Visibility, Not Perfection: The Future of Christian Formation in the Episcopal Church

I recently decided to re-read Leaving Church by Barbara Brown Taylor, a “memoir of faith” by an Episcopal priest who ended up leaving parish ministry and now teaches college and preaches all over the country.  A couple of years ago, Brown was named one of the ten most effective preachers in the English-speaking world (an honor I believe to be well-deserved).

But I digress.

I’ve re-read Leaving Church at various points in my spiritual journey over the past five or so years and each time I read it, something new speaks to me.  In college I was taught to “read with a pen[cil],” a habit that carried over into my non-academic life; consequently, if you flip through my copy of the book, you can see what spoke to me at different points in my life based on what is underlined in different colors of ink.  As I’ve recently entered a new phase in my spiritual and vocational life (I’m now an aspirant for Holy Orders in the Episcopal Church [that is, I am exploring the possibility of the priesthood]), I figured it was time to see what Barbara Brown Taylor has to say to me now.

As I read through the text (for at least the eighth time in my life), I was struck by a statement that her rector in divinity school said to her: that being a priest isn’t about ministering perfectly but is about ministering visibly, allowing people to see you rise and fall as you work to minister to their needs and the needs of the world around you.

Visibility, not perfection.

I’ve been thinking about this idea a lot this week, not only in terms of priesthood, but was a concept that applies to most areas of life.  In particular, I’ve been contemplating what this means in light of the recently proposed budget cuts in the Episcopal Church (which effectively cut all nation funding for christian formation & vocation initiatives [leaving only $286,000 for the triennium -- little more than one person's salary for that time period] and relegating formation initiatives to diocesan and parish levels).

In the wake of this news, I’ve heard a lot of feedback about the situation.  While most people I know are outraged about the budget cuts, I’ve heard a number of people say they support them.  One of the most common reasons I’ve heard in support of the budget cuts is that the Episcopal Church doesn’t do formation well (that is, we’re losing members left and right) so we shouldn’t invest money in programs that are “failing” and, instead, put that money somewhere else.

I can’t pretend that the Episcopal Church’s formation programs are perfect, or always amazingly executed.  I’m sure programs, such as Episcopal Youth Event (also known as EYE, a summer conference for high school students held every three years), could be done differently and more efficiently.

But not doing something at all because we can’t do it perfectly will not turn out in our favor.

We will never be perfect.  We probably aren’t going to somehow attract millions of new members to the Episcopal Church in the blink of an eye.  But if we don’t at least try to invest in the members we have, we have already failed.  If I were looking for a new faith home (as are so many discontented members of my generation) and heard that a Church or denomination I was considering joining had just cut its formation budget, I would eliminate it as a possibility because, no matter the reason for the budget cuts, it sounds to me like a complete devaluation of the spiritual growth of the Church’s members

Christian formation programs initiated by the national Church say “you matter.”  The existence of programs such as EYE and Gather communicate to high school and college students that they are members of the Church, too, not just juvenile sub-groups that can be dismissed.

Let us, as a Church, show that we care about how our members are being formed.  Let’s be vocal about why we believe our faith matters.

And if we can’t be perfect, let’s at least be visible.

On the Episcopal Church Budget: A Call to Action

I’m sure I don’t need to restate how upset I am about the proposed cuts to the Episcopal Church budget.  The response I received to my post and the response other friends received to their posts about the budget cuts have made it patently clear that displeasure is a widely shared feeling.

I did, however, forget one very important thing in my blog post yesterday; I forgot to encourage you to write to your bishops and other General Convention delegates in your diocese to voice your opinions and concerns about this budget.

This is still just a proposed budget and, although many people are afraid that little can be done to stop its passage, it isn’t too late to let your church leaders know how you feel.

Have you been involved with national formation initiatives?  If so, what did they mean to you?  I encourage you to use your voice, tell your story, and share with those around you why you disagree with the proposed budget cuts.  In the next few days, I will be contacting my bishops to tell my own story of why I think the Episcopal Church’s formation initiatives are important.  After all, what’s the worst that can happen?  The Episcopal Church eliminates funding for christian formation & vocation initiatives?  Oh, wait.  That’s already what they plan to do.

Speak up.  Speak out.  Speak truth to power.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

This past week, the Episcopal Church released its proposed triennial budget.  The proposed budget slashes funding to a number of ministries (while increasing funding to other things [such as the Presiding Bishop's office and General Convention]).  Notably, funding for Christian Formation & Vocation (which includes initiatives for youth, young adults, and seniors) was cut from just over $3,000,000 for the triennium to about $286,400.  Yes, you read that correctly.  The Episcopal Church has proposed a budget that cuts 90% of funding for its church-wide formation programs.

As many of my friends know, I often have an almost-sinful pride in the Episcopal Church; my membership in this branch of the Anglican Communion is an important part of my personal identity and, if you get me started, I can speak endlessly about why I love the Episcopal Church and think it’s just the bees knees.  But today, more than any time I can remember, I am deeply disappointed in the Episcopal Church.

I fully support budgetary restructuring and recognize that a lot of money in the national budget could be used more efficiently.  But decentralizing christian formation programs (leaving essentially all of the work to dioceses and parishes) seems like a bad idea.

I’ve said over and over again in the past couple of years that programs like Episcopal Service Corps and events like Gather (a biennial gathering of college students from across the country) give me great hope for the future of the Episcopal Church.  As parishes shrivel up before my eyes, these programs have  convinced me that all of the people who tell me the Church is dying are, in fact, wrong.

But this proposed budget makes me reconsider at least some of my praise of the Episcopal Church.  In the Gospel of Matthew, we hear “for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”  But when I hear that the Episcopal Church is proposing to cut funding to really fantastic programs, I feel like there is little treasure, or heart, being invested in my generation.  And I believe that this will be terribly problematic in the long-run.

National level programs create dialogue across diocesan lines (and, in many cases, cultural lines) and build relationships among church members, an invaluable experience that many people will not have, or will have less frequently without nationally supported formation programs and initiatives.

A little over three years ago, I had my first taste of a national formation initiative when I attended Gather in Estes Park, Colorado.  My bishop at the time generously offered to fund the trip for a handful of college students from the diocese where I was working and so, over Christmas break, I hopped on a plane and flew halfway across the country to spend the better part of a week with mostly strangers.

It was an enriching experience, to say the least.  I met new people, heard about what other dioceses were doing with young adult ministries, and had the opportunity to meet a number of figures from the national offices of the Episcopal Church.  Conversations with some of these people solidified my belief that entering Episcopal Service Corps was what I wanted to do after college graduation.

But this experience was more than just instrumental in helping me figure out post-college life.  I also met a number of people who became long-time friends.  Every few weeks, I get up in the morning and chat with a friend who is now a missionary of the Episcopal Church serving in Japan for a year.  We talk about serious matters like faith, vocation, and the future, but also about forming a mandolin band when she’s back in the USofA (watch out — it’s going to happen!).  And, just this past week, I exchanged a number of emails with a friend who is also applying to seminary;  we talked about the different seminaries and the process of choosing where we’ll end up in this next step in our lives.  Both of these young woman are up-and-coming leaders in the Episcopal Church.  Both of these young women have become valuable figures in my faith and vocation narrative.  And both of these young women are people I wouldn’t know if it had not been for Gather, and the Episcopal Church’s valuation of forming my generation for faithful leadership.

I worry that cutting formation initiatives will turn out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy; if we are not careful, we will have no one left to form.  I’m sure that church-wide formation initiatives could be done more efficiently; after all, no institution functions perfectly.  But relegating the task of formation to dioceses and parishes limits our ability to dialogue and build relationships with those beyond our city and state borders.  How are we supposed to be in relationship and communion with people we don’t have an opportunity to know?

Of the One Percent and Dissolute Dissolution: Where is the Money going in the Episcopal Church Budget?

Reblogged from The Curate's Desk:

The Episcopal Church released its proposed triennial budget this past week.  There are so many issues with this budget that it seems a rather sad mortgaging of our future.

I am sometimes reminded in the Church of a dissolute family of some distant means, lofty titles, and rich history living in a grand but drafty house that was gifted to it by generous and trusting forebears deciding that they will not only sell off the silver and linens but will take out a second or third mortgage and pass on only dissolution and inglorious decay to those who come after them.

Read more… 1,195 more words

From The Curate's Desk (written by my internship director/one of my parish's curates).

Won’t you be my neighbor?

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to take place in a round-table conversation with the local United Way; the topic of the round-table discussion (which had about 15-20 participants) was our community and its strengths and weaknesses.  We had a set of questions that included things like “what are the three biggest problems in your community and their sources?” and “what are specific things your community could do to improve (insert problem here)?”  

I really appreciated the opportunity to gather with other members of the community to talk about the issues plaguing New Haven (in case you haven’t heard, New Haven is pretty rough and has a lot of problems).  And, as the group comprised mostly Episcopal Service Corps and Americorps interns, we’d all worked in the social service sector in New Haven and were all too familiar with the problems of the city.

As great as it was to have a group of people familiar with New Haven’s problems because we’re all working to fix them, it was also disconcerting because each of us is also removed from the daily struggle that is life for many of New Haven’s residents.  

At one point in the conversation, the questions turned to the topic of what we’ve like to see in our community and specific ways we can improve things, and one of my fellow participants starting reciting a litany of problems and solutions, which included getting rid of Wal-Mart, increasing the availability of farmer’s markets, and having more active neighborhood associations so we get to know our neighbors better.

Now, I don’t like shopping at Wal-Mart.  In fact, I won’t shop at Wal-Mart, if there is another option.  And I really like farmer’s markets.  And I think neighborhood associations are great.  And communicating with our neighbors is of the utmost importance.  But these things, as they were described by my fellow round-table participant, are all “first world problems.”   That is, these are problems of the privileged.  

As I listened to this list of problems that my fellow participants began to list, I started to become a bit incensed.  Folks kept saying communication is important, but were only talking about communciating with people in their neighborhoods.

But what about communicating with people who aren’t in our neighborhoods?  People who are different than us?  People who sleep on the Green and hang out on park benches?  People who take a break from rooting through garbage looking for cans to cash in just to ask if we can spare some change?

These people are our neighbors, too.  They might not shop at the same farmer’s market (or any farmer’s market) or belong to our neighborhood association, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re members of the same community.

Of course, I’m as guilty as anyone of just walking past people on the Green or the person who tries to get my attention to beg some change.  

But when I walk past these people, I am dehumanizing.

It’s easier to avert my eyes than to say hello and risk someone trying to talk to me.  It’s easier to pretend I don’t see someone than to risk having to say no to giving them money, or actually agreeing to give them money.  Of course, sometimes people don’t even want money.  A simple greeting and a smile is all they’re looking for.

And so I’m challenging myself to talk to my neighbors.  All of them.  

Laughing at Angels

Over the course of this academic year, it has become my custom most weeks to attend the service at Episcopal Church at Yale on Sunday nights.  I enjoy the service, relish the opportunity to do something that isn’t compulsory for the interns in my program, and delight in the chance to see people I know from outside the Saint Hilda’s/Christ Church world.  There is also a dinner afterward which always proves to be an opportunity for good conversations with friends and strangers alike.

At the post-Eucharist dinner this past Sunday, my friend Giuseppe, one of the seminarians at ECY, entertained our dinner table with the story of a man who wandered in before the service while the choir was practicing.  The man wore stars dangling from his wrists and had red tape across his mouth; upon entering the chapel where ECY services are held, he walked over to a table and started lighting the candles that adorn it.  When Giuseppe went over to greet him and shake hands, the man took the outstretched hand in his own, knelt, and kissed it; when Giuseppe assured him that such a profound gesture wasn’t necessary, the man stood up and embraced him.

Our entire table had been listening intently to Giuseppe’s tale and, most likely, had also been drawing a common conclusion: this man was crazy.  Thus, I think we were all a little surprised when Giuseppe concluded the story by suggesting that the man could have been an angel.

We all laughed at the idea (not raucous laughter by any means, but there was certainly a chuckle from everyone at the table).  ”No, I’m serious,”  Giuseppe protested against our laughter.

Sure, I laughed at Giuseppe’s suggestion that the man could have been an angel.  We all did.  But why did we laugh?

On this account I can only speak for myself.  And I don’t think I laughed at the idea of this man with stars dangling from his wrists being an angel because I actually find angels funny.  Indeed, angels are incredibly important in the Christian tradition: the Scriptures are full of references to angels, on September 29 we observe Michaelmas (the feast of Saint Michael the Archangel), and even the birth of our Savior was announced by an angel to the Virgin Mary.  We sing hymns about angels and these same heavenly creatures are a common sight in Christian artwork from throughout centuries.  Many of us even have angels perched atop our Christmas trees each winter.  No, there really isn’t anything funny about angels.

Rather, I think I laughed at the suggestion that the man in Giuseppe’s story could have been an angel because hearing someone invoke the possibility of angels in our midst is anything but ordinary.

When was the last time you actually heard someone declare that he or she encountered an angel?  To be sure, Giuseppe didn’t even actually claim that the man he encountered was an angel, only that it seemed possible.

Furthermore, when was the last time you encountered an angel?  Or even thought to yourself that a person you encountered could be one?

To answer my own question, I have never thought to myself that a person I encountered could have been an angel.  I’m pretty sure I’ve also never attributed anything to a miracle.  I’m afraid this might be a small sign that I need to rethink the way I understand God working in my life and in the world around me.

I think one of the contributing factors to this problem is that we live in a culture of control; we are constantly developing new technology, making scientific discoveries, and de-mystifying so many of the really amazing things that happen around us each day in an attempt to master the world around us.  Granted, I think it’s great that we can do this because our discoveries have led to amazing medical advancements and have given us the capability to communicate in new and different ways.

Have you ever considered how incredible it is that a person on a cell phone can call and talk to a person who lives on the other side of the world, all on a little 5oz piece of plastic and metal?  Or that we have people who can perform intricate brain surgeries to save lives on a daily basis?  If I get sick, it is reasonable to assume that I’ll be able go to the doctor, perhaps get some medicine, and feel better in a few days.  If I take a broken phone to the Verizon store, I know that I will leave with a working phone.  But as we conquer the frontiers of knowledge and explain away a lot of everyday mysteries, how do we talk about angels, miracles, and our other encounters with the Divine?

What if, instead of my cell phone being broken and needing repaired, I am broken?  What happens then?  Our tradition teaches us that, through our faith, we are healed by and reconciled with God.  But what does that look like in our everyday lives?

It seems to me that for all of our willingness to suspend our disbelief in order to put faith in a God we can’t actually see face to face (a fact that I find both beautiful and frustrating), we are pretty limited in the ways we think about God acting in our lives.   I think part of the reason we all laughed at the suggestion that the man at ECY could have been an angel is because it doesn’t actually fit in with our comfortable understanding of the Divine; it’s just a little too, well, weird.  Instead of entertaining the idea that the man Giuseppe encountered could have been an angel, I only entertained the thought that he was out of his mind.

My reaction makes me wonder if I’ve been domesticating God a little bit.  How am I open to seeing God in the everyday?  Or, am I truly open to seeing God in the everyday?  As I reflect on Giuseppe’s story, I think the answer to this question might not be the resounding yes I would like it to be.  So, maybe I need to rethink the ways I look for God in my life; maybe I need to start keeping my eyes (and mind) open for angels.

Thee, Thy, and Thou: On Language and How We Talk About God (Again)

I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in the past few months thinking about the language we use to talk about God, both in personal and corporate settings.  If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that I’ve been working through my issues with “inclusive” language and the overall limitations of our language to communicate about the Divine.  As part of my own personal piety, though, I’ve also been thinking a lot about very specific words we use in Episcopal liturgy, the words I say every morning at Morning Prayer and several times a week at Mass.

For the past year and a half, I’ve attended an Episcopal parish that has Holy Eucharist, Rite I as its primary Sunday service.  For those unfamiliar with the Episcopal tradition, Rite I is the more traditional liturgy found in the Book of Common Prayer.  Although the overall structures of Rite I and Rite II (the more modern) liturgy are the same, the language of Rite I is noticeably different.  Second-person pronouns in Rite I liturgy are thee, thy, and thou; lessons “endeth,” and we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed, whereas, in Rite II, we use “you” and “your;” lessons “end,” and we simply confess that we have sinned against God.

It’s probably unsurprising to hear that Rite I isn’t very popular in the Episcopal Church anymore.  There are a number of parishes that stick by Rite I as their primary liturgy, but most people find it dated and unappealing in this age of praise bands and projector screens.  Thee, thy, and thou don’t translate well into many people’s understandings of God.

(To be entirely fair, one of the other main arguments against the use of Rite I liturgy is that many people find the gendered language to be offensive.  I get it.  It offends a lot of people.  But I’m one of those people who doesn’t feel alienated when I hear the word “man” instead of “human” or “person.”  I just don’t.  Thus, I’m not going to delve into the topic of gender-neutral language today.)

Aside from the problem of gendered language, I have heard two other main arguments against using Rite I that I think are worth addressing.

1) In the past few months, I’ve heard a number of people say that they don’t like Rite I language because it doesn’t meet people where they are.  I don’t actually know what to say to this other than that it is an absurd statement.  Of course, it doesn’t meet everyone where they are but, then again, what does?   The traditional language of Rite I liturgy certainly meets many people where they are; to say that it doesn’t is to make a sweeping generalization.  If Rite I liturgy didn’t meet people where they are, there wouldn’t be people in the pews (or chairs, as it were) on Sunday mornings in the many parishes that continue to use this liturgy.

2)I’ve also recently had several people tell me that they dislike Rite I because the liturgy of the Church is supposed to be in the language of the people and the traditional language (subtext: “old-fashioned”) isn’t of the people.  This critique makes sense to me; I certainly want to know what is going on in the liturgy at church.  At the same time, though, is Rite I language really so different that the meaning is lost?  If you answer “yes” to this question, I think your English teachers might have failed you.  I love the language of Rite I because it is beautiful and poetic (as opposed to the often-inelegant language of parts of Rite II and other liturgical resources [Enriching Our Worship]).  Furthermore, I love the fact that it isn’t exactly typical everyday language.  In my struggle to articulate my understanding of the Divine, I welcome the opportunity to use language that I understand but is also out of the ordinary for my everyday speech and writing.  I only use thee, thy, and thou to talk about God.  And I like it that way.

Of course, I don’t mean to say that everyone should necessarily use Rite I; it doesn’t work for everyone but it does work for me.  I recognize that we will never all agree about the language we use to talk about God or what are the best liturgical resources.  Once again, though, I’m reminded to be conscious of the limitations of our language to communicate about the Divine, of what we are communicating with the limited language we have, and that we all communicate in different ways.