remain a standard feature of Sunday worship. This suggestion ignited the blogosphere and occasioned a flurry of responses, such as in the Living Church and on the Smoking Thurible blog. The Nicene Creed, I would argue, forms part of the esse of the Church, and is therefore not dispensable. Olsen argues, moreover, that Meyer's proposal is symptomatic of a cultural shift away from orthodox Christianity toward a variety of heresies aligned with Moral Therapeutic Deism. C. S. Lewis makes the point in Letters to Malcolm, for example, that "first, [common prayer] keeps me in touch with 'sound doctrine.' Left to oneself, one could easily slide away from 'the faith once given' into a phantom called 'my religion.' [...] By the way, that's another thing to be avoided in a revised Prayer Book. 'Contemporary problems' may claim an undue share. And the more 'up to date' the book is, the sooner it will be dated" (Lewis, 12). If you don't believe Lewis, take a look at Eucharistic Prayer C (referred to by people of diverse churchmanship as the "Star Wars Prayer") in the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, and tell me it doesn't seem dated, despite its often lovely, lyrical imagery. As a guy who grew up in the 1970s, it does have a bit of a ''groovy, man" vibe to me.

4. Foster ecumenism. The current version of the Creed with the filioque is a serious obstacle to ecumenical work. Lest we forget, the filioque was one of the primary disagreements that led to the Great Schism between the Western and Eastern Churches in 1054. The Anglican Oriental Orthodox International Commission met last week in Wales, during which the Anglican representatives agreed to remove the filioque and move the two communions closer together. Dean Ferguson clarifies that the removal of the filioque is not meant simply to placate Orthodox Christians, who have long complained about its use among Roman Catholics and others (like us), but because it's a theological aberration that needs to be remedied. More generally, the Nicene Creed is not just an historical artifact. It remains the second component of the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral of 1886/8 shaped by William Reed Huntingdon as the basis for Anglican ecumenical work: "The Apostles' Creed, as the Baptismal Symbol; and the Nicene Creed, as the sufficient statement of the Christian faith" (BCP, 877). I understand that this document, like the Articles of Religion (Thirty-Nine Articles) is housed in the "Historic Documents" section of the Prayer Book, but unless I've been misinformed, the historic Creeds, along with the Holy Scriptures, the dominical sacraments, and the episcopate, are still foundational principles for our ecumenical efforts.

Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed

5. Creeds are always necessary but not sufficient. During the Diocese of Chicago's clergy conference, the Rev. Dr. Mark McIntosh, Professor of Christian Spirituality at Loyola University Chicago, pointed out that "creeds are always necessary, but not sufficient." I absolutely agree with this statement--at least inasmuch as the Nicene Creed does not speak explicitly on every topic related to God or the Christian experience. There is much that we affirm about God and our lives as Christians that are not mentioned by the historic Creeds, and so I have at times complemented the Nicene Creed on Sunday morning with other affirmations as a way to encourage people to be reflective. The historic Creeds are the starting point of a spiritual journey. The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral defines the Nicene Creed as the sufficient statement of the Christian faith, which I understand to mean that it supplies the essential foundation without being exhaustive like a multi-tomed systematic theology. But it does something else. In being the foundation, the Creed drives our seeking, leading us to be ever more curious, ever more passionate for God.

I realize that for many people reciting the Nicene Creed is difficult, containing certain theological propositions to which they cannot assent. It's tough for me, too. So, I get Dr. Meyer's point. But reciting the Creed is about more than agreeing intellectually with this or that statement. It's about affirming one's belonging to a heritage of faith and practice over many generations and seeking to live into the unfathomable mystery of God that the Nicene Creed expresses. In this way, the Church would not be the Church without it.

A Tale of Knives and Nunchucks

An audio recording of this sermon is available by clicking here.

The letter to the Ephesians commands its hearers to, “put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” In this day and age, this sort of language seems out of place, whether for its militaristic overtones or the medieval worldview that it invokes. The image of Christian soldiers has often made me very uneasy, reminding me of shameful chapters in our history, like the Crusades and the Inquisition, when people have been oppressed and killed in the name of Jesus, the Prince of Peace. Talk of the devil and evil forces, moreover, seems superstitious and outmoded, calling forth visions of damned beings with horns and tails, inhabiting a realm of eternal suffering and unquenchable fire. And yet, I am here to tell you that these images are still compelling and relevant, even to postmodern people who think they have evolved beyond conventional understandings of angels and demons, of heaven and hell.

A brawl breaks out at Starbucks.

On Tuesday, I sat at a table at the Starbucks on Bryn Mawr in Edgewater, waiting for a parishioner to join me to plan adult forums for the rest of the year. As I sat in front of my laptop leisurely sipping my latte, a commotion erupted, and three men ran past me, swearing and knocking over chairs. At one point, one of these chairs became airborne as one man tried to shield himself from the blows of the other two, who were clearly enraged and bent on inflicting verbal abuse and physical violence. The shop’s patrons were alarmed, and so I packed up my stuff, and dashed outside to find a police officer. By the time I came back a few minutes later, a policeman was leading one of the men out of Starbucks in handcuffs. Over the course of the next several minutes, four more squad cars pulled up to offer backup, and the other two men were taken into custody, as well. The anxiety in the room quickly dissipated, and people returned to their drinks, conversations, and mobile devices. But my story doesn’t end there.

After my meeting, I jumped on the Red Line for my usual commute to Grace. When the trained pulled into the Jackson station, we interrupted another altercation already underway. As the platform came into view, I witnessed a woman attempting to defend herself with nunchucks against a man wielding a knife. The doors opened, and an officer in plain clothes whipped out his badge and shouted, “CPD!”  He exited the train and attempted to separate the two combatants and calm them down. Aided by another police officer in plain clothes, he apprehended the man with the knife, who had attempted to seek refuge on the train, all the while spouting obscenities. I thought about how frightened the German couple standing in front of me must’ve been, their school-age daughter in a wheelchair, facing the door where all of this turmoil was occurring. The two officers managed to subdue the aggressor, remove him from the train, and put him in cuffs. The woman, still holding her nunchucks, thanked the police officers, and announced, “he had the devil in him. He had the devil in him, and he showed his true colors.” I’m not making it up; she really said that.

Jesus' temptation in the wilderness.

It was harrowing to watch both of these scenes unfold before me, and to feel powerless to intervene. I was grateful that the police were responsive and professional during these incidents of unexpected violence that endangered so many innocent bystanders. It was fortunate that an officer just happened to be standing in front of the door -- in my train car -- at that precise moment. I don’t know if it was divine grace or dumb luck, and I frankly didn’t care.  But when I become complacent, feeling that the world is safe, moments like this remind me that human beings can still be agents of great suffering and violence, that evil really exists. I am not saying, of course, that the perpetrators of this violence are evil or are somehow not loved by God, but rather, that human beings—and that includes all of us—are susceptible to the lure of all kinds of sins, to selfish motives and evil urges.  We may not all act on these temptations, but they prod and goad us, encouraging us to give in to our baser impulses. This is what the reading from the Ephesians is all about. The devil is all around you, he’s crafty and powerful, so be on your guard and protect yourself, the reading tells us.  You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re immune. After all, Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness being tempted by Satan, who offered our Lord wealth and power, if only he would bow down and worship him. 

I know that in the twenty-first century, sin is a topic that is out of fashion, and out of sync with contemporary sensibilities. Nobody wants to hear about it. As Jesus’s disciples say to him in this morning’s Gospel, while our Lord is teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum, “this teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”  Sin seems like a topic for fire-and-brimstone sermons from the seventeenth century. Besides, the Church has done so much to make us feel bad about ourselves, because of our sexual orientation, gender, or gender identity, or for using birth control or getting divorced, and a host of other things, that we’ve consigned sin to the theological dustheap. But I’m bringing back Old Time Religion this morning just for a moment, because I think we’ve overlooked something. There is a reason that we make our confession every Sunday before receiving Jesus’s body and blood at the altar: sin is real. It is not only the sin we commit as individuals against each other for which we ask for forgiveness, but it is also for our participation in institutionalized sins, such as racism, misogyny, ecological devastation, and rampant consumerism. We have a lot of sin to repent for.

Jesus's Baptism in the Jordan.

Ephesians offers us jarring language that chafes against our inclination to think of ourselves as just fine the way we are. I have always subscribed to the concept of original blessing, rather than original sin. When God said on the sixth day that everything that she had created was very good, I take God at her word. We ARE very good, but that doesn’t mean we can do without God, that we are self-sufficiently moral without God’s help. Even as good as we are, “the spiritual forces of evil” are formidable, and so we need to be vigilant and disciplined, because sin could crop up anywhere, at Starbucks or on the Red Line. To “take the shield of faith, to “fasten the belt of truth,” and to “put on the breastplate of righteousness” expresses the human aspiration to overcome the temptation to give in to sin. “As shoes for your feet,” Ephesians counsels, “put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.” In the face of sin and evil, we wrap ourselves in God, who shelters and protects us like armor.

This topic comes up most poignantly whenever I prepare new Christians, or their parents and godparents, for baptism. “Don’t be put off by the old-timey language,” I tell them. “Your child will face all kinds of evil in her life: human cruelty, apathy to the suffering of others, violence, greed, selfishness, and many other things that will divide her from God and her neighbor. In baptism, we are asking for God’s protection and guidance in such moments.” Indeed, the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer asks the person or sponsor, “will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord.” The response is, “I will, with God’s help.” The Prayer Book suggests that the avoidance of sin is impossible, and so we just plug away as best we can and rely on God’s help to set us back on to the path of peace. As the disciples asked Jesus, I now ask you, “this teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”  

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.