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+

Holy Week Message 2016: Tragedy in Brussels

My dear sisters and brothers,

In the wake of the terrorist attack on Brussels this morning, we are urged to realize the significance and call of Holy Week, the journey of Jesus' Passion and death on the Cross to his Resurrection. The following video message offers some points for reflection. As we enter the mystery of this journey, may we be mindful of the context of violence and death in which we often live and offer our prayers for those who are grieving and clinging to life, and for those whose lives have been lost. May their souls and the souls of all the departed rest in peace. Amen.
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+

Statement on the Primates' Meeting in Canterbury

My dear brothers and sisters,

The recent news from the Primates' Meeting in Canterbury has generated a lot of controversy, debate, and hurt feelings in the Episcopal Church, particularly among lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and other queer people, as well as their heterosexual allies. The resolution by the primates to exclude the Episcopal Church from the governing bodies and activities of the Anglican Communion for three years appears to many a punitive, disciplinary measure designed to pressure the Episcopal Church to retreat from its support of marriage equality by extending marriage rites to same-sex couples.

A number of parishioners have expressed their disappointment and distress to me, and have asked me to offer my perspective. Let me begin by assuring you that I share your feelings of sadness, and perhaps even anger, that the primates have taken this approach to resolving differing views around human sexuality. It does not seem to cohere with what St. Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians, that "the eye cannot say to the hand, 'I have no need of you,' nor again the head to the feet, 'I have no need of you.' [...] If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it." I believe that every member of the Anglican Communion will suffer and be diminished by the primates' choice of a punitive response to the experience of the Body of Christ's fragmentation.

I have no doubt that many people on the opposite side of the issue from me are acting out a sense of real integrity, regarding biblical and historical understandings of marriage. However, we as a Church have to exercise great caution that we do not coerce or bully those who would disagree with us into compliance. It was regrettable that the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, chose to apologize to gay and lesbian Christians for hurt caused by the Church only moments after the primates had stigmatized them by disciplining the Episcopal Church for its longstanding commitment to the inclusion of queer people in the full sacramental life of the Church. The primates' failure, moreover, to discipline those Anglican provinces that have failed to observe the Anglican Communion's policy against homophobia and oppression by supporting legislation to persecute or even execute queer people in their countries likewise bespeaks a poor and inconsistent respect for theological difference.

The great gift of the Anglican Communion is that it is not a confessional church and that each province enjoys the autonomy to live out its Anglican identity in its distinctive context. Recent moves from primates, especially those from the Global South, to reframe Anglican polity along a more authoritarian model is deeply distressing. Anglicanism has never had a centralized international structure, such as a curia or magisterium, to enforce doctrinal compliance. The Anglican Communion is not a political and administrative bureaucracy, but rather a family or network of national and regional churches with common spiritual roots. Our longstanding relationships through shared worship, service, and fellowship have made us what we are, not legislated compliance on litmus-test issues. Although the primates' gesture of exclusion is deeply painful to many, it will in no way make the Episcopal Church any less legitimately Anglican. Tomorrow, we will gather to worship God in the Anglican heritage, as we have always done. And we will continue to be the face of the Anglican Communion in the South Loop of Chicago.

Epiphany peace and blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Of Sausages and Saints

As I watched the children rush exuberantly into the sanctuary on Sunday to listen to the story of St. Nicholas, I was reminded of the overwhelming responsibility the Church has to children, on a number of levels.

The most important one is the responsibility to keep them safe from harm. During my homily, I told one of the classic stories of St. Nicholas and children--the one where the evil butcher grinds them into sausages during a famine, and St. Nicholas grinds the sausages back into children to the peoples' amazement and relief. Another version of the story has the butcher curing the children in barrels, and then trying to sell them off as hams. Of course, St. Nicholas foils the butcher's wicked plot in this telling, too. I alerted the congregation ahead of time that the story might be shocking, but that it would turn out just fine in the end. There were understandably several very audible quick intakes of breath and groans when it became apparent where the story of was headed. When I was at St. Nicholas in Elk Grove Village, we told that story just about every year, and the children acted it out with great enthusiasm, running around the sanctuary to wild peals of laughter as they were turned into sausages. The story, of course, is situated in the fourth century when Christianity was the newly minted religion of Constantine's empire, following decades of persecutions and gory martyrdoms at the hands of the Roman state. Life was brutish and bloody, and so the core stories of Christianity were often bloody, too, even the ones that had happy endings.

What makes the story so worthy to be told in the 21st century is the way it emphasizes the church's role in protecting children. Yes, we should all ensure that the parish is a place where sexual misconduct is an impossibility by creating a culture of transparency and accountability, and requiring anyone who works with children to go through Keeping God's People Safe training. But that's just a first step. While I was preaching and offering the mass intention for the day, I was deeply mindful of the many children who suffer from violence on our city streets and around the world, because of gun violence, sexual abuse, neglect, child labor, and human trafficking. Are not these things just as horrifying as the story of the evil sausage grinder? Shouldn't we express our shock and outrage when we hear these things happening on a daily basis? Few of these children have the happy ending they deserve. In the story of the sausages, St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, swoops in to save the day, and the Church in our day should be prepared to do likewise.

Earlier in the day at the 8 am service, I preached on John the Baptist. In the face of so much abuse of children, his call to repentance, to prepare the way of the Lord, is the perfect response to the story of the sausages. The Forerunner might look wild and scary--perhaps today he'd be a street preacher with a megaphone and a placard scrawled with words of doom--but I would argue that his unapologetic call to repentance and action is completely appropriate in the face of so much evil.  It is also fitting that, on this the feast of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, we reflect on how we can care for and protect mothers, who in their turn, must often face the same sources of abuse and violence as their children. Today, we commemorate the conception of the baby Mary, whose soul would magnify the Lord, and who would in turn become the Blessed Mother of Our Lord, Jesus. May the Church take seriously its responsibility to protect children, mothers, and all those who suffer from violence and abuse, as Nicholas and other saints great have done throughout the ages. Their stories--gritty, gory and shocking though they may be--still need to be told, so that we might be reminded of our responsibility as the Church to protect the vulnerable among us.

Advent blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Joan of Arc: the Life and Witness of the Maid of Orleans

The lives of the saints are a critical way we connect with the Christian faith, by examining the witness of those who have gone before us, their struggles and their impressive examples of holiness. Over the past six weeks or so, my parish, Grace Episcopal Church in Chicago, has explored several of these in liturgy, preaching, and adult formation.  They ranged from classic saints like Francis of Assisi and Joan of Arc to more contemporary figures, such as Howard Thurman and Flannery O'Connor. They are both the embodiment of the best in human nature and flawed human beings like the rest of us; they are exemplars and companions.  Several folks asked if I could share my slides from my presentation, so I decided to go one step further, and have converted my workshop on St. Joan of Arc to a twenty-minute video with study questions at the end for further discussion. "The Lord is glorified in his saints, O come let us adore him!"