Priesthood Prep, Part 4 of 4: Humility

Medieval flagellants.

In the first three parts of this reflection, I've tried to emphasize some of the learning that I've experienced during my six months as a transitional deacon that will hopefully make me a good priest.  I don't know that my insights are all that original, but the lessons have been meaningful to me all the same.  This final installment addresses a priest's humility.  Now, I know what you all are thinking.  The word, humility, conjures up medieval notions of a self-effacing monk, eschewing earthly pleasures and glory and flagellating himself regularly for his many sins.  It's an outmoded stereotype more useful for film, such as the albino Silas of Opus Dei in the DaVinci Code, than for modern notions of priesthood.  Humility doesn't mean self-denigration, mortification of the flesh, or servile obedience, but putting oneself in proper proportion.

Reserving the Sacrament in the chapel on Maundy Thursday.

A few Sundays ago, as I was putting on my cassock, Fr. Reid called up the stairs and told me that he was quite ill and might need to go to the hospital. He asked if I would lead Morning Prayer and, if need be, do a deacon's mass afterward.  Seeing no signs of Fr. Reid after the Office as people were filing into the chapel for the 8 a.m. mass, I instructed the server that we were going to do a deacon's mass and sent him to the church for a dalmatic, stole, and the Blessed Sacrament.  Now, Fr. Reid had said when he first started instructing me in how to say mass that it was possible that I could be called upon in an emergency to say a deacon's mass.  This is essentially a low mass, with the consecration excised, and the administration of communion from the Reserved Sacrament.  Neither Fr. Reid nor I imagined that this scenario would ever arise, but since no other priest was available, here I was vesting to say the Tridentine mass--or at least all the front and back ends of it--for the first time.  Fortunately, the server was a seasoned pro and made an outstanding MC for me.  It was a wonderfully uplifting experience, and I was grateful to stand at the altar on my own for the first time.  By 10 a.m., Fr. Reid was out of danger but still not well enough to say mass, so again we improvised.  Since we couldn't have a solemn high mass, we moved everyone from the church into the chapel, and I did another deacon's mass, this time singing all the celebrant's parts, with the choir singing the service music acapella.  I also, of course, had to improvise a sermon on the spot.  Needless to say, I felt a great sense of accomplishment and relief as I finished the Last Gospel and returned to the sacristy.

As a self-professed Trekkie, I would quote (tongue-in-cheek) one of my favorite Klingons, Kor, The Dahar Master, who declares, "The way of the warrior is not a humble path.  Show some pride in your accomplishments.  You've earned it."  Kor's hubris notwithstanding, he makes a good point.  It was a fine personal achievement following so much training, and I am proud of it.  In truth, however, nothing could have been more humbling.  Humility means putting oneself in proportion, in perspective.  A priest does nothing alone, but relies upon the contributions of many people, all of whom have unique gifts and charisms that make his ministry possible.  In this particular situation, it was not just I that stepped in to enact the liturgy:  Fr. Reid's fine training, the experienced MC, the professional organist and choir, and the generous and supportive congregation all had critical parts to play in allowing the liturgy to happen.  And the Holy Spirit was also probably working some magic, too.  So, to put myself in proportion, I was not really up at the altar by myself, but was standing alongside a number of brothers and sisters, who were supporting me and each other.  After all, the word, litourgia, translates as "the work of the people."

This understanding leads me to a final "H" that should be part of a priest's life: hope.  In moments when people pull together and there is genuine love and support, a church ceases to be a place where random people gather and begins to be a community where hope is born and an unimagined future can begin to emerge.  It has been my great privilege to come to St. Clement's and to see it transform over the last six months into a more open, more welcoming, and happier place.  A year ago, so many of the positive developments we are seeing today at St. Clement's would have been unthinkable, and yet, the spirit of love from the rector, the vestry, and the congregation has turned the parish into a place where visitors consistently tell me how friendly and warm St. Clement's is.  The church historian, Diana Butler Bass once told me that "nostalgia is the enemy of hope."  Well, St. Clement's may have a deep fondness for tradition and for the patrimony of the Church, but nostalgic notions that "our best days are behind us" have given way to the excitement of the parish for the future that lies before us.  It will be a great honor and pleasure to be ordained a priest here and to say my first mass at the high altar, to continue the message of hope that has always been at the core of the Gospel and of our Mother, the Church.

Priesthood Prep, Part 3 of 4: Hospitality

Most people think of hospitality as a structured program for greeting people on Sunday morning and incorporating them into the life of the parish.  But I'd rather talk about a very different kind of hospitality, a hospitality that is often episodic and informal.  In my six months as a transitional deacon, I've been most compelled by the way in which the programmatic has paled before the personal.  I've always believed that being a priest (and being a church) means putting relationships first.  In my view, a successful church is not one that offers hospitality out of a sense of duty, but because it is full of people that are eager to get to know and care about other people, to share in the deepest moments of their lives. 

Notions like "that's not in my job description" and "I'm off the clock" are incompatible with a priest's life.  In fact, some of the best moments of my ordained ministry have been on the periphery of my official life as Curate of St. Clement's.  I have often felt more useful as a cleric sitting privately with a parishioner in St. John's Chapel teaching him how to say the daily office from the Anglican Breviary than I have at Mass laden in cloth-of-gold vestments.  Creating a harmonious altar party has probably been aided more by the laughter and prayers shared with servers in the sacristy than the hours of rehearsals we've clocked.  Parishioners and I have learned more about each other over cocktails in the rectory and in idle moments in the church office than at the formal coffee hour after high mass.  And working with parishioners covered in mud to pull out yew bushes in the pouring rain has done more to build collegiality and teamwork than any vestry retreat or strategic plan I have ever encountered.  All of these examples from my life here at St. Clement's reveal unplanned, spontaneous, and gratuitous acts of generosity and hospitality that draw people more closely together and have nothing to do with "a hospitality program." These moments teach us to live with each other, to accept the whole person, even bits we may not particularly like about each other.  A church can't grow and thrive without moments like these.

I want to be clear, however, that hospitality does not equate with clergy being hospitable to parishioners, or parishioners being hospitable to visitors.  There is nothing more humbling than visiting a homebound parishioner and realizing that you are the guest in his or her home.  A priest, in particular, becomes aware of the power he holds in pastoral situations, and it must be handled with the greatest of care and sensitivity.  In a pastoral relationship, both the guest and the host are offering each other something, and at times, it may be unclear who is hosting and who is being hosted.  As a fluent French speaker, I remain mindful that the notions for "host" and "guest" in the French language are indicated by the same word "hôte." Hospitality is a blurry subject, because at its best, it is a mutual act.  Unexpected visitors to St. Clement's would probably been shocked to hear that I get as much from the many spontaneous tours of the church I give than they do.  But it's true.  The reason is that through these little, seemingly trivial moments, a community is built--one encounter at a time, one relationship at a time.  That's the bread-and-butter of a priest's job.

Priesthood Prep, Part 2 of 4: Humor

The traditional stereotype of a priest as a man of exemplary piety, unrelenting industry, and unimpeachable holiness usually makes me feel woefully inadequate.  Now, don't get me wrong; piety, industry, and holiness are all good qualities that I try to emulate.  I am a true believer; I work very hard; and I care deeply about the example I set for others.  But it's dangerous to believe one's own hype, to invest in crafting a persona rather than being a real person.  There's a great line from the movie, The History Boys, which I think could be applied to priests, as well as to teachers. "One of the hardest things for boys to learn is that a teacher is human," opines Mrs. Lintott (played by Frances de la Tour).  "One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them."  I always laugh at this line, because people often say things to me like, "You're not like any priest I've ever met before," or "Wow, you're actually like a real person," or "I didn't know that priests were allowed to drink or swear (not that I ever do, of course!)--won't you go to Hell or something?"  Yes, I pull up my pants one leg at a time like everyone else, and sometimes not all that gracefully.  So, all I can do is laugh.  In fact, my six months as a transitional deacon at St. Clement's have given me many occasions when laughter is the only healthy option.

A bishop's blessing for the clumsy deacon.

On the Feast of the Ascension, for example, St. Clement's had a pontifical high mass, during which I served as deacon.  At one point in the mass, I was supposed to say a prayer at the foot of the steps leading up to the altar, and then ascend to retrieve the evangeliarium to chant the Gospel.  Unfortunately, on my way up the steps, I tripped on the hem of my alb and flopped face-first in front of everyone.  It was embarrassing.  But I picked myself up, got the Gospel book off the altar, received my blessing from the Bishop, and sang the Gospel beautifully.  Later on, one of the servers said, "you rebounded from it wonderfully, adding an elegant pirouette as you gathered yourself up."  I smiled and quipped that I was rather hoping in that moment that Jesus would snatch me off the floor and take me with him during his well-timed ascent into heaven.  The rector joined in the mirth, saying, "if anyone sniggers, we'll just say authoritatively that Ethan was acting as prescribed in the Ambrosian Rite of the 15th century, in which diving face-first into the carpet and a pirouette are indispensable parts of the liturgy!"  We all roared with laughter.  We laugh a lot at St. Clement's, especially the clergy.

In a life and liturgy that are often so serious, humor is good medicine for a number of things:  liturgical travesties, personal failings, pastoral inadequacies.  At times, I feel awkward, ridiculous, or clueless, but as with my liturgical nosedive, being a priest does not mean one avoids making mistakes; it means one learns how to rebound from them with a certain amount of integrity and grace.  Humor is good for that.  It reminds us that we are not simply cardboard cut-outs of some idealized image of a priest, but real people that are called upon to embody the priesthood in our own distinct ways.  The priest may be in persona Christi or an alter Christus, but he is also a human being with the full range of human attributes, some lovely, and some not so lovely.  As a drunk Elise (Goldie Hawn) declares angrily to Brenda (Bette Midler) in another of my favorite movies, The First Wives Club:  "You think just because I'm a movie star I don't have feelings. Well, you're wrong.  I DO have feelings.  I'm an actress. I HAVE ALL OF THEM!," she shouts, sloshing her martini all over the kitchen in a final histrionic gesture.  People quite rightly need priests to be role models, but it is dangerous to put a priest or anyone else on a pedestal.  To deny that a priest has his own frailties, his own foibles, his own weaknesses is pure folly.  To deny that church has its silly moments, camp, and humor is equally ridiculous.  That is why I was so delighted when the Bishop sang "Over the Rainbow" from the Wizard of Oz as the opening of his very fine Ascension Day sermon.  Being a serious priest sometimes means reveling in the humor we encounter in our vocation.  If laughter is a response to the ridiculous, it is also a response to joy, and I do hope to be a joyful priest.

Priesthood Prep, Part 1 of 4: Healthy Habits

"Well, Father," the Cardinal Rector asks me from his imposing armchair, "what did you learn this week?"  Every staff meeting at St. Clement's invariably begins with this same question.  I usually share some meaningful encounter with a visitor or parishioner or make an observation about the spiritual climate of the parish.  It's a helpful exercise for me to reflect on how I'm doing as a new curate.  After last week's conversation, the Rector said, "I think people might be interested in what you've learned over the last six months.  Why don't you write something on your blog about it?"  So, in these few final days before I'm ordained to the priesthood, I'm going to offer four reflections that will identify what I think I've gained from my time serving at St. Clement's.

Part 1:  Healthy Habits

During a party for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, I ended up chatting in a small group with the Bishop of Pennsylvania, who often comes to St. Clement's for morning mass at 7 before dashing off to the gym to work with his personal trainer.  The group gradually dwindled until it was just the two of us, so I asked the Bishop about his workout routine, and then he in turn asked what I did to stay in shape--a healthy low-carb diet, an hour of cardio in the morning before work, and an hour of lifting in the afternoon or evening.  "It's pretty weird," I said, "to think that I've actually been working out longer than I've been doing just about anything else."  It's true.  I started seriously lifting weights and running in college when I was 18, so I'm coming up on 23 years this fall.  If that doesn't count as a spiritual discipline, I don't know what does.  In fact, daily exercise ranks alongside the Daily Office as a critical part of my spiritual life.  Without it, I would be a neurotic, stressed-out mess that would make everyone around me crazy.

A Sunday coffee hour extravaganza at a Roman Catholic parish

I have often thought that the Church has articulated a rather narrow view of what it means for a priest to "be a wholesome example to [one's] people," as the ordination rite in the Book of Common Prayer puts it.  Wholesome has traditionally been interpreted to mean that the priest will avoid causing scandal in either his professional or personal life in the areas of financial mismanagement, sexual immorality, public drunkenness, and the like.  But I think it might also be helpful to suggest that the priest should model what it means to be a healthy whole person.  I have known many priests who are chronic workaholics, don't take regular exercise, eat poorly, smoke like chimneys, and refuse to take time off to recharge their batteries.  It's easy for that to happen with the long and erratic work hours, tables at coffee hour groaning with sweets, and stressful vestry meetings and capital campaigns.  As a brand-new curate, I have found myself eating too many Philly cheesesteaks, because the diner down the block is fast and convenient, and skipping workouts at the gym, because it was a long and busy day.  But I always manage to discipline myself and return to the healthy habits of my rule of life.  When I get cranky, begin to put on weight, and feel stressed, I know it's time to pull myself together.

So, my first major lesson learned as a transitional deacon is:  the Church needs to re-think what a wholesome priest is supposed to look like.  And that requires me to remain faithful, despite the demands of the priesthood and the pressures exerted by the Church, to healthy habits I've developed over my whole adult life. It's part of my vocation, and in the end, it's just who I am.  One morning this summer as I was leaving the rectory for a run, I met one of the young mothers of the children in the Montessori school housed at St. Clement's.  Instead of being dressed in my cassock, or at least a clergy shirt and collar, I appeared in the garden wearing a tanktop, shorts, and baseball cap.  She said, "you're not looking very priestly this morning."  "No, I guess not," I replied, "but there's more than one way to look like a priest these days." Staring at my Christian tattoos, she said smiling, "yeah, and I'm glad for that.  It's about time!"  I was relieved by her reaction, because I believe it's important for a priest to be more than a comfortable stereotype.  A priest is a whole person that should model healthy habits for living and integrity in one's identity.  I hope that's the kind of priest I can be.

Coming soon  . . . Part 2: Humor

Preparing for GC 2012: Please Avoid the Extremes

Sweating in gold vestments for the Feast of the Ascension

Having grown up in Florida, I don't consider myself to be a wimp when it comes to hot, humid weather, but last Sunday, even I was really uncomfortable.  I stood at the altar inelegantly swabbing my head and neck with the handkerchief I had secreted in the cuff of my cassock, while the choir intoned the Sanctus-Benedictus magnificently over me, sweat cascading off my head and face onto the heavy green dalmatic. I could feel my heart racing and fluttering from the dehydration, which I tried to address by furtive sips from a small glass of water on the gradine.  At the risk of sounding melodramatic, the extreme heat made me feel fragile, reminding me that, in the end, human beings are vulnerable creatures with physical limitations.  Of course, I soldiered on, finished the mass with no problem, and guzzled a bottle of Gatorade immediately afterward.  I then apologized to our sacristan, for I had sweated through all of my vestments, except that heavy green dalmatic.

Ever since this heat wave began, I've been thinking about the fact that human beings don't do well in extreme conditions:  extreme heat, extreme cold, extreme stress, extreme indulgence, extreme abstinence, extreme selfishness, and even extreme consumerism.  Human beings are creatures that thrive in the temperate zone between the extremes.  When we fail to do so, bad things can happen.  We can collapse from heat exhaustion.  Or we can get frostbite.  Or we can develop diabetes through overeating.  Or cirrhosis of the liver from drinking too much. Or skin cancer from too much sun.  Or apathy to human want by too much instant gratification.  And then I realized that the Church doesn't do well with extremes, either.  As a Church news junkie, I've been reading all the postings and articles on the Episcopal Church's upcoming General Convention in Indianapolis, and they concern me.  People are understandably loaded for bear on a number of controversial issues.  Their intentions are undoubtedly good, but the rhetoric is at times so rigid and unyielding that it makes me worry about what relationships may suffer.  I may not be an Episcopal Church insider or politico, but I still care how we all treat each other.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged."

Last Sunday, I stood before the congregation and chanted the lesson from the Gospel of Luke that immediately follows the Sermon on the Plain.  This is the text in which Jesus advises his disciples to be merciful as God is merciful, asking them, "And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"  Jesus warns us of the danger of adopting an extreme position with regard to others, inflating their shortcomings while minimizing our own.  I have witnessed some Anglo-Catholics condemn anything the deviates from their own understanding of the faith as ignorant, Protestant heresy; and on the flip side, observed Low or Broad Church Episcopalians deride Anglo-Catholic theology, ceremonial or vesture as ridiculously fussy or outmoded.  Both positions are extreme and hurtful.  They are caricatures that disrespect the integrity of the people to which they are directed.  Most importantly, they don't lead to Jesus' vision of the Kingdom of God, either here on earth or in some other, unimagined reality.

A broad cross-section of seminarians in the Episcopal Church.

My blog posts are not usually political or polemical, but in this instance, I feel it's necessary to draw attention to the problem of extremism of both the liberal-progressive and conservative-traditional varieties in the Episcopal Church.  Extreme positions make the Church fragile and vulnerable, and this has been weighing on my mind a lot, particularly since I started seminary.  There is a rigidity in extreme positions that cuts off any possibility of listening to the other by dismissing their concerns as trivial and unworthy of respect.  I know I've been guilty of it too, of ignoring the log in my own eye.  But I'm trying to be better.  As I walked through the Philadelphia Museum of Art a couple of weeks ago with a clergy friend, he said to me, "Ethan, you're a social progressive and a theological moderate, and that's not a bad thing."  I thought, "that's pretty accurate, but that means I usually upset people on both ends of the spectrum."  That's not so much a complaint as an acknowledgement that I try to live somewhere in the middle where I can have relationships with most people, and hopefully, gain some insight into and respect for what's important to them, even though I sometimes fail.  I don't know if that qualifies as the Anglican via media or "the middle way," but I'd like to think we could still aspire to practice its spirit in the Councils of the Church, including those in the weeks ahead.

Greetings from Our Lady of Walsingham

Many years ago, I visited an Episcopal church in suburban Chicago and was greeted by a rusting and rickety sign that said, "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You."  This sign was regrettably the first thing I saw, for it conveyed the impression--no doubt unintentionally--that the parish put little effort into creating an atmosphere of hospitality.  It was kind of like inviting people to your home for dinner and neglecting to tidy up the house, take out the garbage, and mow the lawn.  The people inside the church, it turned out, were very warm and hospitable, and yet I had to wonder how many other visitors had been put off by that sign.  It may seem like a trivial detail, but welcoming signage can be a critical factor in determining whether people will visit a church. 

  

This is why I was so pleased this past week to see the large statue of Our Lady of Walsingham displayed prominently inside the main entrance to the church on Appletree Street. Stored for a long time in the sacristy of St. John's Chapel, the statue was reverently washed of the dust that had accumulated upon her and placed on the plinth on which she had formerly rested in the chapel.  It is not only formal signage that allows us to make a good first impression on visitors, but also other symbols of welcome and congregational identity like this statue.  The rather awkward placement of the entrances to the church at the sides of the building makes grand signs of hospitality difficult in the small spaces available, but I think this statue works very well as a statement of who we are.  I am glad that the first thing people see when they walk in the main entrance is a beautiful, gleaming statue of Our Lady.  Instead of an empty entrance--save for a bulletin board, rack of devotional pamphlets, and the door to the bathroom--the space has been transformed into a shrine to Our Lady.  As an Anglo-Catholic shrine church, I can think of no more suitable first impression.

Today, I was privileged to see the certificate from 1960 that formally attached the Shrine of Our Lady of Clemency to the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham in England, which is why we join our shrine prayers at daily evensong to the prayers offered at the shrine in Walsingham.  The display of Our Lady of Walsingham inside the entrance therefore reminds us that our prayers at St. Clement's form part of a larger praying community devoted to the Blessed Virgin Mary.  We now welcome visitors into this shared devotional life beginning at the front door.  St. Clement's has long been admired for its magnificent building, which provides a fitting setting for our equally magnificent liturgy and music.  We now have a fitting welcome that tells visitors and newcomers how happy we are that they have come to pray with us.

A Time Less Ordinary: Exploring the Holy Trinity in Trinitytide

This week we enter the longest season of the Church year, known most commonly as Ordinary Time, but I prefer the traditional name of Trinity-tide, because it identifies the central theological truth on which we should be focusing: that God is three Persons, and yet One.  Now that Jesus has been born, lived, died on the cross, resurrected, and ascended--and the Holy Spirit has descended--we can leisurely enjoy the experience of God as One. And yet the Trinity remains a perplexing concept to many people, including me.  It is especially perplexing, because the images of the Trinity we usually encounter are of an old man (God the Father), a youngish man (Jesus), and a bird (the Holy Spirit).  It is not an intuitive image if one is not pretty biblically literate.  But the image at left is far more instructive in communicating the essential point of it all:  these three persons are equal and part of a group or community.  After all, to be seated at table with others for a meal is a clear statement in most, if not all, cultures that these people are in some kind of caring relationship with each other.

I think the problem is that we get bogged down in trying to intellectualize a phenomenon that is fundamentally relational.  Seminary may have trained me to be a theologian, but as much as I love wading through abstruse theological propositions, these explanations are somehow inadequate and unsatisfying.  The accompanying video of a prayer and a litany to the Holy Trinity is not meant to solve these theological quandaries, but simply to commend personal engagement with God in God's fullness, as equally Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.  The video is also meant to encourage us to think more expansively beyond the notions of God with which we are comfortable and to honor folks who are imagining a Jesus who not only looks European, but also African or Native American or Asian; and a Holy Ghost that is not only a dove, but breathing, wind, and spirit.  This is not New Age or postmodern pandering, but an acknowledgement that the Church's tradition and scripture have always included imagery that is diverse and evolving.  So, let's go deeper into our tradition.

What I did not have the space to say in the video is that both the prayer and the litany reveal a human striving for a healthier relationship with God and others.  We ask the Trinity to help us to overcome all of our vices and foibles, so that we may resemble in our own relationships the intimacy between the three persons of the Trinity.  As God is One, so we must strive to be one also.  The Trinity is above all a model of relationship, even when we cannot work out the finer detail of how it works.  The Church teaches us that each person of the Trinity is made of the same substance, and is equal in relationship to the others.  How can we not perceive that God is urging humanity to adopt this same model?  In a world rent by violence, war, murder, abuse, exploitation, and other sins, the importance of a personal and communal engagement with the Trinity is all the more urgent.  Tomorrow, we celebrate the Feast of Corpus Christi, which in my mind, emphasizes that the kind of relationships the Trinity commends are embodied ones.  When we receive the Body and Blood of Christ, may we think of not only our relationship to Jesus in all his fullness, but of our relationship to everybody else in their fullness.