O still, small voice of calm

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,

Till all our strivings cease;

Take from our souls the strain and stress,

And let our ordered lives confess

The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire

Thy coolness and Thy balm;

Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;

Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,

O still, small voice of calm.

John Whittier, 1872

It's Holy Week, again, the first since I officially retired. There's a delicious freedom in not being responsible for multiple services and marathon sermon preparation this year. But the old tug that this time has always exerted on me is still present, though in different ways. I feel as if I've stepped back from the experience, kind of like one steps back from an impressionistic painting in order to see the full picture, rather than just the individual brush strokes and dots that go into its creation. There's certainly a deep sense of participation when one is the Celebrant of this unique seven days' events--saying the words of consecration over bread and wine, washing the feet of parishioners with whom one has not shared anything more intimate than a handshake at the door, stripping the altar, throwing the black veil over the altar cross and turning the lights out.

But there's something just as powerful in being a step or two removed from being in the center this time around. And I find that distance helpful as I listen to the cri de coeur--the heart cry-- of the Anglican community, all parts of it, known and unknown, rising to an even louder pitch, at least it seems so to me, as we approach this holiest of all span of days. Perhaps as we retrace the anguished steps of Jesus through his final attempts to bring humankind back to its senses, we struggle for some way to express our angst that somewhere along the way we've all taken leave of our senses. We're all trying to find where to place our feet where the ground won't crumble underneath them and in our stumbling we cry out against our pain and against our own clumsiness. If only there were clearer road signs that we could confidently follow, knowing they'd bring us where we want and need to be.

If ever the Church did something right, it was in establishing Holy Week and its observances as the way to Easter. It's inevitable that we will stumble and curse our awkwardness, but the promise is that if, with God's help, we keep getting up again we will see the light at the end of the tunnel. The problem is that along with the roughness of what's underfoot is the distracting howling of strange beasts and the cackling of other hysterical creatures dinning in our ears as we plow onward. Somewhere in the cacophony we suspect there are some voices that are giving us the right directions, but it's hard to discern them through the uproar. Our spiritual GPS is finding it hard to connect with the right signal.

As I reflected on some of this, I was reminded of the hymn "Dear Lord and Father of Mankind." I confess that the masculine language of the first phrase has been daunting for me, but the rest of the poetry has always brought peace when there was none. Above are a couple of the verses that have been especially helpful. And as I further reflected on this, I thought of something that Phyllis Tickle has written in her book The Great Emergence which I'm reading right now.

She addresses this "mighty upheaval" that all of Christianity, as well as other faith traditions, is experiencing. What I like about her approach is that she offers a "still, small voice of calm" amid the clamor. Each time that these hinge times, as she terms them, occur--usually about every 500 years, three things have always resulted:

• A new more vital form of Christianity does indeed emerge.


• The organized expression of Christianity which up until then had been the dominant one is reconstituted into a more pure and less ossified expression of its former self.


• Every time the incrustations of an overly established Christianity have been broken open, the faith has spread--and been spread--dramatically into new geographic and demographic areas, thereby increasing exponentially the range and depth of Christianity's reach as a result of its time of unease and distress.

What could be more appropriate for our reflection in this Holy Week, in the midst of our distress? The traces of death to resurrection are clearly seen in this voice of calm. As we walk again the path to the cross, with all its pain and noisy shouting, we can take hope that this earthquake, wind, and fire that we now experience contains within it the voice of calm that will point us in the right direction.

Camping Out

While airing my views on churchly things over the last months, I've also been inwardly reflecting on what my idea of a New Church would look like. Knowing that whatever forms and formulas we might create to renew and re-form the Church will inevitably be the work of human beings, I suspect that some of my hopes are unattainable, at least in this world! Yet it may be okay to dream them anyway and to explore what a realistic version of my "perfect" Church could be.

So, this post is a beginning--but only a beginning--to the process of describing a new way of being the People of God Who Walk in the Way of Jesus. I've used that last phrase intentionally, because I believe that the less we use the word "church," the more freed up we can be to imagine something new. And, coincidentally, it echoes what the first followers of Christ were called--those who follow The Way. (I'd like to take up the idea of The Way in another post because it, too, can be a loaded concept, but for now I want to continue with my original direction.)

My first dream for this re-formed community would be that it claims no particular edifice as its location or identity. Having buildings, in my experience, has been one of the greatest energy and resource draining factors in the life of the Christian movement. Their beauty is certainly a testament to the human spirit's ability and desire to express its response to God through visual creativity. Yet as history has rolled on and the human spirit has come to seek a less confining venue for its need and desire to connect with The Holy, our buildings become beautiful but expensive balls and chains around our feet. The weight of them tugs heavily at our efforts to walk in the Way. We have become seduced into believing that building and maintaining them is an expression of good stewardship. And the seduction doesn't end there. Its powerful attraction beckons us to marry our buildings and even be willing to die as viable communities rather than divorce them.

In The Nomadic Church, Bill Easum and Pete Theodore write, "According to the U.S. Census Bureau, $7.3 billion [that's $7,300,000,000] was spent on religious construction in 2000." They go on to say that today "it costs between five hundred thousand and a million dollars to plant a church in the traditional way!" And that's only to put the buildings up. Let's not even go in the direction of how much it costs for yearly maintenance on those buildings erected in 2000 and all the thousands of other religious constructions that have existed for hundreds of years. It's impossible, as well, to measure the cost in lost ministry opportunities and the price we pay in human angst as a once-thriving Christian community watches itself go down a black hole, struggling to survive while pouring all its resources into a building that sucks them up like a giant sponge that never reaches capacity. Nor do we want to go in the direction of contemplating what the implications of "owning" property and buildings has had on the current situation in The Episcopal Church.

Are permanent gathering places really necessary for the People Who Walk in the Way? The Biblical models of God's gathered communities doesn't particularly defend this thought. Yes, there was the Temple and there were synagogues. Yet Jesus, in whose way we presumably walk, was an itinerate preacher. Gospel stories imply that he visited those places occasionally. But the Temple was eventually destroyed and I don't think Jesus would have wept over that or suggested that people throw lots of money into building it again or maintaining its upkeep. I even recall a story in which he was angry enough to throw furniture around in that edifice over its fundraising activities. If, as we keep telling our children, the Church is not the building but the people, then why are our budgets always top-heavy on the Buildings and Property items?

I feel the larger picture we glean from Biblical models is that the authentic community of those who walk in the ways of God is a community on the move. We may sojourn together from time to time (in fact the word parish comes from the Greek word for those who sojourn together), but sojourning and taking up permanent residence are not the same thing. To sojourn is to rest temporarily between parts of a journey. We don't need a permanent dwelling for that. A tent, or a storefront or a schoolroom or someone's home will do.

By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God. . .They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11:8-10, 13b-16)

Are we, the People Who Walk in the Way, willing to set out on the next leg of this journey, not knowing where we are to go? Willing to live in tents and be strangers in the land? Always aware that the life of those who are on this Way is a moveable feast?

Theological Garage Sale

At a Lenten program this week the comment was made that about every 500 years we human beings have a need to churn everything up, especially in matters of faith, theology, religion, church, or whatever. It was Bishop Mark Dyer who originally compared this activity to a theological garage sale, getting rid of the stuff we no longer want or that isn't serving a useful purpose, so that we can make space for renewal and new growth.

It's been about 500 years since the historical period we call The Reformation. Mention the word reformation and we start thinking of Martin Luther, indulgences, documents nailed to church doors and general mayhem in ecclesiastical circles. One group is collecting items for a giant yard sale and the other group is defending the attic door, declaring that all its contents are sacred and must be kept until death do us part. And there may even be a third group, which I often eye wistfully, who just want to create a bonfire of the whole business and start over. We could all stand around the blaze, holding hands and singing nostalgic songs of how life used to be. But eventually the warmth would die out and we'd have to figure out what to do with the ashes and, even more importantly, what to put in their place.

So, all in all, I guess the garage sale isn't a bad idea. And as long as we're going to do some serious housecleaning, it may be a good time to think about why all this stuff was so important to us in the first place. The elephant with the clock in its stomach is a no-brainer—we only kept it because Aunt Martha gave it to us and now she's gone to her reward and we don't have to bring it out every time she comes to visit. Kind of like the bishop's chair at one parish I served. It was not exactly a thing of beauty, far from comfortable to sit in, and it took three or four brawny people to lug it from the back of the church to the front when the Bishop was coming. Eventually, it was decided to just leave it in the back, taking up significant space in the narthex, and use a decent-looking but much more comfortable and portable chair on visitation day. A good garage sale decision, as far as it went, except the old chair still hung around, oozing ugliness all over the narthex.

We Episcopalians are famous for these kinds of decisions. The 1979 Book of Common Prayer is a great example. We were afraid of losing people if we did away completely with the 1928 liturgies, so we kept them somewhat intact, but added a bunch of contemporary ones because, theologically and linguistically, they were more in tune with the times. And what we ended up with was a tool so schizophrenic and user unfriendly that many, if not most, parishes these days don't even use it because it's too intimidating for both Episcopalians and people who seek out the Episcopal Church from other backgrounds. And we lost people anyway.

Decisions about what to keep and what to put out on the curb are always difficult. My fear about what's happening right now in the Church is that in order to keep the attic from being divested of its ancient treasures, we're willing to put people out in the yard because there isn’t room for them and they're expendable.

Being a Good Loser

It's no secret that many mainline churches have been losing members in a steady stream since the 1960's. (I guess I should take comfort in knowing that it had already started before I was ordained!) The issue is far too complex to be addressed here in this post, though I've seen many attempts to convince us that it's due to a single cause, usually something a particular parish or denomination is doing wrong. The thread I'd like to pick up is a double ply one. First, the assumption that losing is bad and must be related to something bad that's being done, and second, that gaining members and having full pews is a sign that a church or a denomination is healthy. The goal then becomes to do whatever increases the numbers, and to stop doing whatever is making them go down.

Perhaps we obsess on this here in this culture more than in others because of our American indoctrination that bigger is better, the more the merrier, etc. I can remember ads in the past that employed phrases like "50 million people can't be wrong!" to convince potential consumers that a product was good. McDonald's still uses this tactic in its "billions and billions sold," to imply that if so many people keep going for this thing, it must be good.

All this has its influence on our minds, not to mention our souls, even when it comes to what we decide to believe, or what church we'll align ourselves with, or how correct our theology is. The majority rules is our touchstone, and going counter to the direction that the rest of the crowd is traveling takes us way out of our comfort zone. This is especially true if, having made the decision to take the road less traveled, we lose something: friends, a church, a way of life, a clear direction.

I see this dynamic working in the present turbulence within the Episcopal Church and the so-called Anglican Communion. It's a fact that the Episcopal Church has lost members over certain decisions it has made, and this is a cause for glee among those who have chosen to set up alternative choices to being in the Episcopal Church. The assumption is that TEC is losing members because it is doing something wrong, and that it deserves to lose people. After all, this is only to be expected of a church that goes its own misguided way, counter to the road the crowd has decided to take (the "right" one, of course).

It's hard not to falter in the face of this widely-held belief. But as I wrote on Mark Harris' blog, in response to his question, How important is it to belong to the Anglican Communion?:

"In all the hoo-ha about covenants and restraints and consensus, etc., I keep thinking about the life of Jesus and how, as he went about challenging the unhealthy systems, his group of supporters got smaller and smaller. He didn't wait for the system to come to consensus about him. In fact, the only consensus it came to was to get rid of him. It feels to me as if something like that is happening to TEC. If we believe that we're following in the way of Jesus, then we may have to come to terms with being crucified. We may end up as a very small group, at least for a while. I feel our challenge is to decide if what we believe is worth "dying" for. Quoting The Rev. Darryl Dash, 'Jesus may want to lead us as churches to places that will hurt our church's growth and health. He may want to lead us to places in which our churches won't even survive. The issue isn't church growth or health. The real issue is whether or not a church is willing to follow Jesus. What about this - a church that is willing to die to its own interests and welfare, to pick up its cross, and follow Jesus? What about a church that, if faced with a choice between following Jesus into unknown and dangerous territory, and taking a safe route that would lead to growth and health - what about a church that would willingly take the dangerous route in order to follow Jesus?' "

Is it possible to believe that we can lose because we're doing something right, not because we're doing something wrong? W.R. Inge says, "We are distressed because our churches are half empty; and many of them would be emptier if the Gospel were preached in them." Perhaps we should take heart that we're losing. It just might mean that we're doing something right.

Me and My Shadow

Well, I finally did it--I cancelled my subscription to The Living Church, something I probably should have done years ago. I hung on for a long time, feeling that it was important to know what others in the Episcopal Church were saying and writing.

Though my high blood pressure is familial, reading The Living Church certainly didn't help it any. Now I've decided that I don't need to read any more issues of TLC (there's an anagram for you!) to know what's being said. It's the same, issue after issue. The blame for the mess the Church is in belongs to Katherine Jefferts Schiori and Gene Robinson. The final straw came when I read an editorial in the last issue taking Gene Robinson to task for his prayer at the inauguration activities. The article was headlined "Gene Robinson had an opportunity to witness for Christ and he didn't." Mind you, Gene Robinson is someone who, in the minds of schismatics, isn't worthy to witness for Christ yet he merits a full length editorial when he allegedly doesn't.

Quoting Duncan Macleod at PostKiwi.com: "The very act of pinning the weight of evil on a character, be it Saddam Hussein or the molester in the news, prevents us from dealing with our own shadow - our own capacity to distort God’s gift of life. In the time of McCarthyism in the 1950s, the enemy was communism. Individuals and groups were singled out for harsh treatment and rejection - because of their perceived lack of loyalty. I’ve seen the same dynamic at work in churches sick with mutual suspicion and fault-finding."

Our Church is certainly exhibiting its shadow side, yet we seem to be the only ones who don't see it. In our anger, confusion and distress, we look for someone to blame for the situation we're in. Very human, very understandable. But I'm reminded of the old Pogo cartoon that others of my generation will remember. "We have met the enemy and he is us."

We are a Church that is behaving badly--all of us. Pulling in every direction away from each other. It's hard to walk through this stuff, but the going is better if we join hands rather than curl them into fists. Someday perhaps there will be a publication called The Healing Church, to which we could all happily subscribe.

The Sounds of Silence

Words, words, words,

I'm so sick of words.

I get words all day through,

First from him, now from you.

Is that all you blighters can do?

Eliza Doolittle, in "My Fair Lady"

I went to the Friends (Quaker) Meeting this morning. As I sat in the shared silence of a simply furnished room, I was wishing that the Anglican Communion--or whatever it is now--would be able to just sit in silence for a while and let each other be.

I'd been reading the St. Andrew's Draft of the proposed Anglican Covenant just the other day, plus various multi-paged responses to it. It just seemed to me such a misdirection of energy to be writing in hundreds and thousands of words what never needed to be put in words for hundreds of years. And when everyone is finished rephrasing this section and that section, and finesse-ing this thought and that thought so that, supposedly, no one can take offense and everyone gets to have a say, what will we have? From my little corner, I foresee another document that everyone will read from whatever stance he/she now reads the Bible. We'll have the literalists and the progressives, the fundamentalists and the free interpreters, and instead of--or perhaps, in addition to--throwing Bible verses at each other, we'll now also be throwing Covenant verses at each other, as well.

I also foresee that what we'll have is something in writing--always more binding than mere ties of affection and hospitality--that we can poke at each other in proof that someone has broken the Covenant and thereby has relinquished their position in it, whether they wanted to or not.

When all have signed onto whatever version of the Anglican Covenant is eventually ratified, will Peter Akinola kneel at the same Communion rail with Gene Robinson, or even be in the same room with him? I expect we all know the answer to that. And if this isn't what being in "communion" is about, then what's the point?

When I think of an Anglican Covenant in a graphic sort of way, I'm reminded of a picture of the Tower of Babel in the King James Version of a Bible I received in childhood. We'll have those at the top who believe they're closest to God, and the rest in descending tiers (or tears?).

Instead of a covenant, I wish we'd all just take a three year vow of silence, where no one says--or writes--anything about anything, or anybody, and we all just get on with God's work in the way we feel called. It wouldn't surprise me if the world, and the Anglican Communion, would be in a much better place than it is now.

Hope Over Fear

Like millions of others, I was deeply moved by yesterday's inaugural ceremonies, and especially our new president's inaugural address. Much of what he said was equally applicable, in my mind, to the state of the Church, as well as this nation. Choosing hope over fear seems to be a concept that has fallen by the side of the road in some parts of the Anglican Communion, or what used to be the Anglican Communion, as well as other faith traditions.

I seem to recall that Jesus incurred some of the same type of criticism that The Episcopal Church and others who have chosen to be inclusive are getting. "He eats and drinks with sinners," was the rap on him. One doesn't often hear the corollary to that: if he didn't eat and drink with sinners, whom else would he find for company? He consorted with prostitutes, spoke openly to women in public (something that was simply not done in the Jewish culture of that time). He touched the untouchables, he let children interrupt him at work. He was accused of eating and drinking too much and having too good a time. And we've looked at all that and decided that it couldn't really mean what it seems to mean. We would rather have a Jesus who is more discriminating in the company he keeps. We want to make a rules-keeper out of the one who was constantly being maligned for breaking every rule there was. We want a Jesus who knows where the boundaries are instead of one who invites even criminals to share Paradise with him.

In other words, we want Jesus to be like us. Author, Anne Lamott, writes "You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do." We fear that the undeserving, the unlike, the un-us might get to be at the party, too and, like children, we fear that they might eat up all the goodies and drink all the wine so that our share is diminished. Or perhaps we fear that being seen in their company will be misinterpreted to mean that we actually accept them and that we might actually be of the same species and even, heaven forbid, neighbors!

Quoting from Paul's Letter to the Corinthians, President Obama said "The time has come to set aside childish things. . .to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift . . .the God-given promise that all are equal."

To choose our better history, to choose hope. Does the Church have a better history? Perhaps not, since it has been and always will be a human institution. Yet, that it continues to survive after 2 millenia is a sign of hope that there is something about it and its better message that has managed to live on despite all our efforts to kill it. I hope we can find and choose that better message and put aside our childish fears that in finding it we might have to share it with everyone.

I was reflecting yesterday that there's an African-American family in the White House and they aren't there to work in the kitchen or clean the bathrooms or wait on the President at meals. They are the President and his family--the rightful residents in their own home. I hope that the Church--all of the Church--can one day choose a better history and a better hope and see all God's people as the rightful residents in their own home.