A Total-Immersion Course in Priestcraft

Many people have asked me what I have been doing since I moved to Philadelphia to become curate at S. Clement's.  Fr. Reid and I have often joked that people must think we only work about three hours a week (all on Sunday morning), but the truth is that daily life at S. Clement's is busy and eventful, especially liturgically.  Even after serving as seminarian for two years in an Anglo-Catholic parish, getting up the liturgical learning curve at S. Clement's has been a substantial undertaking that has required intensive study, instruction, and practice.  Because S. Clement's had been without a curate for nearly two years, it has been necessary for me to hit the ground running and get up to speed as quickly as possible. The results of my General Ordination Exams seemed to affirm that my priestly formation had been more than adequate, and yet I realized in the daily exercise of parish ministry that there were lacunae in my liturgical training, gaps that would not be an issue in many Episcopal parishes.  But, of course, this is S. Clement's, and I came here precisely because I wanted to be challenged and immersed in the rich traditions of the Church Catholic.

The opening lines of the Exsultet from the English Missal.

This immersion has entailed numerous rehearsals with Fr. Reid during weekday afternoons to learn to serve as deacon at Solemn High Mass, which is an elegant, but intricate, performance requiring much concentration and repetition, not to mention frequent consultation of liturgical manuals, such as Fortescue, to get the details, nuances, and coordination of the liturgical ministers right.  It is one thing to commit these minutiae to memory; it is quite another to apply them gracefully and confidently within the liturgy.  I am continually trying to remember on which step Fortescue tells me I am supposed to be standing, in which direction I am supposed to be facing, and when and where I should be genuflecting!  It has been a wonderfully stretching experience, and though it has at times been stressful and even discouraging, I have come to enjoy it and am proud of the progress I have made in my first month here.  There is no doubt that I am getting better from week to week, and I am grateful to Fr. Reid, the subdeacons, MC, thurifer, and others in the altar party for all of their support, guidance, and patience.  The intensity of my immersion has forced me to abandon my comfort zone and to take on challenges that I might have considered too advanced for me a couple of years ago.  But that is the wonderful thing about growth, and I am now faced with the formidable task of learning the Exsultet for the Great Vigil of Easter, which in the English Missal is a much longer version than the one in the 1979 Prayer Book.  At S. Clement's, there is always more to learn and to improve and to perfect.

It would be misleading, though, to portray my formation at S. Clement's as purely technical, since much of my adjustment to my first cure of souls has been spiritual.  There is something deeply grounding in the structuring of one's life around the liturgical life of the Church, which few clergy get once they leave seminary.  The clergy attend daily mass and evening prayer in S. John's Chapel, followed by novena prayers at the Shrine of Our Lady of Clemency.  We also have a monthly Vespers of the Dead and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, and during Lent, weekly Stations of the Cross and Benediction.  As a result of this liturgical rhythm, there have been ample opportunities for informal consultation and instruction that have taught me a lot about being a priest.  This is certainly a serious process, but teaching and learning are always accompanied by a lot of laughter and a great deal of joy in being able to share in the transmission of the Church's heritage from one generation to another.  I have heard numerous priests mention what a shame it is that there is less clergy collegiality nowadays than there used to be, but it is still strong in places like S. Clement's and my former parish in Chicago, The Church of the Atonement.

The high altar.

In addition to the liturgical and prayer life of the parish, my day is naturally filled with the typical features of a cleric's life:  pastoral visits, study for Sunday-morning adult education classes, preaching preparation, deanery clericus gatherings, staff meetings, and administrative work.  All of this work during my first month has impressed upon me what a valuable formation opportunity it is to learn the art of priestcraft in an era when seminaries do not emphasize this dimension of ordained ministry.  I wonder, then, if parishes like S. Clement's could serve as a kind of Center of Excellence or Academy to train new (or even seasoned) clergy in priestcraft.  If one wanted to learn how to do Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament or Solemn High Mass, where would one go to do so?  Would clergy be attracted by such an intensive learning opportunity, and would they be willing to pay to attend a series of workshops or engage in a short-term residential fellowship?  If seminaries are less able in the future to teach priestcraft, might a total immersion experience fill the gap?  For those of us who would love to see another Catholic revival or Oxford Movement within Anglicanism, we may need to seek alternative models for training and formation that can transmit the essentials of the priesthood.

Ashes Addendum

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

Much ink has been spilled in the last week over the pros and cons of "Ashes-to-Go," an event in which churches venture out into their communities to administer ashes to the public, so I won't duplicate those comments here.  Instead, I'd like to share just a few snapshots of people I met during the day to illustrate why I think this effort is worth undertaking.  More than any clever theological or missiological rationale I may have articulated, friends and colleagues have been captivated by the stories of my encounters with specific people, which they have encouraged me to share here on the Web.

I have always said that theology begins at the front door, because it is how we greet people that sets their expectations for how they are going to be treated once they have come inside the church building.  It says, "this is how we treat each other in this Christian community."  However, being out in the world without the protection of standing in the narthex of one's home turf alters the balance of power considerably.  People feel much braver to ask questions and challenge you if you're simply standing on the sidewalk as they scuttle by on their way to work, to lunch, or to run errands.  People surprise you, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not so pleasantly, but it is always instructive.

Here are some of the highlights:

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

• An African American woman abruptly pulled up to the curb in her huge SUV, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out to ask me if I would come to administer ashes to her very elderly mother, who was quite feeble.  So, I climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV, introduced myself, shook the mother's hand, and imposed ashes on her forehead.  Visibly grateful, the elderly woman said, "Bless you, you have answered all my prayers today!"
• Even though we were clearly identified as an Episcopal Church, most people didn't hesitate at all and came right up to receive.  However, like many Roman Catholics that day, one middle-aged woman asked if she was allowed to receive ashes from me.  I explained that I knew that she was not allowed to receive communion, but since the imposition of ashes was an act of piety signifying repentance, rather than a sacrament, I said that I didn't see any reason why she shouldn't receive if she wanted to.  She was clearly conflicted, but after studying the people's faces as they received ashes, she finally got in line, smiled, and said, "well, I guess I'm in too!" 
• During the morning rush hour, I asked a young woman if she wanted ashes, and she told me she was Muslim, at which point I noticed she was wearing a hijab on her head.  About an hour later, when I was talking to a man from a neighboring parish who had stopped by St. Clement's to pray, she approached us smiling and handed each of us a Qur'an.  I thanked her for her kind gift.  It was an incredible moment of mutual respect and generosity.
• I can recall only one hurtful moment--a hit-and-run event--when a passerby, assuming we were Roman Catholics, quipped without stopping, "So, you took a break from molesting kids in the sacristy?" to which I responded without skipping a beat, "we're Anglicans; we don't do that."  My tone wasn't snarky or bitter; I was just setting the record straight.
• A homeless man came up to me grinning, and after I had given him ashes, he said, "Bless you, my brother! Praise Jesus!" which was a tremendous joy.
• Several people who did not speak English, including an elderly man from eastern Europe and an elderly Italian woman came up to me, and even though I could not utter anything in their languages, they knew exactly what this ritual was all about and reacted as if they understood the words I was saying.  It just goes to show you that sometimes the Holy Spirit takes over to fill in the gaps.
• As we were making our way back to the church at the end, a man shouted to me from the cab of a very large delivery truck that was stopped at the stop light.  He couldn't get out of his truck, but he wondered if I'd give him ashes.  It was a bit tricky, but I clambered up the side of the vast truck in my ecclesiastical finery and administered ashes through the driver's side window.  Then, the light changed to green, and he moved on. 
• And finally, among my favorite moments were those when Jewish ladies passed by us at various points and said, "I'm Jewish, but I think what you're doing is wonderful!"

These vignettes remind us that we often have to live our way into the mystery of the Christian faith.  It is very easy to intellectualize it and lose sight of its affective and experiential dimensions, which can teach us much about what it means to follow Jesus.  It is in the encounter with other people that we are invited into a deeper experience of the transformative power of the Gospel message of good news for the poor, the wounded, the captive, and the dejected of this world, who are sometimes we ourselves.

Why Newman?

John Henry Newman in 1844.

The Episcopal Church commemorates John Henry Newman on February 21st, and it might strike some as odd that Anglicanism should honor a man who abandoned communion with the see of Canterbury to join the Roman Catholic Church.  The question of Newman's place and heritage within Anglicanism is perhaps all the more timely and controversial, given the recent establishment of the Anglican Ordinariate, which allows entire Anglican congregations to enter into communion with the Holy See while preserving some markers of Anglican worship and spirituality.  However, the deeper questions posed by Newman's inclusion in the Episcopal Church's sanctoral Kalendar, as well as the Ordinariate, are: how are we to understand our relationships with our brothers and sisters in Christ once they have swum the Tiber? And how should we remember them in the long view of history?

There are no doubt many reasonable answers to these questions, but my own response seeks to embrace the whole course of a person's process of spiritual and theological discernment, rather than to limit my focus to his or her ultimate destination. With Newman, I attempt to view the man's life globally, rather than as a figure at only one point in time.  Indeed, I do not have to agree with Newman's decision to go to Rome in order to value his writings and work as a Church of England priest within the Oxford Movement.  I can agree with his subtle theological arguments, without assenting to the conclusions that he draws from them, most particularly, that Rome is the only true Church.  When I read Newman, I come to a very different set of conclusions, perhaps much as Keble or Pusey did.  Some Catholic Anglicans have arrived at convictions that have called them to Rome, while others have arrived at ones that keep them in Canterbury.  (And let us not forget the scores of Roman Catholics who have swum the Thames for similar reasons of conscience and become Anglicans!)

What I respect above all, however, is the common struggle we have experienced, wherever each of us has landed.  I have been moved by the accounts of Newman's theological wrangling and nagging conscience, for they are reminiscent of my own struggles to formulate solid theological propositions and construct an Anglo-Catholic identity within the Episcopal Church.  Newman and I doubtless wrestled with some of the same theological problems, and so I find much solidarity and companionship in reading about his journey, which had great integrity.  As one of my theology professors in seminary insightfully noted, "every theological proposition solves one problem and opens up another."  I think we can thus thank Newman for showing us that going to Rome does not necessarily get round the difficult theological questions; it may only delay answering them and sometimes can even expose new problems.  Indeed, for many in the Church of England, such as Keble, Pusey, Selwyn, Gore, and countless others in later generations, giving up on the hard questions related to the Catholic nature of Anglicanism was not an option; they stuck it out, wrestled with it some more, and got us a bit closer to the truth.  Newman explored one solution, and his Oxford colleagues explored others.

Despite his decision to quit Anglicanism, I am indebted to Newman, as well as to his Oxford companions, for the inspiration he has provided during my own formation as a priest.  Newman's place in the Kalendar may be justified by the fact that even now younger generations of Anglo-Catholics just like me are still drawing great strength from him, not because of what he ultimately became--a Roman Catholic--but because of what he contributed to and achieved for the Church of England, and in the fullness of time, Anglicanism.  Anglo-Catholicism might be much poorer today had not Newman been a key leader in those first formative years of the Oxford Movement.  I am therefore grateful that he is remembered by the Church, when other Anglo-Catholic luminaries, such as Frank Weston, have not been honored with a day in the Kalendar.

It can be difficult in this day to be an Anglo-Catholic, for the word means many different things to many different people, and each of us is bidden to figure out how we are going to understand and live out this identity.  Society and the Church can also be unkind in their treatment of people who use this label, sometimes based largely on stereotypes or misinformation.  Much of what Newman wrote as a catholic-minded priest in the Church of England, for example, provided deep nourishment and comfort for me as a seminarian whenever I encountered anti-Catholic prejudice and invective in both of the seminaries in which I trained.  As someone who left one faith in sad protest as an adolescent, wandered aimlessly for a couple of decades, and then found a new faith, I am inclined to be generous in my estimation of Newman.  I am sympathetic to his struggle.  So, in answer to my original question about how we might understand or remember Newman, I would say that we might respect his decision to walk apart, and yet still be grateful for the time we spent walking together.

Paul's Conversion from Fear to Hope

Orthodox icon of Sts. Peter and Paul.

The apostles Peter and Paul are frequently paired with each other, particularly in the names of cathedrals, since they are regarded as two founding pillars of the Church.  According to Holy Scripture, Peter was the first among the original twelve apostles, the rock on whom the Western Church was built, while Paul was known as the apostle to the non-Jewish population of the eastern Mediterranean.  In fact, Paul claims in his Letter to the Galatians to have met Peter (or Cephas, as he was also called) and some of the other apostles at the Council of Jerusalem in around 50 CE, and there is an alternative account of this meeting in the Acts of the Apostles that is interestingly much less flattering to Paul.  The Feasts of the Confession of St. Peter and the Conversion of St. Paul are thus unsurprisingly quite close together--only a week apart--not only because of the traditional pairing of the two apostles, but also because there is something quite similar about their struggles as people of faith.  If Peter was the faithless apostle that out of fear denied Jesus three times, Paul was the unlikely apostle who had hunted down and murdered Jesus' followers in the early years following the Crucifixion.  Each had a checkered past.  Each had denied Jesus and had worked against His divine mission and yet was transformed into a key supporter of this same mission and proclaimed Him as Lord.  But in Paul's case, what is the nature of this "conversion" that we observe today?

St. Paul by Masaccio.

Contrary to popular understanding, Paul did not convert from Judaism to Christianity.  The man's name change from Saul to Paul does not signify some transference of allegiance from one institutional religion to another.  This is mainly because the Judaism of the first century CE was not one monolithic entity, but a combination of many sects, perspectives, and priorities that defied easy oversimplification.  What we know as Christianity, moreover, did not yet exist as either a consolidated identity or as a distinct alternative to contemporary Judaism of any stripe.  Followers of Jesus were known as adherents to "the Way," but many of them considered themselves faithful Jews, as did the apostle Paul, who was also a Pharisee.  Current Pauline scholarship has attempted to reclaim the Jewish identity of Paul, which one will discover is well supported by reading Paul's undisputed epistles:  Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, 1 Thessalonians, Galatians, Philippians, and Philemon.  The authorship of the other epistles attributed to Paul are generally in dispute, but almost certainly are not his original work.  A good introduction to Paul's Jewish identity and the epistles is Pamela Eisenbaum's 2009 book, Paul Was Not a Christian:  The Original Message of a Misunderstood Apostle.

Caravaggio's take on Paul's conversion.

My belief is that Paul's conversion is rather one that opened his eyes to a larger perspective on humanity's future to which he had been blind.  Like Caravaggio's painting to the left suggests, Saul's encounter with the risen Jesus on the road to Damascus unbalanced him, threw him off his high horse, and knocked the wind out of him.  This unseating was necessary and purposeful, for his narrow and limited viewpoint had made him an opponent of Jesus and a vicious persecutor of his disciples. He needed to learn to see differently.  This condition is emphasized in Acts 9 by the blindness that afflicts Saul for three days following his unexpected meeting with Jesus.  It is only when the disciple, Ananias, lays hands on him at Jesus' command, that Saul receives the Holy Spirit and regains his sight, which inspires him immediately to be baptized and embrace a different path.  Peter's previous faithlessness and Paul's former violence against the followers of Jesus should remind us to remain open to the ever unfolding truth that God wishes to communicate to us, however frightening it might seem to be at first.  The scariness of crucifixion and the threat posed by Jesus' followers to the status quo should encourage us, like Peter and Paul, to avoid reacting out of fear.  Fear can be a very powerful force that leads us away from God.  In moments when fear blinds us and encourages us to persecute like Saul, we must resist the urge toward violent acts and speech and rely on the hope offered by the risen Christ.  If the Gospel really is good news, then we should respond as Peter and Paul ultimately did, and preach a message of good news that is gracious and seasoned with salt, as Colossians commends.  With this in mind, I can think of no better way to end than to quote the collect for this feast of Paul's conversion:

"O God, who through the preaching of the blessed Apostle Saint Paul, hast caused the light of the Gospel to shine throughout the world : grant, we beseech thee; that we, having his wonderful conversion in remembrance, may show forth our thankfulness unto thee for the same, by following the holy doctrine which he taught.  Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who livest and reignest with Thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, ever one God, world without end. Amen."

Confession and Confession

"Christ Handing the Keys to St. Peter,"
Pietro Perugino,  1481.

Those of you who read my blog with any regularity have probably noticed that I rely heavily on the Church's calendar for my reflections, while many of my blogger colleagues focus primarily on current events, social issues, politics, the media, or family life.  This is not because I think these issues are trivial compared to observing St. So-and-So's feast, or because I lack imagination, am insufficiently activist, or am overly entangled in the institution of the Church.  I would like to suggest rather that it is because the cyclical nature of the Church year brings me into regular contact with a vast witness of people with struggles, failures, and integrity that keeps me grounded as a Christian.  In reading the stories of these flawed and yet faithful people, I often stumble upon some statement, image, or theological notion that is so compelling that it invites me to engage it in a very personal way.  Today is no different.  Today we observe the Confession of St. Peter the Apostle, which is also known as the Commemoration of the Chair of St. Peter at Rome.  As I read the Divine Office this morning, I encountered that critical verse in the Gospel of Matthew that Catholic Christians regard as the basis for the Church's authority and divine sanction.  Jesus declares, "And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.  I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven" (Matt. 16:18-19).

If one reads the two preceding verses, one discovers that this powerful statement is a response to a pivotal event:  Simon Peter's profession of Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of the living God.  This declaration, in fact, serves as Peter's answer to Our Lord's essential question, "But who do you say that I am?" (Matt. 16:15-16).  The back-and-forth dialogue of this passage illustrates the fundamental mutuality embedded in the relationships fostered within the Church.  It is a covenant in which the Church proclaims for all time that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God, a proclamation that requires something from us.  As a matter of fact, it is my belief that this confession of faith is closely linked to another confession, the confession of sins.  Many Anglicans--as well as many Roman Catholics--have little experience of the sacrament of confession, or reconciliation as it is sometimes called, perhaps conjuring up some old-fashioned black-and-white image from the 1950s that would seem to have little relevance to life in the twenty-first century. "After all," I have heard some friends argue, "we have a general confession and absolution in the mass.  Doesn't that do the same thing?" 

The confessional where I go to monthly
confession, whether I need it or not.

Well, my answer is "yes" and "no."  I would not argue that the priest's absolution in the mass is less effectual than in auricular (private) confession.  But I would say that my experience of each is different.  A couple of years ago, I had several conversations about my spiritual formation with an elderly priest, who told me that I should get a confessor, which I did.  It was literally a life-changing move for me.  The sacrament stirred something deep within me when I named for this priest the specific sins I had committed, engaged in conversation about them, received moral guidance, received absolution, and then performed the penance he assigned me.  The penance was usually to recite a particular psalm, and I was struck by how relevant the content of that psalm was to the issues weighing on my conscience--so much so, that I often returned to that psalm in the weeks that followed.  My very seasoned confessor apparently knew exactly what I needed to reflect upon.  I was equally struck by his advice, not only because it was so helpful and insightful, but mainly because it was usually not what I would have expected.  I know that there are many people who are nervous about revealing the most closely guarded secrets of their hearts to a priest, for fear of being judged harshly, but as I have been repeatedly reminded, we come to confession for forgiveness, not condemnation.  And if that doesn't make you feel better, it is also likely true, as I have been told, that there are few sins a person can reveal that an experienced priest has not heard before or been guilty of himself or herself.  Indeed, Peter was subject to many lapses of faith, fidelity, and courage, so who better to absolve us than one who has been where we are many times?  It is absolution from the position of the priest's own humility, not moral superiority.  That is what it means for Peter, or the priest, to loose on earth and in heaven.  Those keys are a way back to the covenantal relationships that we violate and from which we stray from time to time.  To be anonymous and forgiven in the mass is one experience, and to be known in all one's complexity in the confessional and be forgiven, is yet another.  I would invite those who have not done so to venture into the confessional to risk the encounter with a confessor and oneself and learn how far the Messiah's forgiveness goes.

The World through the Eyes of My Dog

A noble countenance.

Since adopting Becket this past spring, I have learned that dogs have an extraordinary ability to expand human beings' worldview beyond the narrow field of vision we usually inhabit.  This may sound like a rather grandiose claim, but people with dogs will get what I'm talking about.  What interests and concerns them is often quite different from the things that captivate humans.  I had one of these grounding moments of clarity yesterday morning, while Becket and I were out for a walk and he was dragging me frantically down the block toward one of his favorite trees. I said to him--yes, I talk to my dog like he were a person--"I don't know, Becket. I think it's a little too early for the squirrels to be out."  Well, he was going to check that tree anyway.  After all, this is where he was used to seeing them.  In the last several months, taking walks has become a major part of my life, one that has forced me to focus my attention in different ways.  Before Becket, I never gave any thought to where the squirrels were or when they came out to forage for food, and I certainly never cared if one crossed my path.  But when I see one now, Becket and I chase it as if this moment were the most important event of earthly existence.  Barreling down the sidewalk at full speed, we chase it up some tree and skulk below vigilantly waiting for it to come down.  Some of my neighbors who witness me running and laughing may think me insane or undignified, but I can tell that many find it amusing and delightful.  To be quite honest, it's fun.  Running with Becket is refreshing and enlivening, because it gives me permission to play and be silly in ways that I haven't done since I was a child. 

At St. Joseph, Michigan with the pup.

Now, let me just say that I am not turning into one of those people who become obsessed with their pets.  But I am grateful that Becket has forced me to see differently.  His eye-level is not my eye-level, so I am learning to shift my eyes downward to where he lives most of his life, as well as far upward to the treetops where the squirrels are.  This has helped me to notice things to which I had previously been oblivious, or at least, neglectful:  the beauty of the trees and sky, the vibrant life of birds and squirrels, and the hazards of broken glass and garbage on the pavement.  I realize that as I write this, my reflection has a kind of saccharine and childish quality to it.  As an academician, theologian, and soon-to-be cleric, this is not writing that I am used to.  But, then again, I am noticing that I need a bit of a break from all the seriousness to appreciate simple things, which are no less important than the matters and concerns that usually dominate my thoughts and actions.  Unfortunately, we adults often unlearn how to appreciate simple joys and to play extravagantly as if nobody were watching.   Becket acts as a corrective influence, forcing me several times a day to stop the serious work I'm doing to play fetch with him in the hallway of our apartment building--he especially likes squeaky tennis balls--whether I like it or not.  Becket is quite vocal in pointing out that it is not all about me.

Becket having a good therapeutic romp in the grass.

In all this frivolity of squirrels and running and playing fetch, there is a serious theological opportunity.  I know that this undercuts my argument for less seriousness, but it is actually a rather simple message.  My walks with Becket provide sobering reminders that the human point-of-view is not the only one in Creation.  One of the great sins of human existence is the anthropocentric arrogance that we often adopt with respect to the rest of the created order.  The notion of humanity's stewardship of Creation, often practiced as domination and exploitation, is indeed supported by the Book of Genesis and other texts, but it is not the only Biblical perspective on Creation.  The psalms, for example, offer a different account of who speaks and acts and responds to God's promptings.  Psalm 104, in particular, portrays Creation as being active and responsive to God: "You make springs gush forth in the valleys; / they flow between the hills, / giving drink to every wild animal; / the wild asses quench their thirst. / By the streams the birds of the air have their habitation; / they sing among the branches. / From your lofty abode you water the mountains; / the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work" (Ps. 104:10-13).  The canticle, The Song of the Three Young Men, moreover, exhorts the natural world to praise and exalt God forever, including the mountains and hills, waters and streams, and the animal kingdom.  "Glorify the Lord, O beasts of the wild, and all you flocks and herds," it declares (Book of Common Prayer 1979, 89).  It is a simple message that acts as a corrective for strip mining, ozone depletion, and overlogging the rainforest.  It calls us into relationship with other creatures and forces us to consider perspectives other than our own.  I could pontificate further on this point, but Becket is urgently thrusting his nose into my face, reminding me that it's time to go outside for a walk.

Unveiled Faces

This week has been full of predictions about, or at least musings on, the future:  New Year's resolutions, the new Anglican Ordinariate, winners and losers in the Iowa Caucus, Mayan prophecies for the end of the world, and so on.  I too have been reflecting, in my own self-involved way, on how different 2012 will be, although I admit that most of my time has been spent slogging through this week's General Ordination Exams, planning my ordination to the transitional diaconate, engaging movers, and trying to decide on paint colors for the curate's flat in the S. Clement's rectory.  In my free moments, though, I have been compelled by the overwhelming mystery of this new year that will bring so much change for me.  This mystery inspires both excitement and raw terror.  And it is probably no coincidence that I am writing about this experience on the Feast of the Epiphany, when we contemplate the manifestations of Christ's divinity.

It must have been terrifying and upending to realize that this human Jesus was also divine, and that because of this revelation, life would never be the same again.  When one's eyes are opened to such a profound truth, one is forced to live in a different way, to take risks, to relinquish control, and to let the mystery unfold.  One hopes that everything will turn out alright, that one will do the right things at the right moments, but the outcomes remain unknown.  Perhaps what the Epiphany is encouraging us to do is to muster the courage to trust that God will help us to live in this new way.  Just as we are bidden to see Jesus in a new and enhanced light, God calls us to see ourselves and each other in this new and enhanced light.  It may mean letting go of places of safety and comfort, but it may also mean that God is leading us into new places that will be even more nourishing and life-giving.  To stay forever in the same place is to halt the fundamental dynamic of living and, well, imitate death.  2 Corinthians declares that "all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit."  We can only trust that God knows something we don't, and that we will remain ourselves even as we are challenged, stretched, and changed.