The New Mission Field

Since leaving my curacy in Philadelphia, I have been asked repeatedly, "Have you given up being a priest?"  The answer is emphatically, "No." "Oh, then did you find a new parish?"  "No." "So, what are you doing, then?"  Oddly enough, I'm working as a priest . . . not that my "flock" often realizes it.  Well, that's hardly surprising, since I'm not attempting to proselytize, convert, or catechize . . . just help them to thrive.

Over the last several months, I have been taking a much-needed Sabbath from the institutional Church that I have loved.  After eight years of the ordination process, seminary, and a challenging first cure, I needed a break.  As a priest, it can be difficult to craft a vocational identity outside of the day-in, day-out rhythm of parish ministry.  During the ordination process, one longs desperately to be done, to receive the laying on of hands, and then to find something meaningful to do with that ordination.  Seminary and "The Process" teach us that the best and the brightest go on to become rectors of posh, historic, or endowed parishes, and those who follow different paths are sometimes viewed as deviants from the ecclesiastical norm.  Many fabulous clergy do go on to head important parishes, but many serve in other capacities. I've heard several of my clergy colleagues say things like, "vicars/chaplains get no respect," and "the Church doesn't take tentmaking / bi-vocational / secularly employed clergy seriously."  This may or may not be true; but, as many congregations struggle to fill vacant sanctuaries, and so few can afford a full-time priest, I have to wonder if the old parish model of ministry will continue to decline; and if it does, what model(s) might emerge alongside it?  I was lucky to find a paid, full-time parish job for my first cure, but I've never expected Holy Mother Church to provide me with a living.  A vocation, yes.  A living, no.

I learned as a curate, moreover, that, as rewarding as parish ministry can be, it can also impose limitations.  Serving as the curate of St. Clement's in Philadelphia has been one of the most edifying experiences of my life, and yet there were aspects of my pre-seminary life that I missed.  I missed a sense of balance between the churchy and secular spheres in which I moved.  I missed the ability to feel like I could be my full self without the pressure to conform to the Church's sometimes unreasonable expectations.  It was gratifying, for example, to read a couple of weeks ago about The Rev. Nadia Bolz-Weber, whose chequered past, tatted guns, and gritty accessibility are equipping her for life-changing ministry in Denver.  I'm not advocating "edgy" for its own sake, but simply affirming the importance of authenticity and integrity for ordained ministry in the real world.  After all, it is easy to feel insulated from society at large when one's cure is confined almost exclusively to the few people who show up for mass on Sunday, however much you may love those people.  Participating in the Ashes-to-Go movement over the past two years has convinced me that the concept of a "parish" may be somewhat outmoded, and that priestly ministry might have a greater reach and impact if we opened ourselves up to new sites and--dare I say--new styles of priesthood.  In my early years of formation, I'd often pictured myself becoming a sort-of missionary-chaplain-at-large, taking ministry on the road as an Episcopalian, a progressive Anglo-Catholic, and an emergent Christian--and undoubtedly other things, too--moving freely between traditionally secular and sacred spaces.  I tried life as a parish priest, which I enjoyed, but I'm also excited by my return to something a bit more unconventional.

And let's be practical.  Everyone knows that full-time jobs in parishes are hard to come by, and even hospital chaplaincies have dried up over the last several years of economic austerity.  Looking for a new job is always a disheartening process, and take it from me, telling the HR recruiter you're a priest raises more than just an eyebrow.  But, it's because I'm a priest--not in spite of it--that I now serve as Director of Executive Services for the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP), the not-for-profit for which I had worked for ten years prior to seminary.  Not what I was expecting to do, to be sure, but it's a surprisingly good fit.  It's a good fit, because the job is deeply relational.  I realized early on during the long interview process that the Academy was seeking a person to nurture and empower its physician leaders, so that they could thrive and do the advocacy work they were called to do on behalf of children.  In a very real way, the organization is a tight-knit community of people with shared values and a common mission who need to feel well cared for in this work.  It's true that I'm in charge of governance--a nebulous word, at best.  I manage the AAP Board of Directors, the President, the CEO, the Past Presidents Advisory Committee, and some other leadership groups.  I plan events, oversee administration and policy, and manage a multi-million-dollar budget.  But it's compellingly more than that.  A physician recently joked, "so, you're the new Academy babysitter?" "Actually, I think of myself more as the Academy's chaplain," I replied.  And it's true.

Knowing I'm a priest seems to make a difference to them.  Physicians and staff come to me with their problems, their hopes, their successes, and their grief.  Some are evangelical Christians; some are Jews; some identify as nothing at all.  But my being a priest matters to them, even though I don't wear a clerical collar at the office.  This has been a startling revelation that reminds me that being a priest is not just about presiding at the Eucharist on Sunday.  It is an embodiment of the inner wiring that reshapes us during formation and at ordination. Remember what we learned about that indelible sacramental character?  Well, it's real. Psalm 110 claims that "Thou art a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek,"  which I've begun to understand in a broader way, that we stand in persona Christi not just at the altar, but in the other areas of our lives where we encounter brokenness, hope, and a yearning for relationship.  It attests that even with many parishes falling on hard times, there will still be a need for priestly ministry in new locations and among unexpected people.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not inpugning the value of parish ministry.  In fact, I've recently done some supply work, and I'd love to find a parish to land on Sundays and feasts where I can say mass occasionally, help out an overworked and beleaguered rector, and experience community. At the same time, though, I'm becoming aware that the Holy Spirit may be guiding some of us to new opportunities for priestly ministry in places where the Church and its clergy have been largely invisible.  If I've learned anything as a member of the Society of Catholic Priests, it's that we all face the challenge of relevance in a rapidly changing culture. But I suppose that the likes of Jackson Kemper and the Anglo-Catholic slum priests struggled with this challenge themselves, and so I draw inspiration from their stories and those of my sister and brother priests as they seek to carve out their own fields for ministry on the frontier.

Secular AND Sacred

US Surgeon General, Dr. Regina Benjamin, addressing the AMA House of Delegates.

The division between secular and sacred space is an artificial human construction.  Those of you who know me well have probably heard me proclaim some version of this dozens of times. Church and world aren't always running parallel to each other, or espousing different values and agendas; sometimes they intersect.

I am a priest, but the other part of my vocation centers on my work in public policy, which I have been doing since 1998.  This work has primarily focused on informing the development of health care policy, conducting health services research, and advocating for physicians and patients.  Earlier this week, I attended the Annual Meeting of the American Medical Association House of Delegates in Chicago.  The HOD, as it is known, is the policy-making body of the American Medical Association, whose voice often influences the course of federal and state legislation through state houses, Congress, the US Department of Health and Human Services, the Center for Medicare and Medicaid Services, and the White House itself.  The members of the HOD are all physicians, who represent every medical and surgical specialty, every state medical society, and every major physician organization.  In this way, the HOD is largely representative of US physicians.

Jesus preaching from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah.

Now, why have I chosen to tell you about this on a religious blog, where I usually talk about liturgy, saints' days, and baptismal theology?  Well, let me begin by quoting the fourth chapter of the Gospel of Luke: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."  In the testimony voiced in reference committees and the House at large, it was clear that physicians shared the sentiment of this verse.  Physicians of many faith traditions and no religious belief at all articulated a shared commitment to the betterment of humanity through the pursuit of justice, equity, healing, and well-being.  Liberal and conservative, religious and non-religious, they all gathered with the intention of formulating health care policy in the best interest of patients.  In fact, one delegate addressed the House with the words of St. Paul from 1 Corinthians 1:10: "Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters . . . that all of you should be in agreement and that there should be no divisions among you, but that you should be united in the same mind and the same purpose."  I was surprised to hear the delegate openly quote Paul, and yet the apostle's words seemed an appropriate encapsulation of the spirit of the House.  After all, the integrity of the body is a central image understood by both physicians and Christians.

Like many religious people working in secular arenas, I am careful to prevent any particular religious tinge or agenda to influence my management of public policy issues.  The reality of living in a pluralistic society is that we must respect a diversity of perspectives and beliefs about religion and its role in the public square.  I do, however, allow my humanistic values as a Christian to inspire and inform the understanding of my role as a policy wonk, because I think it's important for our faith to inculcate a sense of responsibility for other peoples' welfare.  This is as true now as it was among the fledgling Christian communities of the apostolic era.  As I listened to speaker after speaker debate perspectives on issues ranging from the Affordable Care Act and US pharmaceutical shortages to obesity and gun safety, I was assured that religion and policy have something in common. All of this occurred during what was reported to be Chicago's most violent weekend so far this year, with seven killed and three dozen wounded.  Knowing that seemed to remind all of us that the perorations at the microphone matter a great deal.  They can lead to increased access to health care for some, and barriers to access for others.  They can affect the quality of care, patient safety, health care costs, and the social well-being of real people, such as those who were shot over the weekend and brought to Chicago-area hospitals for care.

Delegates advance to the microphone for debate.

For a variety of reasons, we tend to compartmentalize secular and religious concerns--and this is often appropriate--but I would argue that there is a pressing need for people of faith to take an interest in what happens in the public policy arena.  The testimony and perspectives offered this past weekend against the backdrop of extreme violence demonstrate that people of conscience should gather to discuss difficult issues and work toward consensus for the betterment of all human beings.  Even where opinions differ widely, both philosophically and pragmatically, there is value in participating in fora where moral and ethical concerns are placed center stage.  So many of the physicians I observed spoke to the need to make a difference, to engage in work that is purposeful and transformative.  It is in this kind of engagement that both religious and non-religious will be able to declare as Jesus did in the Gospel of Luke, "this prophecy has been fulfilled in your hearing."

Why (Some) Americans are Avoiding Church

This week the Christian Science Monitor published an article reviewing the findings of the latest Gallup poll that evaluated the perception of religion's role in American society.  The article argues that religious institutions have reached a nadir in influence and credibility not seen since the Vietnam War.  The article also notes, however, that over three quarters of respondents said that American society would be better off if more people were religious, especially in times of transition and crisis.  This is perplexing.  Is the survey saying, then, that religion has an important role in society, and yet religious institutions are somehow messing it up?

It seems the answer might be YES.  One of the benefits of being a priest and having a lot of non-churchy and non-religious friends is that they often tell me what they think is wrong with religion--and by religion, they usually mean institutional Christianity.  I realize that this is only anecdotal evidence, which does not have the same scientific rigor as an IRB-approved, double-blinded clinical trial, but it's nonetheless instructive.  Consider it qualitative research.   As I sat at brunch with a group of non-religious friends last Sunday after church, I got an earful.  Many of them have given up on religion altogether, because they realize that their churches have lied to them, or that the Bible isn't inerrant, or that they were shamed for doubting and questioning what the Church had taught them.  Several of us at one end of the long table wandered into biblical archaeology, liberation theology, and St. Augustine, and we got some weird looks.  Not hostile.  Just curious and alert.  A couple of people even said, "I've never heard Christianity discussed like this.  Why did no one ever tell me about this stuff?"  Well, good question.  I don't know.

At the top of their list of complaints is one that has been validated by survey data from the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life.  People, especially young people, avoid going to church, because they perceive many religious institutions as hypocritical.  The Christian Science Monitor article opines that "these numbers, however, probably reflect a growing distrust in almost all institutions, not just established denominations, as well as a rising interest in individual spirituality more than group worship or faith-impelled social action."  That may well be true, but it still begs the question of why there is a growing mistrust in institutions.  For example, "if Christianity preaches a message of inclusion, tolerance, and love," my non-churchy friends argue, "why do so many churches and the people in them fail to walk the talk?"  This is especially the case in churches that many young people view as out of pace with prevailing public opinion on social issues.  I am stunned by the number of people who still conjure up stereotypes of the Church: fusty, prudish, judgmental, sanctimonious, puritanical, even oppressive.  And yet, there is an ample basis for these characterizations in both history and individual witness. The Episcopal Church, for which I feel much love and pride, is perhaps more consonant with the American secular mainstream, but for all of its virtues, it too can be overly cautious, risk averse, and panicky when it encounters things outside its comfort zone.  Institutions, even good institutions, are like that.

A lot of church growth experts claim that what the "Church" needs to do is to offer better hospitality and more accessible and culturally relevant worship, and the young people will flock to us.  No doubt good worship, music, hospitality, and meaningful mission in the community will help with those who already make the brave step of visiting a church on Sunday.  But what about all those people who don't show up?  How do we reach them?  As I discussed with a young brother priest last week, I'm beginning to think we might be doing things the wrong way round.  I know a lot of people (like my friends at brunch) who wouldn't darken the door of a church for worship, and yet are interested in Christianity, religion, or spirituality.  The trouble is that we are misidentifying the problem and hence offering an inappropriate remedy.  A doctor wouldn't prescribe a couple of aspirin to treat cancer, and yet that's what we're doing with respect to peoples' spiritual health.  The spiritual malaise or apathy needs a different therapeutic response.

Conversations with disaffected religious and spiritual folk have persuaded me that before people can even begin to think about visiting a church for worship, we need to respond to some more immediate issues.  Most of the people I talk to about religious issues are attempting to process the deep questions of God, the meaning of human existence, the afterlife, and theodicy (the presence of evil and suffering in the world) using the theology they learned as children in Sunday school.  These folks, many of whom are very intelligent and well educated for their secular pursuits, were never given more mature theological tools to process these thorny questions as they grew older.  In a sense, their theological education was truncated early in life and is now developmentally inappropriate.  If people can't find a way forward on these fundamental questions, then offering them more contemporary worship or small relational groups isn't going to work.  Even if we offer theological resources in our preaching and adult education, that's not going to reach all those people who would never dream of appearing on Sunday morning. 

What's holding a lot of people back from going to church is their lack of resources for exploring who God is, why bad things happen to good people, why evil exists, what gives life meaning, and what happens when we die.  I hear people say things like, "Why did God give my mother cancer?" and  "I'm ashamed of being angry at God." and "How can the Bible be of any value if two verses contradict each other?" and "I'm afraid I will blink into nothingness when I die."  Part of the solution may be to explore these questions outside the church wherever people happen to be.  I know the Church says it's already doing this by hosting pub theology nights, 20's/30's groups, and the like.  I'm actually not talking about formal programming, which tends to attract people already receptive to church outreach, but rather identifying casual opportunities to talk with people about religious issues and starting to develop what I would call improvisational catechesis.  I'm not altogether comfortable with the word, catechesis, in this instance, because it carries a suggestion of the institution imposing wisdom from above.  What I have in mind is a more collaborative, exploratory and mutual dynamic that does not place any one person's (especially a priest's) views or beliefs above someone else's.  I was rather thinking of just being present as spiritual companions to each other wherever we happen to be, even over brunch, because I believe that when two are or three are gathered together in Jesus' name, he will be in the midst of us.  Maybe people aren't so much avoiding church, as the church is avoiding them, albeit unintentionally.  Maybe we need to rethink how the church might be embodied, in unexpected places and among unexpected people.  

Cleaning Out Closets

I've been back in Chicago for a month this week, and I'm still unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, and trying to figure out where to put all this stuff.  I don't have nearly enough storage space.  The closets are a disaster.  So, as much as I've dreaded it, I'm culling old file folders and tossing out ratty bed linens, trying to find room anywhere I can.  I encounter a set of hideous placemats and happily place them in the garbage bag next to me.  The funny thing is that this drudgery is turning into a very rewarding exercise.  I smile when I stumble unexpectedly upon an item that conjures up a cherished memory.  "Oh, that takes me back.  I remember when so-and-so gave that to me.  Boy, was that a fun day!  I miss spending time with him/her."

During this season after Pentecost, when we focus on new life, revisioned identities, and altered trajectories, we can sometimes forget about all the stuff that we bring with us on this journey of the Holy Spirit.  And some of this stuff is good.  I'm not so sure that putting new wine into old wineskins, as the Gospel warns, is such a bad thing.  Especially if that old wineskin is me.  Maybe that's not a good biblical metaphor to develop.  Perhaps the Christian journey is more like an American or Canadian college student backpacking across Europe.  One starts out with his or her backpack half full, with some ready-to-eat food, extra pairs of socks, a First-Aid kit, and a book for those long train rides across unfamiliar landscapes.  A traveler needs to bring some supplies with him or her to make the journey comfortable and safe, but he or she also needs to leave room for items collected along the way: gifts for friends back home; souvenir maps, postcards, and other trinkets; keepsakes from hospitable hosts.  Many students will even adorn their backpacks with patches that serve as badges of honor to chronicle the countries they've traversed.  I certainly did, and I still have the patches to prove it.  At least, I think they're in the bottom of some box in a closet somewhere.

Today is the anniversary of the birth of the gay activist and politician, Harvey Milk, which should remind us that, as much as we may rightfully wish to focus on the future, we bring everything we have been with us into that future.  Our enthusiasm for the possibilities of the life yet to come shouldn't obscure us from the things within us that have gotten us this far.  I am who I am, because of what I have been; and what I will become, builds upon who I am now.  Current efforts in favor of marriage equality in the United States, for instance, must not lose sight of the many people and struggles that have come before and provided the foundation for the future sought.  Despite recent progress, we must remember that there are many who are enduring the first terrifying steps of coming out of the closet.  The teen in Idaho whose anxious coming-out letter I read recently.  The middle-manager who fears for his job and livelihood in a state that does not identify sexual orientation as a protected status in employment.  As dated as they might seem to some, the struggles of identity, belonging, and discrimination that Harvey Milk championed are as timely and real as ever, in the United States and around the world.

The truth is that coming out of the closet is an ongoing and iterative process that people experience every time they seek a new job, join a new church, move to a new community, or make new friends.  Each time this occurs, men and women have to decide what about themselves it is safe or desirable to share, which artifacts of their past to display and which hopes for the future to confide.  Out of that closet come wounds, scars (some undoubtedly badges of honor), and hope, that when integrated, allow people to live with integrity.  Harvey Milk was a person who embodied this experience, and as a Christian and a humanist, I am grateful for his example. I am often surprised and saddened by the number of young LGBTQ people who are ignorant of their own cultural history, of the sacrifices and struggles of luminary figures, such as Harvey Milk.  On days such as this one, may we all remember and share with others the stories of those who have gone before us and made the future toward which we are working realizable.  Old and new, history and hope, make us who we are.

Mystery Worshipper

It is a rare pleasure to be a visitor in someone else's pews on Sunday.  For the last several years, I have had to be in my own parish on Sundays, greeting parishioners and visitors as they arrived for worship.  But for the first time in a long time, I am free to visit congregations that I have only ever heard about or visited for a special occasion, such as an ordination or installation.  It's fun.  As I sat in an unfamiliar church on Sunday, I thought about the Mystery Worshipper column from the Ship of Fools website, which sends reviewers incognito to congregations to evaluate the worship experience.  Now, of course, I had not come to scrutinize or judge that parish's liturgy, but simply to worship joyfully alongside my brothers- and sisters-in-Christ.  I was incognito, in a manner of speaking; I wasn't wearing clericals, and so looked like any ordinary visitor.  And yet, being back in my home diocese,  I knew a few people. 

The interesting thing about the visit was the level of anxiety and awkwardness I felt upon entering the church.  I had forgotten what it was like to be a stranger.  Would I be welcomed?  Would anybody talk to me?  Or would they pretend that I was invisible?  Episcopalians can often be shy and uncomfortable greeting strangers.  Mainline denominations aren't known as the Frozen Chosen for nothing.  (There is so much we could learn from Baptists and Mormons!)  As a priest, I have had to confront many times peoples' hesitation to do hands-on evangelism and outreach in the wider community.  It's unsafe and scary.  There is the potential for an unpleasant response, for anger, for rejection.  But there is also the potential for transformation, for acceptance, and for intimacy.  The same risks emerge when strangers pluck up the courage to visit our churches. 

The difference between these two scenarios is the people that are made most vulnerable in the encounter.  When we wander outside the safe confines of our churches, we are the strangers.  But when visitors come to us, they risk invisibility or rejection.  I was used to being on the other side of the welcoming experience, the position of strength and privilege.  But now, the tables were turned, and I felt vulnerable.  For the record, the clergy were very welcoming and warm, and I was deeply grateful for their hospitality.  The sermon was outstanding.  The worship was authentic and inclusive.  It occurred to me that it is a good thing for people, especially clergy, to be the mystery worshipper from time to time.  It reminds us of how hard it is for the stranger to seek welcome and belonging.  It impresses upon us the seriousness of our call as Christians to offer hospitality and to be mindful of the stranger's vulnerability and trepidation--and hence, courage--in walking through our doors on Sunday morning. 

So, how welcoming is your congregation?  Perhaps the following questions from this mystery worshipper will help get you started in evaluating your hospitality.  My recent experience as a visitor certainly caused me to be honest about my own strengths and weaknesses.  Watch your congregation this upcoming Sunday, see how it fares, and then reflect as a community on your observations. 

How long did it take before a visitor was greeted by someone in the congregation?
Did someone in the congregation greet the visitor beyond simply handing him or her a service leaflet?
How many people greeted the visitor?
Did anyone ask the visitor's name?
Did anyone tell the visitor his or her own name?
Did rank-and-file parishioners greet the visitor, or only the clergy?
Did anyone ask the visitor to sign the guest book?
How intuitive and user-friendly is the service leaflet and other worship resources for a visitor?
How was the visitor greeted or engaged during the exchange of the Peace?
Did anyone invite the visitor to coffee hour or fellowship following the service?
Did anyone talk to the visitor during coffee hour?
Did anyone offer to follow-up and speak with the visitor sometime in the following week?
Did anyone invite the visitor to participate in some other aspect or event of the congregation's life?

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it is reflective of the kinds of concerns that float through a visitor's mind as he or she struggles to look comfortable in a new space among strangers, trying to participate in an unfamiliar liturgy. 

Pessimism is No Antidote to Terrorism

On the road in Ohio.

I am recovering from the intense (and much-dreaded) ordeal of moving cross-country, so this week's post is a bit tardy.  My relocation back to Chicago came on the heels of the Boston Marathon bombing, and so as I drove the U-haul nearly 800 miles with my mother next to me for moral support, I finally had ample leisure to meditate on my vocation and the state of the world at large.  I had packed box after box in the St. Clement's rectory listening to the unfolding details of the tragedy, wondering if my dear friends in Boston were safe, and feeling despair at the cruelty and evil of which humanity is capable.  The frequency of terrorist activity is truly shocking, and I found myself expressing a very pessimistic view of human nature and progress. 

JJ Rousseau.

I caught myself in my pessimism, and thought, "this is so not me."  I spent a good part of my young adult life in my French lit PhD program revering Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who preached the perfectibility of human beings--that human beings were, at heart, inherently good and were evolving toward an increasingly virtuous and ethical state.  This view also coheres with my theology of Creation, which affirms that God declared the natural order and human beings he had created very good.  Yet, here I was with the endless highway before me thinking humanity was pretty awful.  This was so not me; this was not the optimist I had always been.

Then humanity intervened.  Everywhere we stopped during our long drive from Philadelphia to Chicago, people were kind, pleasant, and helpful, reminding me of the very best of human nature and experience.  This was especially palpable as I approached the gas station to fill up the U-haul for the last time before returning it.  I was exhausted and hungry, and I had what you might call an unfortunate incident with the U-haul.  Don't worry, vehicle and passengers all escaped unscathed.  I'll spare you the embarrassing details, but suffice it to say that it required the technical and emotional support of a wide range of people.  Complete strangers approached me to ask if I needed help, to offer advice, and to express sympathy.  It was really quite touching, and even in my weary and addled state, I was able to laugh and smile. 

The aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing.

I am, of course, not trying to downplay the horror of a tragedy like the Boston Marathon bombing, but if we start thinking that humanity is incapable of improvement and redemption--that human kindness, generosity, and love are less powerful than human cruelty, violence, and hatred-- then we've given up on humanity's future.  If we give in to pessimism, then we give up on hope; we give ourselves over to believing that our best days are behind us, and that we cannot change the trajectory of violence and destruction along which some people are driven to lead us.  Being a Christian, on the contrary, forces me to be an optimist, even when I'm tempted not to be.  I believe that humanity is inherently good, because this goodness reflects God's intrinsic goodness.  I also believe that Jesus died on the Cross, so that humanity would be delivered from a future of violence and hatred, destruction and despair.  When I recite the Creeds, or even when I simply say I believe in God or Jesus, I'm also saying that I believe that humanity has a future of peace, kindness, and love, one that terrorism cannot ultimately defeat.  Perhaps that's naive pollyannish foolishness, but it's a better starting place than the pessimism that gives terrorism power over us.

Ten Commandments: Liturgy Lessons from St. Clement's

As I finish my last week as Curate of St. Clement's, I thought I might share some of the (lighthearted) lessons that I have learned about liturgy in this bastion of smoke and bells, shrines and processions.

Heavily laden on Palm Sunday.

10.  When in doubt, genuflect. Better to do it too often, rather than not often enough when passing in front of the Blessed Sacrament, the Bishop, or a Relic of the True Cross (yes, St. Clement's has one).  If you stumble, perform a double genuflection and bow to the tabernacle, asserting confidently that it's an oddity of the Ambrosian Rite in the 15th century. You'd be surprised how many people will believe you!

9.  Lace only on major feasts and during Eastertide.  At any other time, it somehow seems garish and tacky.  Forbidden for requiems, and during Advent, the Gesimas (if your parish is one of the rare ones that still observes them), and Lent.

8. If there's an error in the service bulletin (unless it's a typo), act as if you did it on purpose, and follow what's printed.
 

Our faithful band of altar servers.

7.  If one of the servers makes a mistake, SMILE at him, and carry on as if nothing happened.  If you yourself make a mistake, smile even more broadly.  There's no point in upping the anxiety level.  We all make mistakes.  Correct gently and praise lavishly.  Good liturgy requires teamwork and collegiality.

6.  When passing objects to the celebrant, REMEMBER, kiss the object, then the hand when passing it off; but do the reverse when receiving the object back, kissing the hand, then the object.  The same principle applies when passing the celebrant his beverage at coffee hour after mass or a post-Evensong sherry.

Corpus Christi

5.  Never turn your back on the Blessed Sacrament when it is exposed upon the altar, but turn, so that you end up with your back to the altar with the Sacrament next to you; and if you must descend the altar, do so at a slight angle toward the monstrance.  Anything else will earn a stern look from Jesus, the Rector, and especially the MC.

Grim priest with broken hand.

4.  Remember my broken right hand?  Yeah, I separated my thumb and index finger after the consecration and paid the price.  At least, that's the joke that made its way through the parish!

3.  However slowly you're walking in procession, you're probably walking too fast.  Processions should never be lethargic and funereal, but neither should they be a forced march.  Slow it down, so that everyone can keep pace.

2. Learn the "off-the-menu" specials.  Part of what happens liturgically in the parish may not be found in the Prayer Book, the Missal, or the published customary, but may be enshrined in custom.  In morning prayer, for example, the asterisks telling us where to pause in the Te Deum are not in the 1928 Prayer Book, but everyone knows where they're supposed to be, and we pause accordingly.  In evening prayer, the versicle and responses, "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy," before the Lord's Prayer are not in the Prayer Book, but we say them, anyway.

1.  When blessing ashes, palms, a statue, candles, or some other object, this is the proper sequence: put incense into thurible, and then return it to the thurifer.  Sprinkle the object with holy water.  Only then does the celebrant receive the thurible back to cense the object.  Incense - sprinkle - cense.

*  And just as a bonus:  when there's a problem:  Rector (smiling):  "I blame the curate."  Curate (also smiling): "So do I.  That's what curates are for."