St. Clement's Splendor

Now that my departure from St. Clement's is drawing nigh, people have asked me what I am most going to miss when I move back to Chicago.  So, here are just seven of the most meaningful aspects of life at St. Clement's in alphabetical order.

Asperges with Todd Grundy at my 1st mass.

Asperges me:  As either the celebrant or deacon at Solemn High Mass on Sunday morning, one of the few times I ever get to hear the choir in all its glory--given the acoustics of the building--is during the asperges ritual at the beginning of the Mass.  The three sacred ministers process toward the back of the church--the celebrant sprinkling the faithful with holy water en route--who then wait for the choir to sing the Gloria Patri, before marching back down the center aisle to the chancel.  We only wait for about a minute, but the sound during that short time is extraordinarily beautiful.  It's definitely one of my favorite parts of the Mass at St. Clement's.

Atria:  Doing my weekly Bible study with the mostly Jewish residents at the Atria retirement community next to the church has been one of the most rewarding features of my ministry at St. Clement's.  It has been a privilege to get to know the life stories, faith journeys, and personalities of my regular study companions:  Alfred, Rose, Ruth, Anna, Peaches, Ted, Pamela, Stanley, among others. They are really an interesting and loving bunch of people.

Folding Machine:  No, seriously.  The thought of having to fold hundreds of Sunday bulletins by hand makes me sick to my stomach.  If you think I'm being ridiculous, then clearly you've never been in charge of producing service bulletins, particularly when there's an eight-page leaflet to do for a major feast with insert pages.  Along with the shaking machine to get all the pages even before folding, this thing is an absolute marvel. I will miss you greatly :(

Pulling out yet another yew bush in the rain.

Garden:  The garden has been a really happy space for me.  I have worked alongside so many wonderful people to pull out yew bushes, harvest herbs, and care for the plants on sunny days and in the pouring rain.  I have witnessed its transformation from an enclosed, uninviting lot to a space where people from the neighborhood come to sit and eat their lunches, draw, or simply sit quietly.  It is the place where I have played many a game of fetch with Becket and where the children from the Montessori school cultivate herbs and vegetables and play during lunchtime. 

With Marc Coleman, talking to an attendee at Outfest 2012.

People:  I hesitate to name anyone specifically, since I don't want to leave anyone out.  All the same, I smile every time I think about the Sunday mass, when Todd Grundy finished chanting the Epistle, and I said to the rector under my breath, "Thanks be to Todd," and made us both laugh.  And the time we all pulled together to care for server, Michael Arrington, when he collapsed at the altar on the Feast of the Annunciation.  And the first time Curt Mangel and I went out to 19th and Chesnut to do Ashes-to-Go, and we quite rightly got yelled at for setting up shop stupidly in front of a Kosher restaurant.  And when Bishop Michel leaned in toward me, sweating profusely, and asked me (also sweating profusely) if I was doing alright at my ordination.  And the many evenings out about town with Anthony Nichols and Michael Smith.  And drinking beer in the freezing rain with Marc Coleman and Ron Emrich at Outfest.  And I have tons more. . .

Breakfast at Pete's.

Pete's:  Although it certainly hasn't helped my waistline, meals at Pete's Famous Pizza at the end of Appletree Street has been the site of many fun and collegial meals with altar servers, out-of-town visitors, and of course, Fr. Reid.  There has been a lot of laughter, heart-to-heart talks, and strategizing for mission at those tables.  I'm especially fond of their Greek salad, meat lover's pizza, and buffalo wings.  I'll miss waitresses Lisa, Sue, and of course Angie, who knows my breakfast order by heart. 

Priestly ordination, Aug. 4, 2012.

Vestments:  You won't be surprised to hear that I will miss the exquisite vestments that I have been privileged enough to wear during my time at St. Clement's.  I have gotten exceedingly spoiled, to be sure.  Of course, I can be a priest without any of the trappings of the Church, including fancy vestments, diamond encrusted chalices, and reliquaries.  But they sure do make the experience rich and full of mystery, and I count myself lucky to have been included among the generations of priests who have donned these vestments, which are the result of so much love, skill, and devotion. 

Surgeon's Story

In recovery, after my 1st hand surgery.

Yesterday, I went to see my surgeon, Dr. M., for another follow-up visit to assess the ongoing rehabilitation of my hand after I broke it last fall.  The visits tend to take between 30 minutes and a hour, not because there is much to assess, but because my surgeon is an avid and masterful storyteller.  As in previous visits, Dr. M. was accompanied by a surgical resident, who was shadowing him during his patient visits.  Although Dr. M. describes himself as an atheistic Hindu, he and I have much in common and great respect for each other.  He honors my life and vocation as a priest, and I honor his as a healer and a humanist.

Now, Dr. M. began with one rather involved story of an uneducated woman in the Bengal area of India who became a grass-roots activist and successfully challenged the violence and corruption of the regional government.  So successful was she, in fact, that she and her supporters won a surprising landslide victory in the Bengali elections and initiated an impressive series of reforms that improved the culture and economic prospects of the area.  It was an interesting story, and I thought he would end there, scribble a few notes in my chart, and write me a new prescription for therapy.  But then, Dr. M. continued with a story I had heard a couple of times before.  Knowing that he wanted to tell it again for the benefit of the resident he was mentoring--who politely feigned interest--I abetted and encouraged his storytelling. 

An infant with a cleft palate.

Dr. M. explained that he often traveled to developing countries as a volunteer to perform surgeries on poor people who could not afford health care.  He noted that his specialty was cleft-palate surgeries, and he would perform 100-200 of these procedures on children over the course of a two-week visit.  Hospital administrators and CEOs, he lamented, don't often have an appreciation for the human side of medicine, and so he would bring them on these humanitarian trips.  The first couple of days they would be really pissed off, he said--Dr. M. never minces words--because he'd make the CEOs and hospital administrators participate in the manual labor of cleaning, setting up equipment, and performing tasks they apparently considered beneath their dignity.  Yet when the surgeries started, Dr. M. would ask the CEOs to pick the kids up from their mothers, bring them in for surgery, and observe the procedure being performed.  Then, he would ask these bureaucrats, so obsessed with the bottom line and operating margins, to deliver the children back to their mothers after surgery.

About 99% of the time, Dr. M. said, the mothers would burst into tears when they saw their children transformed by the surgery, and they would thank the CEOs profusely for their kindness and compassion, hugging them and weeping on their shoulder in thanksgiving.  By the third or fourth time this happened, the CEOs would be weeping, too, and by the end of the two weeks, they didn't want to come home.  They wanted to stay where they felt that they were making such a profound difference in the lives of very poor people.  Dr. M would consequently advise them, "remember what you have experienced here, the lives you've changed, and rebuild your hospital according to that image when you get back to the US."  Most CEOs, he declared, were transformed by their experience.  Of course, there is the odd one who was not, he told me yesterday.  "One guy was a complete a**hole," Dr. M. sniped.  "This guy was invited to tea by one grateful mother whose son had had the surgery, and he complained that her house was too shabby and run-down.  He couldn't believe she had the gall to bring him to a place like that." He paused, and then added, "I couldn't get through to him at all."  Dr. M., exasperated, sighed heavily in frustration.

This was an amazing witness.  It is stories, such as this one, that articulate our values, that say who we are at our core.  That is why Dr. M needs to tell it so often, to different people, and even to people that have heard it before.  It is his way of saying, "this is the kind of doctor I am; this is the kind of person I am."  That is why I didn't mind hearing it for the um-teenth time.  It is a ritual that continues to impart meaning and purpose to one's daily existence, and this should be honored and cherished by attentive listening.  In this holy season of Lent, we are called to remember our common humanity, our common call to love and care for one another.  May we recognize Jesus' commandment to love God and our neighbors as ourselves in the sacred stories others offer us, for they may come to us from unexpected quarters.  Listen carefully.

Re-thinking Lenten Fasting

The traditional Lenten disciplines are prayer, charity, and fasting.  Many people have practiced the last of these three by giving up luxuries, such as chocolate, meat, or alcohol, for the forty or so days of the season.  I myself have done the same in previous years, but I was thinking recently that giving up such things rather trivializes the spiritual discipline.  Fasting is not about depriving oneself of luxuries, but about stripping away both non-essentials and essentials, even those things on which we depend for our survival.  Pride is one of the worst human failings, and it is very easy to perceive ourselves as self-sufficient when the sacrifice we adopt doesn't cause us much discomfort.  As the story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness evinces, the evil one's main design is to get us to put ourselves at the center of the universe and to deny our dependence on God.

I would also contend that fasting that causes us discomfort, and yet does not benefit anyone else, may fall short of the possibilities that fasting offers.  If the fasting only results in my focusing on my own condition, then I remain self-involved, self-obsessed.  Wouldn't it be better, I thought, to fast in a way that would emphasize my responsibility to others and my ultimate dependence on God?  Who cares if I give up chocolate?  What good would that do?  I don't eat enough of it for it to qualify as a sacrifice.  But I do take much for granted, particularly basic things like clean water for drinking and bathing and electricity to light my home and keep me warm.  Clean water and electricity are inaccessible to a large share of the world's population, and I should give thanks for them by being abstemious in their consumption.

So, my Lenten practice of fasting, abstinence, or whatever you want to call it is to intentionally reduce my use of and dependence on water and electricity, which to me are essentials, but to many others, are luxuries.  I confess that I often leave the water running doing dishes and take long therapeutic showers after the gym.  I often leave the fan and the A/C running in my bedroom, the lights on in every room, and the TV on even when I'm not watching it.  It may not be physically wrenching to show some care in how I use water and electricity in Lent, but it's intentional and disciplined.  It is a practice that will hopefully retrain me to live better throughout the year, benefit the rest of the planet (perhaps only a drop in the ocean, but it's a start), and remind me that I have a responsibility to be a good steward of God's resources.   The notion of human dominion over Creation is a dangerous theological assertion that not only denies the sanctity of the rest of Creation, but also supports industrialized nations' monopoly of the earth's resources and the enduring poverty and suffering of the Global South.

Reciting the Kaddish for Rose

Rose Polsky. Rest eternal grant unto her, O Lord.

Spiritual journeys are remarkably untidy things--at least mine has been.  Whenever I describe to people the path that has led me to the priesthood, there's part of me that's a little embarrassed by the meanderings and false starts, inconsistencies and contradictions, tensions and turbulence.  It's as if I feel I have to explain away the messiness of it all.  But I can't deny that it's authentically mine, and I suspect that I may not have gotten here if I had actually plotted out this destination ahead of time. Don't ask me why; it's just a hunch.  As I live into my priesthood, I discover that I am being called to dig more deeply into myself, to root around into dark corners, dusty boxes, and oft-neglected bits of my identity.  A situation or need arises that urges me to seek a resource I forgot I had.  I'm both delighted and befuddled when I recognize it.  I blow the dust off it and turn it around in my hand nostalgically, but awkwardly, uncertain if I still know what to do with it.

Yesterday, I received an e-mail informing me that a member of my weekly Bible study at Atria Senior Living next door to the church had unexpectedly died.  Rose Polsky was among the most faithful and engaged of my spiritual companions in the class; and she was an absolute joy to know.  Rose was almost always smiling, quick with a kind word or an incisive observation on the Scriptures, a careful listener, and a source of social cohesion and stability.  She was the person that welcomed new residents, encouraged her neighbors to come to social events, and served as a leader of the community.  Many of the residents, her friends, were therefore taking the loss rather hard, and so I was asked if I could come over and grieve with them.  I asked the staff, "how can I be helpful to everyone?"  "Just come and be a familiar face, and let them talk about Rose," they said.  So, I did.  As I expected, the room, like my Bible study, was mostly filled with Jewish women, some of whom I knew, but many of whom I did not.

The mourner's Kaddish.

You might think that an Episcopal priest might not be the most suitable or helpful spiritual presence in such a situation.  But, even as Fr. Ethan, these folks knew me as the person who read and studied the Scriptures with them week after week.  Everyone talked about who Rose was, what she meant to them, and the important role she fulfilled in the community's life.  And then, one lady turned to me and asked if I would say a prayer.  Fortunately, before leaving the rectory, I instinctively grabbed the Jewish prayer book I had used as a child off my bookshelf.  Channeling my inner Jewish teenage self, I opened the prayer book to the page with the traditional Jewish mourning prayer, the Kaddish, and began to recite it in Hebrew, as I had done countless times as a kid.  I was surprised at how easily the words tripped off my tongue, barely even looking at the page.  I then recited the English translation on the opposite page, the assembled mourners joining me in the Amens.  It was odd, and yet oddly familiar.

Administering ashes on Ash Wednesday, 2012

In the end, I was deeply grateful that I was able to still be useful as a priest in a moment when I wasn't relying on my Christian heritage, and yet still drawing upon an authentic part of my spiritual self.  Had I not been raised Jewish, I might have felt wrong about appropriating a tradition not my own.  But it was a part of me, the result of the many weekday Hebrew School classes, bar mitzvah lessons with the cantor, and long Saturday Shabbat services.  It was a stage on the path to my becoming a priest, and it seemed right that I should own it.  This situation reminded me that being who we are, whether as a priest or something else, involves embracing the meanderings, the contradictions, the tensions, and all the rest of the spiritual untidiness swirling around inside us.  As a child, I had wanted to become a rabbi, but I became a priest instead, and yet, in the weirdness that often accompanies God's grace, I came full circle nonetheless ministering to this group of predominantly Jewish women.  If ever there were a moment in my life of interfaith solidarity, this was it, and I couldn't be more thankful that it came a few days before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.  As one Roman Catholic member of my Bible study said yesterday, "We are all God's children," which means that we must minister to each other through all of the events of human experience, including death.  Whether Jewish, Catholic or Episcopalian, we share a common humanity.  We are all dust, and to dust we shall all return.

Actually, Young People Do Like Traditional Liturgy

Consecration of the chalice on Corpus Christi 2012.

There is a facebook group called, "Actually, young people do like traditional liturgy," to which I and several of my young churchy friends and colleagues belong. It serves to challenge the longstanding assumption (usually held by the ecclesiastical elite in their 40s-60s) that what young people want in the Church is edgy, hip, and experimental worship and music.  Some undoubtedly do, but there is also a large proportion of young people who are attracted and compelled by things traditional. This is a pattern that the Church cannot afford to overlook and ignore.

Now, let me just clarify that what I mean by "traditional" is not stuffy, uptight, or dull.  The problem with many folks' understanding of traditional is that they picture out-of-touch preachers droning on incessantly about dogma, dirge-like hymnody, and ritual that is either watered down to the lowest common denominator or absurdly precious.  Traditional liturgy need not be any of these things.  I serve in one of the most traditional churches in the world, and we regularly attract young people that are smart, hip, and unconventional, who love what we do.  Moreover, many of my young friends worship in Episcopal churches that bust out the incense, chant the mass, and pray novenas with passion.  Christ Church in New Haven, Connecticut put it more or less this way: "this is not your father's church (yuck!), this is your great-great-great grandfather's church."  Despite what Boomers may suggest, tradition can be cool.

College freshman, Max, at throat blessing, St. Blaise's Day 2013.

But in all seriousness, I don't care if traditional liturgy is cool or not.  I need it to be deep; I need it to be Spirit-filled; I need it to be authentic; I need it to be transformational.  And despite the mockery sometimes directed at Anglo-Catholics and other high-church enthusiasts, I am proud that there are congregations dipping greedily into the well of our traditional liturgical heritage. After all, it is no accident that many of these traditions have endured for hundreds of years.  They connect us to the faith and countless generations of the faithful in a way that emphasizes the continuity of the Christian story and the universality of the Church. The Oxford Movement, for instance, emerged in the 1830s, because the worship and spirituality of the Church of England had become so anemic, lethargic, and perfunctory.  It needed a transfusion of spiritual blood.  The Catholic Revival began by rediscovering our theological roots, and then expanded to reclaim the richness of our liturgical, cultural, musical, and architectural heritage.  The cold rationalism of the Enlightenment softened to allow a sensory and affective experience of the sacred that had been lacking in the Church.

I think one of the reasons many young people are drawn to traditional liturgy these days is that postmodern society has a tendency to isolate and disconnect human beings from each other.  In an age where life is frequently too in your face, many young people are yearning for connection with the transcendent.  I remember Diana Butler Bass once writing that we need to "reenchant the universe" for this generation.  Amen, sister!  Indeed, Roman Catholic parishes that offer the Latin Mass are finding their pews filled, not with elderly folks who remember the Tridentine Mass from their childhood, but with young families with children.  In the Anglican tradition, younger people are finding in the dignified poetry of classical English, the mystery of incense and bells, and the ancient, enduring ritual of the universal Church a stabilizing force within the maelstrom of postmodern rootlessness.   Last Sunday, a traveler in her mid-twenties came to the 8 a.m. low mass with her backpack on her way to the museum, and shared with me afterward how deep and beautiful she finds the traditional form of the Mass, especially the Last Gospel.  This is only one of many such conversations I have had with college students, young professionals, and families with young children.  Although I am very interested in contemporary and emergent forms of worship,  I have been convinced through such conversations that the Church needs to promote traditional, as well as contemporary and emergent worship, by retaining what is good in it, while reforming the outmoded and oppressive theology that has often accompanied traditional worship.  For my part, I don't know if it gets any better than the Prayer for the Whole State of Christ's Church.

Sebastian leading clergy procession at my priestly ordination.

But good (not just traditional) liturgy requires intentional formation and lots of practice.  I confess that I'm disappointed when I see churches, for fear of being perceived as pretentious, put so little effort into liturgy and priestcraft.  At the 2012 Maundy Thursday service at Philadelphia Cathedral, for example, I witnessed a brother priest in the front row of chairs across from me in a rumpled cassock-alb that was at least six inches too short, slouched in his chair, with his arms folded over his chest and his feet sticking out straight in front of him, as if he were at home in his recliner watching Monday night football on TV.  I don't mean to be uncharitable or judgmental, but such sloppiness conveys to folks in the pews (or chairs) that the liturgy is something we don't take seriously or isn't worthy of our best efforts.  I mean, you wouldn't show up for a family wedding in your pajamas without running a brush through your hair, would you?  So, why should we send the message that God is less deserving of the very best we have to offer?  On the other hand, liturgy shouldn't resemble a military drill, performed stiffly and humorlessly.  Painful rubrical exactitude does not equate with transcendent.  Solemn high mass should be performed as the graceful, choreographed ballet it was meant to be, not grim-faced robots on parade.   So, I end on this note of exhortation only to suggest gently that whatever we decide to do, let's do it well--reverently, joyfully, and earnestly.  Young people are watching and discerning.  We take them seriously when we take the liturgy seriously.

A Blessing for Your Journey

Hanging out this week with Philly and Boston friends.

"Departure" seems to be a dominant theme over the last couple of weeks.  Not only have I announced my departure from St. Clement's and Philadelphia, but I've had to say goodbye to several folks, who have left--albeit only temporarily--on vacation.  Fr. Reid has gone to Britain for 10 days for his birthday; our rector's warden and webmaster have taken a long overdue honeymoon in the UK; and our master of ceremonies left a couple of days ago for a cruise with his parents.  Fortunately, these departures have been offset by the arrival of a friend or two from out of town and a lot of fun with my regular locals.

Duccio, Jesus sending forth the disciples.

Mindful of the many dangers and challenges that can arise on a person's travels, even when it's an eagerly anticipated vacation, I have begun to ask the traveler if he or she would like a prayer and blessing before setting off.  As members of the Church, we seem to be pretty good about offering the prayers that have become the bread-and-butter staples of our liturgical life, but we tend to be less attentive to praying for each other in those moments when we step outside the parish precincts.  If we are to pray without ceasing, as the Bible and the traditions of the Church suggest, then we should work harder to offer prayers for a range of ordinary events and milestones.

The day before the departure, I ask the traveler if I can offer a prayer for him or her for safe travels.  I flip to the back of the Anglican Breviary, which contains a series of prayers, as well as versicles and responses, known as the Itinerary.  The entire service is rather lengthy, so I generally just select one of the prayers for sending forth, such as this one (which I have translated into contemporary English):

"O God, who brought your servant, Abraham, out of Ur of the Chaldeans, and preserved him unhurt through all the ways of his pilgrimage: we ask you to protect your servant, N.  Be to him, O Lord, a support in his setting out, a comfort by the way, a shadow in the heat, a covering in the rain and cold, a conveyance in weariness, a protection in adversity, a staff in slippery paths, and a port in shipwreck, that with you as his Guide, he may prosperously reach the place to which he is going, and at length return again to his home in safety. Amen."

I then offer my benediction:

"May the Holy Angels guard and protect you; may Blessed Mary and all the Saints pray for you; and may the Blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be with you this day and always. Amen."

Giving my first blessings.

Now, I admit that this is not much, but I have been very gratified to see how much people appreciate this small gesture of friendship and concern.  I wish we did a lot more of this sort of thing.  Leave-taking is an event that is often performed in a casual or perfunctory manner.  The noteworthy exception to this is funerals, where the departure is final and forever, and without the opportunity for the person who is leaving (or has left) to actually hear and receive the good wishes of the community.  It seems foolish to wait for the Big Goodbye to wish each other well and say: "Thank you for the relationship we've shared.  You are special to me."  Such an expression of connection can be nourishing food for the journey, sustaining us through unexpected trials and tempests far from home.  It is important when we are away from our home base to be assured that others are back there praying for our well-being and safety.  And it is not only true of when we travel, but whenever we are separated from the ones we care about.  I am sad to admit that I have often failed to tell someone from whom I am parting, whether for a little or a long while, that they matter to me.  For all those missed opportunities, let me simply repeat, "Thank you for the relationship we've shared.  You are special to me."

Farewell to St. Clement's

My dear people,

By now, you have likely heard that I will be leaving St. Clement’s at the end of April.  There are several factors that have led to this difficult decision, but principal among them is the strain of a long-term separation from my partner, Mike.  The rector and I initially committed to my staying a year, at which point we would evaluate whether I might wish to continue as curate for successive years.  In the last several months, however, Mike has received a series of promotions that has made it impossible for him to relocate, and so Fr. Reid and I agreed that it made sense to begin to plan for my departure.  The timing of this transition has been arranged, so that the parish will be fully staffed during the busy season of Lent and the demanding liturgical schedule of Holy Week and Easter. 

The second major reason for my departure is my growing confidence in my ability to lead a parish of my own as rector.  It had always been my intention at the completion of my curacy to return to the Diocese of Chicago, where I have strong personal and professional ties.  I am very fortunate that a number of very good parishes are coming open now, and returning to Chicago will make it easier for me to explore these vacant positions.  I will take with me the learning and experience I have acquired at St. Clement’s, which I will undoubtedly draw upon heavily as I work to be a good rector.  I take pride in the fact that I have received here something priests rarely get these days: intensive training in priestcraft.  I have absolutely loved the time I have spent sharing in Catholic liturgy, traditions, and devotions; collaborating with one of the finest choirs in the country; and practicing a deep and disciplined spiritual life organized around the Daily Office and the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. 

It has been a privilege, moreover, to serve as your curate during an important transitional period in St. Clement’s history.  Although I have learned much from you, I hope you have learned from me, as well, and that I have contributed something important and lasting to your life as a parish.  I have appreciated the many compliments you have paid me on my preaching, or my chanting, or my work to grow the mission of the parish, but I have most valued the ways that you have stretched and challenged me, demonstrated patience with my stumblings, and offered constructive criticism.  We have accomplished much together, and I am gratified by the start we have made here in the last year: Ashes-to-Go, the neighborhood food collection, the vestment exhibition, Outfest, and the Bible studies here and at Atria Senior Living.  I am especially thankful for your open-mindedness toward my attempts to spread the Gospel in more contemporary formats, such as my weekly blog and YouTube videos, which I hope will inspire you to share your own stories of faith.  The past year has been full of so many milestones for me—the Exsultet, my ordination to the priesthood and first mass, hearing my first confession—and none of them would have been as special as they were without you.  I am grateful to have the luxury of a leisurely departure, so that we can ensure the smooth handoff of ministries and responsibilities that I have led, but more importantly, so that we have adequate time to say goodbye.  I intend to make use of these next three months to thank you for being in relationship with me, for the many instances of your hospitality, kindness, and friendship.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the wonderful start you have given to my life as a priest.

God bless you all.