Something about Mary

Recently someone asked me why we had a statue of Mary prominently displayed in the church. (This person didn’t seem to be super happy about it.) My immediate answer to this person included the practical reason: at some point during the pandemic, the parish had celebrated a feast or something to do with Mary, and we’d needed a larger statue. The rector of the Anglo-Catholic parish where I regularly serve had purchased a bigger one so it would “show up” on camera. The only other statue of Mary that the parish owned was barely a foot high. Even though most people had transitioned back to in-person worship, the larger statue now remained, placed where everyone could see her each Sunday. To be honest, I’d not given this new statue of Mary much thought, and I essentially communicated this to the person who seemed to be so worried about the Mary statue. Part of being an Anglo-Catholic parish, I explained, meant an emphasis on the more “Catholic” parts about Anglicanism. So this often manifested itself in special devotion to Mary, emphasis on the Sacraments, and often more intense ceremonial (beautiful vestments, incense, bells, etc.). Knowing that many historically Anglo-Catholic parishes have a statue of Mary somewhere around (and many times much, much bigger than the one we had recently acquired), I wondered what this person would think about a life-sized version of her.

But being raised evangelical Protestant, I knew exactly why this person was asking. As a child growing up in church, I was pretty much told Mary wasn’t all that important, other than the fact that she just so happened to be Jesus’s mother. As a child, I can remember the importance of Mary being diminished by the adults in my life. “She was just a person,” someone flatly stated to me. The well-meaning adult went on, “Some people treat Mary as though she is God. They basically worship her and put her on equal footing with Jesus. They even pray to her like she’s God, and that’s wrong!” As a child, I didn’t really understand at first why I was being told this—or why any person could know that Mary was indeed “just a person” but then go on to worship her. I remember thinking, “Of course, she’s a person. But she had to be a really, really special person, right?” But it was one of those situations where, even as a child, I knew this was something I wasn’t supposed to ask about or question.

So I didn’t outwardly question it. I knew better. Doing something dumb like that in evangelical circles only resulted in people praying for your salvation. Or looking askance at you during church. And people talking about you in hushed tones behind your back. Even though adults in my evangelical upbringing disparaged overly-enthusiastic interest in Mary, even to the point of questioning the frequency of her visual representations in churches (Tsk! Why do they have to have so many statues of her?), I privately wondered what all the fuss was about. And secretly really liked all the statues and icons of her, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to like them and felt vaguely guilty about it. I nursed my questions secretly and wondered about this strange and more visually-oriented version of Christianity. I worried, sometimes, if it were idolatry because I liked statues of Mary so much. I mused privately to myself . . . Why did Mary make people, at least the people who went to the churches I went to, so upset?

I didn’t really have to face Mary head on until college. At my very conservative, denominational college, I started dating the only Catholic boy living on campus. I could write a whole blog post on how that was one big disorienting dilemma, but one facet of that was Mary. I finally figured out why Protestants had so much trouble with her. And I had to reconcile what I had been told with what another person very passionately (and very oppositely) believed. As the only and extremely unapologetic Catholic on campus, my at-the-time boyfriend made it his mission in life to defend Catholicism against any Protestant who sought to take him on, producing some really interesting conversations. And because I had someone with whom I could safely engage and ask all the things I’d been dying to ask, I finally had all of my questions answered.

Specific conversations and minute details are fuzzy all these years later, but I remember getting into long discussions about Mary and how important she was to Roman Catholics. According to Catholic teaching, Tom told me, Mary did not die a normal death. She was assumed into heaven. Yes, she was Immaculate—she had to be born without sin because she was Jesus’s mother! She is the New Eve and is given the title “Mother of God” because, if we believe Jesus is God, then that title is appropriate for her. She remained a virgin throughout her life. And yes, of course she prays for us. She is so close to Jesus, and she loves Him, so why would she not want to pray for us? And would her prayers not be more efficacious than many others, because she’s right there in heaven with him, and because she’s the one human who was closest to him and loved him the most?

I have to say I really struggled with all of this and pushed back quite a bit. I wasn’t ready to sign on to these extra beliefs about someone who I’d been taught all my life was “just a regular person.” I wasn’t ready to believe anything close to that, I told myself, even as all of these things most certainly piqued my interest. All of these “extras” were giving Mary just a little too much attention and importance for my comfort level. What if you put too much emphasis on her, and she became more important than Jesus? Although I respected Tom and his beliefs a great deal, and he was definitely very enthusiastic about them, I knew I could not sign on to them at the time. Eschewing Roman Catholicism, I continued my search for a church home until I found the Episcopal Church. I rejoiced to find a church where the essentials of orthodoxy were embraced and taught (the Nicene Creed) but where other beliefs, like those about Mary, were up to the individual believer. Unlike Catholicism, belonging to the Episcopal Church, I didn’t have to sign on to believing anything about Mary I didn’t want to. And so, I thought that was probably the end of it. I was done with Mary at that point.

But Mary wasn’t done with me. So many years later, when I started attending a little parish that not only prayed the Rosary, but also had a shrine to her in the back of the nave, I was intrigued and resumed my quest to figure out what I believed about her. Thankfully, the rector at the time was supportive. He encouraged devotion to Mary. We frequently prayed the Angelus at her shrine in the back of the church. I started (tentatively) praying the Rosary. I read voraciously everything I could get my hands on about Mary. And slowly, my heart warmed to her. It helped immensely that I was able also to read the historical context in which many Marian doctrines developed — to read that a high regard for Mary was evident starting with the Church Fathers and going right up to Martin Luther. I was shocked to find out that many of the doctrines that I had been led to believe were fairly recent innovations (Read: Stuff Catholics Made Up and that’s why we had the Reformation) are actually teachings that had roots very early in the history of Christianity, even if they weren’t made official dogmas until much later.

Slowly, I started opening my mind and heart to Mary. I started asking her to pray for me (and truly, for a long time I felt like a child doing something naughty when I did this). Nevertheless, I did it anyway. My attraction to her love of Jesus, to her unfailing courage, bravery, obedience, and to her spirituality quickly overcame my awkwardness. I memorized the Hail Mary in English and Latin, which was easy, because as a professional soprano I had been singing it in Latin and German for years. I found that in times of anxiety and stress, that became my go-to prayer. I started praying the Rosary. Instead of questioning many of the traditional Marian doctrines, I respectfully considered them in the context of what I knew of scripture and tradition. There was just something really comforting about knowing that there was a human woman who could relate to me but who could also be a powerful intercessor at the same time.

And maybe that’s not where you are, and that’s OK, too. But before you dismiss what I’ve said, or before you dismiss Marian devotion as a bunch of unnecessary Anglo-Catholic (or Roman Catholic) overkill, do a little research. Pray about it. Realize that there is a long tradition of Marian devotion. Examine each doctrine for yourself in the context of history and Scripture. The Episcopal Dictionary of the Church states: “Early in church history she was honored and esteemed. Irenaeus called her the New Eve, Athanasius taught her perpetual virginity, and the Council of Ephesus in 431 declared her Theotokos, Mother of God, because of the hypostatic union of divinity and humanity in the one person Jesus Christ. Anglicanism has not generally accepted beliefs concerning Mary’s perpetual virginity or bodily assumption to heaven after her death, but some hold these views as pious opinions.” *

Devotion to Mary isn’t something that was invented yesterday or without careful thought. Many revered greats of the church practiced regular Marian devotion! And there’s this: I am convinced that my love of Mary has increased my love of her Son. Loving Mary isn’t an end unto itself! It finds its ultimate culmination in a high Christology, in faithfulness, love, and devotion to the Son of God, Jesus Christ. Mary’s goal is not glory of herself, but the glory and worship of her Son. Saint Maximilian Mary Kolbe famously said, “Never be afraid of loving the Blessed Virgin too much. You can never love her more than Jesus did.”

*The Episcopal Church. “An Episcopal Dictionary of the Church: Mary the Virgin, Mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Saint.” Last modified 2021. Accessed June 5, 2021. https://www.episcopalchurch.org/glossary/mary-the-virgin-mother-of-our-lord-jesus-christ-saint/.

The room in my heart

I will never forget the first required meeting that I attended as part of the official discernment (for the priesthood) process in my diocese. There were about forty priest-hopefuls, accompanied by the cleric of their sponsoring parish, along with members of the Commission on Ministry and assorted official diocesan figures. The room was very crowded and abuzz with nervous energy. It was difficult for me to concentrate: I was extremely anxious. A lot was at stake. I was overwhelmed by the number of people there especially in light of the fact that I knew that the COM and the bishop ultimately would choose only a small fraction of us hopeful would-be priests. In fact, in his opening address, the bishop flatly stated that only a maximum of eight people—eight!—would be chosen to be put forward for further consideration in the priestly process. I also knew that this was just step one in a long, multi-phase journey and that, frankly, I was not likely to make it. I was firmly middle-aged, a woman with no background in any sort of “official” ministry, and this, for me, would be a “second career.” A million thoughts were swirling around in my head, so it’s saying something that I remember a very short remark that was made that day. Along with telling us that he’d only choose eight people, my bishop said something else that has stuck with me to this day. He said something along the lines of, “I became a priest because there was a room in my heart that nothing else [but priesthood] would fill.”

A room in my heart that nothing else would fill. 

I think the reason that this remark stayed with me was because it rang true. It described the emptiness I felt in my career choice even though I’d had many successes. I’d tried desperately to fill it. For most of my life, I’d been a musician in some way, shape, or form. That, and putting my rear end in a pew once a week, had satisfied me. Or, so I thought. The “room in my heart” was there, for sure, but I did a good job of distracting myself with everything else I could. Lately it hadn’t been enough, though, and with first one devotion, then another, I had tried to fill this empty room in my heart. Sometimes it felt like an empty room, but other times it felt like I was on fire. I couldn’t rest. I just had to put out this fire that seemed to be raging within me. I’d done everything (almost) in church I could do: I’d been in the choir, helped with VBS and Sunday School, directed musicals, counseled at camp, served first as an acolyte and reader and then at the altar. No matter what I did or didn’t do, no matter how close to the altar I got (and I got as close as I could as a lay person), no matter what devotion, church activity, quiet day, or way to pray . . . it was never, ever, enough. Until I became a priest.

Ever since that day, I have had many moments to ponder that statement by my bishop. It has come back to me as I’ve had moments in ministry where it felt like something was missing. What I didn’t realize at first was that it wasn’t just the act of becoming a priest—that moment when the bishop’s hands go on your head and you’re made a priest—that keeps that room full. I mean, that is an incredible and indelible moment. It’s with me all the time: the thoughts, the feelings, the pressure and weight of his hands and of all the presbyters behind me as well as the weight of tradition, all bearing down on me at once in that one action. But what has surprised me in ministry in the days and weeks and months following the ordination is the fact that the single act of becoming a priest doesn’t keep the room full. It’s the constant practice of priesthood, the sacramental acts, the pastoral care, the teaching, the “stuff” of priestly life that does it.

So, it happened that, unthinking, because my current call is that of a school chaplain, I arranged to be in my hometown for Christmas day. After all, not being a parish priest, I didn’t have any place in particular I absolutely had to be! I politely declined an offer I received to celebrate and preach soon after Christmas, told the parish where I regularly volunteer that I’d be out of town, and then made plans with my husband and teen children to travel throughout the holiday season. With my children growing up, the decision was made to eschew gifts and use the money we would have spent on a fun trip instead. It sounded like a great idea! A win-win for everyone! No gifts to buy, and we all get wonderful memories of a great time together. The only problem was, I left one thing out of the equation. 

Maybe not every priest feels this way when they suddenly find themselves not “working” for two weeks. But for me, to keep that little room in my heart full, I have to practice priesthood. Being gone and unable to be at an altar on Christmas Eve, one of the two biggest Christian feasts, wasn’t the smartest choice of my life. As Christmas day grew closer, I started to realize what I had done. I watched social media in dismay as first one priest friend, then another, posted all of their service times, photos, and activities during Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, St. Stephen’s Day, St. John’s feast day, etc. I, of course, wasn’t doing any of these things. I was on vacation! I’d elected to be gone for two weeks (my choice for sure), but I had not factored in how empty I would feel. We found a small but very traditional Episcopal church to attend Christmas Eve. Although everything was lovely, the music was classy, we sang “Silent night” by candlelight, and the church was beautiful (and much to my delight, the priest wore a cope and biretta!), I felt like I was missing out. It felt weird to be in a pew when I could have been at the altar. The room in my heart was empty. 

A priest who I greatly respect once told me, “Melanie, you need to be at an altar on Sundays.” At the time he made that statement to me, I was a new chaplain and priest and overwhelmed with all the new things. I knew I had not yet figured out who I was and how much I could do on the weekends without being overwhelmed. I was overwhelmed enough as it was just being a new priest. I also had a new job as a school chaplain where the learning curve was high every single day. Being a chaplain at a school was all-consuming, I knew. I had many responsibilities and a chapel service to do almost every week. And as I always set the bar high for myself, I worked really, really hard to make sure everything was as good as I could possibly make it. And . . . I wanted to be sure I actually got at least one day or part of a day off every week. And I had a family to factor in to all of this. I was worried about being over-committed and protective of what little “time off” I was getting. And, I wasn’t sure if I agreed with his statement—why did I need an altar on Sundays when I had my “school job?”

But, he was right. The reason he told me that I “needed” to be at an altar, is because he knew what I didn’t know and hadn’t experienced yet: that room in my heart wasn’t staying full unless I exercised the “muscles” of priesthood. God made me with that empty room that can only be filled with the activities particular to a priest: particularly the Sacrifice of the Mass, but also blessing things, hearing confessions and absolving people, prayer, teaching, baptizing, etc., etc. Not doing them, even for a week, feels weird. Not doing them when it’s a major feast of the church feels empty and unnatural. Suddenly, it made sense to me why so many priests, even at the mandatory retirement age of 72, elect to continue as they are allowed with a part-time position, interim work, and various types of supply work. Being a priest is not something you can just “turn off” to go on vacation, or something you quit doing when you retire. All the arguments for ontological change (the idea that a person is fundamentally changed at priesthood with an indelible mark upon his or her character) make a lot more sense now.

I think that there are other “professions” out there, vocations, really, where one feels “called” to that particular life and is then almost incapable of doing anything else. I have certainly heard very similar “call” stories of people in other jobs or vocations. For example, certain people I know who are actors, cops, and teachers who have explained that they just aren’t truly happy unless they’re doing what they feel they were created to do. It’s an interesting idea, isn’t it? The thought that we were “made” for something specific, and that we don’t really “choose” our career or vocation—that it chooses us. Or that God chose it for us. This, of course, flies in the face of what we’re told as children, “You can be anything you want to be!” Maybe that’s true for some. I don’t know. But for me, as much as I’ve resisted the idea, that room stays empty unless I do what I believe what I was created to do. 

Maybe after a few more years in ministry, I’ll change my viewpoint on this, but for now, I definitely won’t be out of town for any more major Christian feasts. 

Why I go “old school” with my vestments

I’m what you’d call “old school.” I’ve always had a love of things old: old houses, antiques, classic cars, classic clothing. You name it. So, it came as no surprise that after becoming a priest, I realized that there’s a whole world of “old school” to love here, too. To be clear: older is not always better. Sometimes older practices don’t work so well, and sometimes a new way or new thing works better with the times. This is just as true with the church as with anything else. When churches stubbornly stick to outdated and inefficient practices when the rest of the world has clearly moved on, it’s hard to argue for the value of the old. I get that. I’m all about adapting to the new when there’s a good reason. Technology, for example, can be a huge help to the modern church. Stubbornly refusing to have even a simple website is difficult to rationalize in this day and time. So old for its own sake is not necessarily better, but there’s often a reason why the old has endured. And a change to something new or different for its own sake is not necessarily a good thing (just ask Coca-Cola executives of the 1980s after the release and failed marketing ploy of “New Coke.”)

Most of our vestments are garments that used to be worn as everyday clothing by people of cultures from ages ago. By the 6^thcentury, the chasuble had evolved as a clerical garment where once it had been something part of normal, everyday attire. The alb or white robe that many wear today at the altar was once the tunica alba, or Roman tunic, which was often white. (See this page and this one for brief overviews of different types of vestments and how vestments evolved over time.) So by nature, all clerical attire, including the clerical collar that many clerics wear as everyday wear, is “old school.” The clerical collar is a descendant and vestige of the collars that all gentlemen used to wear. Essentially, when one is a priest, one is thoroughly “old school.” Even if a cleric wears chasubles, albs, shirts, etc., of a more “modern” design, what the cleric is wearing has a long history, one of being countercultural, one that doesn’t blend in. Just wearing a clerical shirt sets a priest apart, essentially saying to all who see her, “Hey! I’m different!”

Because priests aren’t supposed to blend in. Wearing a collar, especially the classic look of collar and black shirt or collar and cassock, allows us to be extremely and uniquely visible. (For more of my thoughts about the collar in particular, see my blog post: https://melaniesmusingsweb.wordpress.com/2018/02/05/the-collar/) Romans 12:2 states: “And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.” Yes, it’s our minds that are transformed! And yes, St, Paul is talking about all of us—all people, not just priests, need to be transformed by Christ. But priests in particular “represent Christ and his church,” as our Catechism states. So, priestly attire, if you will, is the “outward and visible sign” to the world that we are servants of the Most High God and that we are “transformed,” not “conformed.” Of course, there’s also a good argument for wearing “street clothes”—the argument that often we are more approachable. Priests are people, too, of course, and so if we wear “regular clothes” then any sort of baggage that can be had around clerical attire is done away with. Unfortunately, it also sends the message that priests are still a part of the culture. We are “conformed” not “transformed,” in the words of St. Paul. The symbolism that we represent Christ and the Church is lost. When priests don’t wear clericals, then we are not clearly identified for who we are. The opportunity that could arise for a conversation about a spiritual matter, a question, a prayer—whatever a person might need—is lost. I can’t tell you the number of conversations that I’ve had as a result of being in my clericals. And although it hasn’t happened to me yet, I’ve had numerous colleagues tell me that they’ve heard confessions “on the fly” just because a person could readily identify them as a priest. In my opinion, going “old school” here: wearing black and clericals at the least or even a cassock in public allows the priest to be uniquely visible and allows a priest to present herself with the authority, solemnity, and symbolism appropriate to her vocation.

But being “old school” is more than just everyday wear. I appreciate the style and cut of older vestments for many reasons. Practically, they age well. The classic orphrey design of the gothic chasuble, for example, never goes out of style. Contrast this with some of the poorly constructed and designed “whimsical” chasubles of the 70s (just google “bad priest vestments” to get some ideas), and it’s easy to see that the “old school” styles have endured the test of time. Check out this picture of one of my heroes, John Mason Neale (1818-1866), in his gothic chasuble, and one that I wore recently:

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“Old school” vestments do more than age well. They evoke a sense of beauty that points to God. They don’t grasp one’s attention because they are flashy, loud, glittery, or have a distracting or incomprehensible design. Classic designs typically are simple, are made of good fabrics, move well, and clearly point to the liturgical season or feast for which they are worn.

Another reason I go “old school” with my vestments is that they are more difficult to don. Yes, you read that correctly. It takes extra time and energy to put on a cassock, amice, alb, cincture, stole, maniple, chasuble, and biretta. And if you do it correctly, there are vesting prayers that go with every piece—because every piece is representative of a virtue or benefit to strengthen the priest spiritually as she is about to offer the Sacrifice of the Mass. One version of the translation from the Latin of the vesting prayers may be found here. (Ok, I’ve yet to find a prayer for the biretta, probably because it’s a hat that is worn in general and at other times by clerics and is not specifically a Eucharistic vestment.) But the point is that you’re not just throwing on garments haphazardly that have no meaning and no sense. Every piece has a meaning. Every piece has a history. Every piece has been worn by priests for ages. When I put these on, it reinforces to me the solemnity of what I am about to do and the weight of that responsibility. And it’s a responsibility handed down to me in a long succession of clerics who wore the same design of garments I am wearing. It’s not something new or cute that I’m going to try. It’s something that’s been tried. It’s something beautiful.

I have to insert a caveat here. There are many clerics, clerics I greatly respect, who wear the modern “cassock-alb,” a white garment made to be thicker than a traditional tie/button-at-the-neck alb and can be worn as a stand-alone vestment with a stole and/or under a chasuble. It’s essentially a shortcut: you get to wear one garment instead of two, and you totally omit the amice. (So then you have street clothes, cassock-alb, stole, and chasuble). It’s cooler, quicker, and easier. Most clerics choose not to wear a maniple (too fussy and unnecessary, it’s argued) and very, very few clerics wear a biretta (even more unnecessary and often described as “precious.” Not to mention a lot hotter!) To be clear: I’m not being critical of these clerics who choose not to wear all these things. I am simply explaining my position: why wearing these items is important to me. I completely understand that not everyone feels led to wear all these items and why, in some contexts, wearing “old school” vestments might not work. In addition, many times where I find myself celebrating also dictates what I wear and what I don’t. For example, some parishes don’t own maniples. Wearing a biretta in some contexts would be more distracting than just leaving it off. I never wear a biretta unless it’s something that at least some people are used to seeing and/or if I can explain it, so it can be a “teachable moment.”

There’s one other way my vestments are “old school.” I wear cloth collars. Most clerics, however, wear plastic. Plastic is easier to clean, practically indestructible, and it always looks sharp. Cloth, on the other hand, gets dirty quickly. Ring-around-the-collar can happen in one day, requiring the collar to be washed and starched all over again. Starching collars takes time. I’ve found that I have to own about ten of them, and then I can just starch them all at once and have a nice long supply. But it’s still several extra steps that I wouldn’t have to take if I just wore plastic. But even so, I still elect to wear cloth. Why? (And again—this is my choice. Others may have a different set of circumstances that will make it more practical for them to make other choices! I’m absolutely not disparaging anyone’s choice to wear a plastic collar!) The reason is because it does take time. It takes effort. It’s not quick and easy. Becoming a priest was not quick and easy. Praying every day, going to spiritual direction, counseling, confession, and preparing for masses and sermons all take time and aren’t quick or easy, either. Shortcuts often lead to problems or spiritual/theological disaster. Dealing with cloth collars is like this. I have to take the time and effort to wash them. Sometimes more than once. Then I have to starch and iron them. It’s a process that doesn’t have shortcuts. And I’ve found it’s a time when I can pray as I do this task. It’s meaningful and important. And, let’s face it—having a piece of cloth around your neck, even a piece of cloth that is starched, is much more comfortable than having a piece of plastic there!

So, there’s my rationale of why, with vestments and clerical attire, I elect to go “old school.” I’m thoroughly “old school” in other ways, too, but I’ll save that for a future blog post. Have I inspired you, too, to be “old school?” I hope so!

Church . . . or Theatre?

If you are of a certain age, you probably remember a commercial for cassette tapes (remember the days of cassette tapes?! Once upon a time, that was cutting-edge technology): “Is it live . . . or is it MEMOREX?” The implication, of course, was that Memorex cassette tapes were of such quality that it was impossible to tell the difference between the cassette recording and a live performance. It’s this idea of not being able to tell the difference between a tape and a live performance that made me think of a recent conversation. In that same vein . . . What is the difference between most church services and theatre? Sometimes, it might be difficult to tell! (Stay with me here. I promise there is a point to this that is more than sacrilege!)

Recently I had the opportunity, with some of my cousins, to tour privately a local, historic, and beautiful church. Inside the church were multiple historic and valuable artifacts, rich marble and decor, and expensive stained glass. The tour sparked an engaging conversation that we began at the church during the tour but continued later. More than once, each of my cousins referred to church services being a “show” or “theatrical”–wondering if all that stuff was strictly necessary. Is it live, or is it Memorex? Is it church, or theatre? After seeing the gorgeous and elaborate worship space we toured, I understood why they were asking. They were struggling with all the “stuff” used for church services (some of it quite costly, made of valuable metal, one item being adorned with jewels) along with all of the complicated logistics, also costly (the massive amounts of time and energy it took to plan these services, moving people around, ceremony, complicated ritual, etc). Exactly how should that connect people to God? Or should it? Was all that even necessary? Shouldn’t all that money, time, and energy be given to the poor instead? Remember, Judas asked the same question! Neither cousin, I was sure, was trying to disparage my vocation. Their struggle was real. In a subsequent conversation one of them revealed that she was really stunned by the beauty of what she’d seen. Even as she felt that the very building drew her to God, she simultaneously wrestled with those feelings. She felt vaguely guilty about them. She asked me honestly, “Do you really need all of that? It seems like you can just connect to God in the woods or wherever you are.”

And . . . she is 100% right. We can connect to God anywhere, anytime. God doesn’t care if we wear fancy vestments or robes. He doesn’t care if we use a structured prayer that’s already written or if we pray casually whilst driving down the road. We can pray just as easily during a fishing trip as we can kneeling in the pews. In Acts 7:48, Stephen addresses the religious authorities, saying,

“Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made with hands; as the prophet says,
‘Heaven is my throne,
and earth my footstool.
What house will you build for me, says the Lord,
or what is the place of my rest?
Did not my hand make all these things?’”

Here Stephen is quoting the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 66:1-2), but there’s also a reference to Solomon, the king who built the temple himself (1 Kings 8:27) who recognises that God isn’t bound to a building. Stephen’s quoting these authorities against the council assembled against him because they had it all wrong. They were so wrapped up in following all the religious rules and worship (and maybe even their building) that they didn’t see Jesus as the Christ. To be clear: neither Stephen, nor Isaiah, nor Solomon were disparaging worship in a space. They were putting that space into perspective.
Grappling about where we experience God and how isn’t new. It’s definitely something to which many Americans relate. If you just do a quick Google search about religious practices in the US, many seem to have feelings similar to those of my cousins: although according to recent surveys, over 80% of Americans believe in God, only about 30% attend church once a month or more. Compare this to the 1950s, when almost half of all adults in the US attended church each week. People are asking questions about why and where they spend their time, and many of them, for whatever reason, don’t find it worthwhile to be in church nearly as much. Although attending church was a cultural phenomenon in the past, many people do not feel that sort of cultural peer pressure today. Reasons to be in church/not be in church are complicated and personal. I understand that. I don’t know for sure if folks aren’t going to church because they see it as pure “theatre” and so perhaps unreal or unnecessary. But as my cousins both expressed this as a concern, I wanted to dig into it a bit.

I’d like to make the (maybe to some) controversial argument that church is theatre. And that’s not a bad thing. One person I questioned in a past interview, describing his (mostly secular) theatrical experiences, said, “Our shows were greater than the sum of their parts.” That is how good theatre should work. And it works because of the selflessness of the participants involved. Everyone in a show–whether someone backstage or in front of house or an actor or what have you–is working ridiculously hard towards something far greater than themselves: a common goal, an incredible experience that cannot be accomplished by one person alone. Even the audience is attending for that reason. They know as they show up to the theatre that they’re not alone, that everyone is working towards this experience, and that for at least a few hours, they’re going to be transported into a world beyond this one. That maybe . . . if everything goes right, the show is going to affect them for a few hours or change them forever, depending on the content. That every single prop, costume, gesture, light cue, word, song, or whatever is going to contribute to that. That, if a show is done well, not one individual is thinking about themselves, whether they are in the audience or the production team, but about pursuing this goal of a life-changing experience. They’re quite literally sacrificing what they might want every single second. If it’s done right, none of it, not even one small moment, is about them. Not at all.

And this is why I’m arguing that church, or at least good church, is like theatre. Good church is like a good show but it is most certainly not just a show. Because even good shows are not just “a show”–no one who does theatre would say they like doing shows “just because it’s a show.” It’s so much more than that. Good theatre changes your life. And good church is sort of like theatre, but theatre that becomes something even more than that. Something magical, something more than the best theatre on earth. It’s not only not about the people involved and not just about a common goal, but it should all point to God Almighty. Just like in a show . . . but for a different purpose, every move, every gesture, every thought is directed toward Him or the worship of Him. It’s a drama that unfolds before our eyes every week, but it’s more even, than that. Which is why it’s important that at some level, there is a sense of organisation and a sequence of events. It’s not because it’s all about the show, but rather, to make it, as much as possible, a seamless series of events that do not draw attention to themselves because the participants are stumbling through them, not really sure what to say or do, but rather, they draw attention to God. It’s all about God! Just like a theatrical performance would not achieve its goal because the actors and crew are not prepared, worship can rapidly seem to turn people’s attention away from God because people are not prepared/aren’t comfortable with their “lines” (some really bad sermons happen when the priest does not prepare), don’t know how to manage the items used in worship (the props), seem uncomfortable in the vestments or seem unused to them (costumes). In a snap, we can be drawn out of the drama unfolding before us if something distracts us due to a lack of preparation.

Even the congregation (audience) “plays a part” in worship. This is why we don’t call them the audience! An audience, although definitely part of the theatrical experience, has a pretty passive part to play. It’s the prayers, presence, and attitude of the congregation that can make or break a worship experience or a mass. Loud talking before the mass starts, shuffling papers, banging kneelers, checking phones . . . these things can distract others from worship. A glare towards a newcomer when that person sits in “our seat” can negate a positive experience. I’ve said it before . . . It takes ALL of us. It’s not just about the priest up there. Every single one of us, in this drama of salvation, have a part to play. We do this through singing, the responses, bowing, crossing ourselves, kneeling, genuflecting, etc. It’s not enough to say, “I’m JUST in the congregation!” NOPE. We are all a part of this glorious passion play, every single week, where we re-present the life, death, and resurrection of Our Lord. Because that is what we are doing. Even more than that, it’s like we are going back in time. It’s not as though we are re-enacting (notice I did not use that word). We are RE-PRESENTING an event that happened once. But because we are operating in liturgical time, we are re-presenting the Last Supper as well as the death and resurrection of Jesus, offering His Body and Blood back to God the Father, and essentially re-living this event as an unbloody sacrifice every week. It’s the closest thing we have to a time machine. It is more than “putting on a show”–Jesus really and truly IS in the building. He, HIMSELF shows up! If that isn’t drama, I don’t know what is!

I challenge you to think about it. Is the “show” necessarily a bad thing? I’m admittedly biased, but I don’t think so. It’s only “just a show” unless the people up there/in there don’t mean it. I can only speak for myself, because I DO mean it. It IS theatre, but it’s so much more than that. Or, as a friend reminded me, worship actually came first, and theatre came along, copying it. So you might say that as good as theatre is, it’s a copy of the “real thing.” It’s something that is so much greater than the sum of its parts: Jesus Christ. That’s really what it is all about. He is the object of all of these things. If He’s not . . . if all of this is “fluff and puff” as my cousin likes to call it, or “chancel prancing” as my priest friends do . . . then at least, it’s vain and useless, and at worst, idolatry. Because what is the object of our worship, if not God Himself? So, you know where I stand on this. It IS worship, and this worship is the best sort of theatre, and that’s not wrong if done with God as the object. If theatre makes you feel alive, seek out a liturgical church. While it’s true that some people find compelling worship even at mega-churches, there is nothing that expresses the meeting of the human and divine in the drama of salvation quite like a liturgical church, so even if you have to try a few to find the right fit, keep looking.You might be amazed at how alive it makes you feel.

Can you encounter God anywhere? On a fishing trip, hiking, or just by yourself, at home? Of course. You can, and many people have. But why not immerse yourself in a divine experience? Why not be a part of something that is heavenly in its scope? In worship, in Holy Mass, we offer ourselves, our souls and bodies. Our experience in these spaces is intentional, that even more than theatre, is so much greater than the sum of its parts, where we can experience the Word made Flesh: Jesus Christ. A dedicated time and space when we give God our undivided attention for an hour or so, telling God how we really feel about Him, that we love and adore Him . . . and it allows God to speak to us, too.

It’s even better than Memorex.

My Lord and My God

The following is a talk given for the Society of Catholic Priests, European Province, on June 9, 2023 as part of a worship experience called “Adorate,“:a weeklong emphasis on the Eucharist and Eucharistic Adoration during the Corpus Christi octave.

This is something that I say to myself, as you might, during the elevations at the Eucharist. My Lord and My God. And I believe in that Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the bread and wine. Jesus said it, I believe it, that settles it. Or as Queen Elizabeth . . . the first . . . is thought to have said, He took the Bread and brake it: And what that Word did make it, That I believe and take it. However you want to say it, we really believe this is Jesus. Even if we can’t explain exactly how or maybe . . . we don’t want to . . . But we do believe it. Essentially, we believe the impossible. Bread and wine cannot be other than what they are. But somehow, that’s exactly what happens. They become for us the Body and Blood of our Lord. Truly and rightly, we say the same words Saint Thomas said when Jesus stood before him, body, blood, soul, and divinity, in physical form after the resurrection, “My Lord and My God.”

But how did you get to belief in the Real Presence, assuming you do believe it? How did you come to believe the impossible? For me, it was a reluctant and slow process. Growing up evangelical in a small protestant denomination, I was steeped in Christianity from birth. I believed that Jesus was the Son of God. I believed that Jesus saved me from my sins. I believe that he died on the cross for that, and I believed in the Trinity, and on, and on, and on . . . But one thing about our beliefs was that Holy Communion—and we did NOT call it that—it was the Lord’s Supper, and it was something done on Sunday night, maybe on the fifth Sunday, and sometimes even tacked on to the end of the service. An afterthought. It was viewed as something we had to do but only four times a year. When we did do it, it was reinforced that it was only symbolic. The cracker and grape juice were not really Jesus. We were exhorted to remember Jesus and his sacrifice as we munched, but it was nothing more than that.

How is it that one can believe the impossible? As a young person, I headed off to college at my denomination’s little school, knowing that I’d be surrounded by people who mostly thought like me, worshipped like me, and had a similar background to me. And I wasn’t wrong. We had denominational variety at the college, but it was largely comprised of the more traditional protestant evangelical variety, with only slight differences in beliefs. Except for one guy. His name was Tom, and in one of our opening sessions he announced that he was Roman Catholic. Of course, all of us protestants knew better. We knew we knew the REAL truth about Christianity and the Bible, and we’d soon set him straight, we all thought. He’d be converted to the truth shortly and realize the error of his Romish and Popish ways! Much to everyone’s surprise, he was unapologetic. (And did I mention super cute? We were soon inseparable!) And of course, as we hung out together—you could say dating but neither of us had a car—we of course got into theological discussions, both being raised in very religious environments. And at one point he was talking about Communion and he sort of casually threw out that the bread was the Body of Christ and the wine was Jesus’s Blood. What? It’s not really the Body and Blood of Jesus. Everyone knows that. Jesus didn’t really mean it when he said, “This is my body.” That was hyperbole. Or metaphor. Everyone knew it was just a symbol! Because, that’s impossible. And how can you believe the impossible? I was completely flummoxed. But Tom did believe it. He was convinced. And he invited me to go to church with him. And these college students at this guitar mass were all looking at this small white disc of bread in the priest’s hands. But the part that got me was that they all believed. They all looked at the bread and wine like it was something. Their faces were absolutely transfixed – this wasn’t a show, and they weren’t going through the motions. Their faces told me everything as they were worshipping genuflecting, receiving. My Lord and my God.

It was impossible, and I didn’t know how to deal with that. It created a disorienting dilemma that took me years to square. It cracked open a door that never really closed. Maybe it was just a piece of extra holy bread. HOW could that be Jesus? Surely not! Even when, a few years later, I became an Episcopalian I wasn’t sure how this could be. Bread can’t be Jesus, can it? CAN IT? I wondered these things. As a fundamentalist protestant, I never thought that the God I’d been taught to believe in could be right in front of me. In fact, I was specifically warned that only God’s special saints had that experience. A physical version of Jesus was impossible this side of the eschaton. No one, NO ONE had an experience like that. But here was a whole church full of fervent college student Roman Catholics at a guitar mass in Clemson, South Carolina acting like they’d just seen God. Because they had. As Episcopalians or Anglicans we call this “Real Presence.” As Anglicans . . . We really believe Jesus is present in Holy Communion, but we don’t try to explain exactly how it happens like some other denominations do. Many priests and lay people, just as I do, say this when we elevate the host. My Lord and My God. We believe the impossible. Jesus before our very eyes, just like the Apostle Thomas. My Lord and My God.

Sermon for Trinity Sunday (Year C)

(This is the text document of a sermon I preached at the Episcopal Church of Our Saviour in Atlanta, GA. The content is approximately what I actually said, as I do not typically use notes unless I am giving a long quote or need a basic outline.)

It doesn’t make sense, but it works.

So people have tried, tried really hard, to explain the Trinity. And no matter how hard one tries to explain the Trinity, explanations fall short. I think most of us can grapple with the idea of a religion having multiple gods. And there are some religions, most notably the big three of Islam, Judaism, and Christianity, which are considered monotheistic. But Christianity is unique amongst those because we have one God with three persons. I have to admit that many preachers dread it when we get to Trinity Sunday. And rectors tend to hand off Trinity Sunday to associates, to curates, and seminarians. Because, how do you explain something that doesn’t make sense? And how do you explain and exegete something that can’t be explained or exegeted? We have one God, but that God is in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Explanations of the Holy Trinity almost always fall short, disappoint. If we start to try to use analogies or explain too much, we find ourselves heading down the road of heresy. If you’re a fan of Conell and Donell of the “Lutheran Satire” series, you know what I am talking about—Youtube it! It’s hilarious to watch two simple peasants try to goad Saint Patrick into explaining the Trinity in a way that they can understand. And he pretty much does a miserable job. In case you haven’t seen the video, here are some of the heretical high points:
Modalism: where aspects of the trinity are likened to modes of being, for example, Mother Melanie functions as mother, wife and priest (negates the idea of three separate persons)
Arianism: Jesus (and also the Holy Spirit) is a creation of the Father (misses the whole point that Jesus is God, and the Holy Spirit is God)
Partialism: when the three persons of the Trinity are considered parts of a whole like the three leaves of the clover (each person of the Trinity are only parts of the whole)
Tri-theism: when you have three separate gods (Nope)

To make it all worse, the Trinity as an official, explained doctrine is not in the Bible. It’s just not there. The word “Trinity” just isn’t even in there. Of course, there are texts (many of them in the New Testament but you can see it in the OT, too, especially if you want to see it) that either portray or foreshadow the cooperation or relationship of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. For example, in our lectionary that we just heard, the Romans reading today mentions “God,” “Lord Jesus Christ,” and “Holy Spirit,” all in the same few verses. In the reading from the Gospel, as Jesus himself is speaking, he talks about the Spirit of Truth (Holy Spirit) coming, and he also references the Father. And those are just two examples; howevever, in no place does it mention the word “Trinity” or say what the Trinity really means. It would have been really nice if John, or Paul, or Jesus, or anyone did, but they didn’t! In fact, the word “Trinity” wasn’t even widely used until the second century. It wasn’t until the Council of Nicaea in the 4th century that this issue started to be tackled (convened by emperor Constantine in 325 and sought to address Arius and his beliefs: Jesus is a creation of the Father). And by the close of the fourth century, Athanasius and other church fathers had solidified the Biblical teaching of Nicaea. It was then officially affirmed by the Council of Constantinople in 381 as a doctrine of the church.

We do have an early document to help us, the Athanasian Creed, that dates from 6th century. It was probably not written by Athanasius, but as Athanasius was a champion of the belief that Jesus was fully divine and part of the Godhead, it makes sense that someone would name it after him. So if you get really bored, or you can’t sleep some night, go to page 865 in your Book of Common Prayer and check it out. It states:
“That we worship one God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity,
neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance.
For there is one Person of the Father, another of the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost.
But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one . . . .
So the Father is God, the Son is God, and the Holy Ghost is God.
And yet they are not three Gods, but one God.” And it goes on like this for quite a bit. I just hit the high points. Finally, what does our own Catechism say? Yes, there’s a Catechism back there near the Historical Documents, too, in traditional Question/Answer format. So, what does the Catechism say about the Trinity? Here it is! “What is the Trinity? The Trinity is one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” That’s it! There is nothing else in the catechism about the Trinity! So if the little kids who I teach at my sweet little school know basic math, and even the first graders do, they all know three and one are not the same thing. They never equal each other. It doesn’t make sense.

How can something that doesn’t make sense work?

When I was in college, I had an experience that blew my mind. You might call it a “disorienting dilemma.” I was (mostly) happily an Evangelical Protestant. I went to my denomination’s protestant evangelical college because I was very comfortable with it and knew that belief-wise, everyone would be about in line with what I had grown up with theologically. In addition, it would be a place that would nurture me spiritually. And it did . . . just probably not in the ways that anyone expected. Early on my freshman year I started liking this guy, Tom. He was tall and redheaded, funny, quirky . . . and he happened to be the only Roman Catholic living on campus at a protestant college. And we started seeing each other. And we got into a whole lot of well, really interesting theological and Biblical discussions. And they were more like disagreements. As you can imagine, my Protestant upbringing clashed pretty heartily with his hardcore Roman Catholic beliefs. The Pope. Aaaaand Mary. I had a lot of trouble with Mary. You really shouldn’t, I told him, give her that much attention or make big gigantic statues of her! I mean, she was just a person! I can’t even remember all the discussions we had, but one thing I remember vividly. Because it changed my life. One night Tom invited me to mass. So we went to a Saturday night mass. And what I saw made absolutely no sense. A huge packed out church of College students at mass on a Sunday night (this didn’t really seem significant until later—remember I grew up very conservatively, so I wasn’t partying on Saturday night!). Singing their hearts out. They all knew the right things to say and do, and not one of them were looking at books or bulletins. They all crossed themselves at the same time and in the same places. I felt horribly out of place. I had no idea where to cross myself, what to say. (In reality, they were not really judging me or even noticing me . . . they had much more important things on their minds). Tom and I had had fairly enthusiastic disagreements about what happens in the Eucharist. Of course “everyone knew” it was a symbol. Everyone I knew, that is. But much to my shock and disgust, Tom told me that what Catholics believed—it was actually Jesus’s flesh and blood. So in addition to being uncomfortable at not knowing what to do, I was revolted by this thought. Who wanted Jesus’s flesh to eat?! That was ridiculous! But, I was determined to see it through to the end. And then . . . something unexpected happened. None of it made any sense. Stuff about Mary. Bread and wine becoming Jesus somehow. Watching college kids (on a Saturday night!) enthusiastically sing hymns to God, bow reverently and stare rapturously at a piece of bread in the priest’s hands. But even as I protested and wondered why and how people believed these things, it all somehow did something to me. A door got cracked open that night that never closed. I wanted what they had. And I knew I didn’t have it.

It still didn’t make any sense. But it worked.

I submit to you that it’s not going to make sense. Three doesn’t equal one. One doesn’t ever equal three. Even my little kids at the school where I teach know that. But I’ve never gotten any sort of disagreement or pushback about it from any child. They don’t even question it. I don’t think that’s an accident. After all, I talk about it (a lot) to them, and we sing about it in chapel every week. Every day as part of our Morning Devotions, we say the Gloria Patri. So it’s just something they know, say and sing. It’s a part of them. A friend of mine says that the doctrine of the Trinity is less about trying to solve a puzzle, less about figuring something out and more like a song that we sing. It’s what we believe. And I think that’s good. When we try to solve it, we devolve into bad analogies or heresy. I can’t explain the Trinity any more than I can explain a lot of things . . . like exactly how the resurrection works, how it was possible for a Virgin to give birth, or how bread and wine become the Body and Blood of our Lord. But with my sweet kids at the school, I can keep lifting my voice in song. I believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Dyslexia Dilemma

My whole life, I’ve thought I wasn’t very bright. Really early (when I was under three) I remember being with my mother. I could see her with the newspaper and I KNEW that what she was looking at meant something. And it was interesting, and I wanted to know what it was all about. And I kept badgering her to read it out loud. I’d smack the newspaper to get her attention, which annoyed her. I kept looking at those letters wishing they made sense. Despite my early curiosity about learning to read, once in school, I quickly realized that learning to read was laborious and painful. Even as I wanted to learn what those squiggles meant, it seemed an insurmountable task. It seemed so many others were faster and brigher than I was. And it wasn’t just reading. Math was also a huge struggle. Others picked up math quickly and had problems finished, yelling out the answer before my slow mind could even wrap my brain around what I was seeing. Even as a kid, even when they call these groups innocuous names like the “blue” group or the “red” group, you know that one of them is the smart group, one is the middle group, and one (and I was usually in one of the lower two groups) is the lowest of the low. The remedial group. And I knew (and every kid knew, I’m sure) that regardless of the name, you were only in that bottom group for one reason. You were not smart. I also struggled with writing. I reversed letters and numbers. I couldn’t often tell the difference between a three and an “E.” 

I hated being in these groups. I hated school. And I knew I was stupid. I had to be. My brain just did not work as quickly, no matter how hard I tried. Frustrated and embarrassed, I wondered why things seemed so difficult. Sometimes, if I slowed down, I could get it. But often my frustration and anxiety ruled the moment, and I simply shut down. I was too stupid to learn, I thought. In third grade, I was placed in Mrs. Gianetti’s math class. Meaning, the math class for the kids who didn’t cut it in regular math. We had to go to a special room which added to the embarassment. Mrs. Gianetti was extremely nice, but that didn’t help the shame I felt. I didn’t want to be in this group. It didn’t seem to bother any of the others, but it sure bothered me. Even with the special class and a teacher who was supposed to help, math seemed to take forever. It was pure torture. Reading wasn’t much better, but I did have a homeroom teacher, Mr. Broyles, who read to us at least twice a day. I found myself enthralled with the fun books he chose. Encyclopedia Brown. The House with a Clock in its Walls. And The Great Brain. I looked forward to every single time he’d read to us. Gradually, I started picking up these books, because I loved them so much. Gradually, sometime that year, reading became fun. It started making sense. 

But school wore on like this and was still not easy. There were other issues. Algebra and any math were a nightmare. I understood the concepts (I could tell you how to solve the problem) but when it came to execution, there was always a mistake somewhere. The longer the problem, the worse it was. I quickly realized my future career path needed to avoid math. And even as late as Junior High, I could not tell my right from my left. Finally I figured out a “trick”—holding up my hands and seeing which hand made a correct “L.” Which I did very discreetly so no one knew that I was a teenager who still didn’t know her right from her left. But there was more. I struggled making change. Things easily got mixed up in my head. Numbers of more than two digits reversed themselves. I also found that I really didn’t speak well “off the cuff” so I just didn’t speak. I learned to get things together in my head before saying them or not speak at all. I did a lot of watching and observing. I would prepare heavily before I had to speak or do anything in class. If I was called on unexpectedly, I would often struggle to get the words out of the thoughts whirling in my head, or I’d simply shut down. Fear kept me quiet.

Gradually, as I progressed into high school, my grades improved. By about 9^th grade, somehow, something clicked. I started understanding things better. I had finally taken the required amount of math and so there was no more of that. I could take classes in which I was interested and in which I had the possibility to excel. I discovered that by working harder, even if it took me longer, I could *almost* appear as smart as the smartest people in my class. Especially if I knew when to keep my mouth shut. In college, it was much the same. I realized that there were some classes where I could make As simply by paying attention: in other classes, I had to work much harder. But that was OK. By pure work and effort, I could at least look like I was competent. I felt I was finally hitting my stride.

There were still moments of struggle, though, even majoring in music, which was something I was good at and really liked. Some parts of musical form and analysis were very difficult. I found writing papers about music much easier. I could identify patterns, composer characteristics, biographical elements, etc. and weave them into something that made sense. I enjoyed writing about beautiful music. A performing degree played to my strengths. Long ago I had realized that looking at a sheet of paper or a musical score was difficult. Memorization was the way to go. I knew I would not mess up if I had it locked down in my head and in my muscle memory. If I looked at a score, my eyes might skip a word, a whole line, or I might read the wrong rhythm. Things got mixed up on the page, and I’d freak out. So, I memorized. People thought I was amazing because I could memorize hours of material in languages I didn’t speak. Sometimes, even when I could use a score, memorization was survival. I couldn’t rely on my eyes and brain to accurately read the text. I figured out that I could memorize it instead. Still even at this stage, I had no idea why I was the way I was. I thought I was a really stupid person who just worked very hard and could only memorize to get it done. This was around the time that memorization was getting a bad rap, and it was not considered an important skill. Probably by now, you might have a clue where all this is going. And someone should have figured it out. But no one did. When people praised me, even at my doctoral recital (where I sang wickedly difficult, atonal music without having perfect pitch), I simply said, “Oh I’m not that smart. I just practice a lot and work hard.”

Years later, I went back to school for a degree in theology in preparation for the priesthood. Here my old demons made a reappearance. Once more, I had to assimilate large chunks of information. There were copious amounts  of things to read. It was exhausting. This was not easy, like music was, and I had no background in philosophy or a degree in religion to help me, simply (what I thought was) my expert knowledge of the Bible . . . knowledge that turned out not to be as expert as I thought. Sunday School learning is barely helpful for a theological education! I was also taking Greek, which I enjoyed, but which was a struggle (thankfully a pass/fail class!). In other classes there were class discussions and I’d be thinking very deeply, but it would take me so long to process what we were talking about that I’d still be thinking about it whilst the professor moved on to the next subject. And still not having gotten it through my head, I’d have to move on as well. I tried to figure it out later. The worst was when I was called upon unexpectedly. I struggled to get my thoughts into words that sounded intelligent. Sometimes upon answering I sounded like a 12 year old. I came to dread classes with large amounts of participation. I tried to plan what to say in class so that I didn’t get surprised. If I knew I had to lead something, I worked many extra hours and made notes about the subject to be sure I had things to say and questions to lead with. There was no way of doing it off the cuff. I dreaded times when I was asked to come up with an answer or summarize something on the spot. I could do it, but typically not upon command. I had to write it down and process it, but there was not usually time given for that. Again, I felt stupid. There were so many others in my class that could fire off answers and craft an amazing on-the-spot reply that sounded worthy of the Anglican Theological Review. Not me. Although I graduated at the top of my class, I wondered why everyone said I was so smart when I felt so stupid. Why it took me three or four times as long to write a paper and get the same grade as someone who started it a few days earlier, or even the night before! Surely, I was just a hard worker who had managed a way to deal with—and mask—her obvious stupidity.

In March of 2021 (why it took me so long, I have no idea), I realized that the pieces didn’t fit together. Even in this strange new land of Bible and Theology, people kept telling me how smart I was. People marveled when I could preach a sermon with no notes. I was told that I used “high-fallutin” words when it was just honestly whatever word my brain could grab first that fit the sentence from the word salad floating around in my head. People told me I was a gifted speaker and writer. People told me how well I explained things. People were amazed when I picked up technology quickly and taught it to myself. (And I thought, ok, this is not hard! . . . anyone can Google this to figure out how it works!) But slowly I wondered if I had a problem. But mostly it was because of Greek. My Greek teacher (we kept meeting after seminary by phone) would get mildly impatient with me and didn’t seem to understand why I couldn’t pronounce words correctly the first try, why long words were worse, and why I seemed to substitute letters and sounds. Why long sentences completely overwhelmed me. It took me a long time to tell the difference between Eta and Mu (they looked like almost the same letter to me but flipped upside down). I had trouble with “Vs” an “Nus.” I kept trying to make the nu the German letter “v” and pronounce it like an “f.” Or I looked at an “Xi” and thought it was an Eszett. I was tired of feeling stupid.

When my psych-ed evaluation revealed my IQ, I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t dumb and far from it. I wept. I had undiagnosed dyslexia and a slower-than-my-intelligence-level processing speed, probably at least partly or mostly because of the dyslexia. My ability levels were way below my IQ (although not terrible) which explained why I often spun my mental wheels in class discussions. Why I FELT stupid and why I was frustrated but couldn’t seem to put my finger on why. Why I mixed up letters and sounds. Why I understood high level math but could never do problems correctly. Why I could perform at a ridiculously competent level but why when presented with new information, it took me so much longer to get through it and understand it. I looked back on that past self and had so much compassion. I’d beaten myself up so many times because I couldn’t keep up. Because I was never the first person to raise a hand.  Because I was so awkward when I had to crank out an answer quickly. Because I couldn’t seem to do anything quickly if it involved processing information or gathering facts to come to a conclusion. Because I made the assumption that I was stupid but too stubborn to settle for crappy grades or output. Why it was easier to memorize things rather than read them off the page. Why I could never remember numbers and got them mixed up. Everything made so much sense. Why I had no idea what the difference was between left and right. SOMEONE should have caught this. But no one did.

I still deal with the psychological effects of dyslexia. I freak out when I’m asked to join an intellectual discussion. I freeze when being put on the spot for facts. In the anxiety of the moment, I often forget people’s names, even people I have known for many years. I’ve perfected the art of making my face look completely normal whilst my brain is almost overheating trying to process or remember information. I have learned to be an incredible actor. I know that my processing speeds haven’t improved (there’s no cure for dyslexia), so when something is new, I have enormous amounts of anxiety. Impostor syndrome takes over. All these people in my life think I’m smart. What if I can’t articulate my thoughts? What if I say something dumb? No one will ever ask me to do anything again! Recently I was asked to be part of a group to discuss something intellectual. I demurred and made an excuse. Part of it was scheduling, but the real answer was that I was afraid. Afraid I would not be able to keep up. Afraid of looking stupid. Afraid that I would get something mixed up and then get laughed at. I’m seen as a professional and very competent in my field, even though I’m a relatively new priest. What if they all walk away (secretly) laughing at me? Of course, no one in this line of work would do that maliciously, but the effect on me is the same. I’ve learned to cope with this by asking for information ahead of time. Can I have what we are reading in advance? What Greek passage are we translating? I’d like a chance to look this over, please, if you don’t mind. It’s more than just that, but I never actually say that. I look over that bad boy like my life depends on it, because if I don’t, I will be asked something that I can’t answer or articulate in the moment. Then I freeze and shut down. Interviews are the worst, but I cope by asking for questions in advance and rehearsing the answers. As someone who has performed a great deal, once I’ve practiced, I have found the anxiety lessens or goes away completely if I can just prepare. Even when celebrating the mass, I practice collects and proper prefaces, even if I’ve done them before. If it’s something difficult, like the Christmas Proclamation, the Exsultet, or Prayer D, I practice like crazy. I often feel like I can’t prepare enough.

So, if you’re neuro-divergent in any way, give yourself the gift of compassion. It’s not easy for me to even say this after years of self-deprecation, and it’s not even easy for me to type all this out. I have ridiculously high standards for myself, and I have a hard time forgiving myself when I mess up. I don’t want to have a dyslexic brain. It feels like a weakness. It’s a struggle every day of my life. And because of it, I’ve been labeled a perfectionist because I try so hard to overcome my disability. Part of this is survival: I know what I can do, I know how I can succeed, and I expect it. I work overtime to prove to myself that I really am the smart person I knew all along was inside of me somewhere. But at the same time, I have this dyslexic brain that holds me back. Sometimes what happens in my brain gets convoluted before it gets to my mouth. Sometimes it never even makes it that far! Waiting, asking for a moment to think about it, asking for time to process (Can I think about this and get back to you?), taking a deep breath or breaths . . . and being patient and loving myself. Not getting angry, frustrated, or down on myself. Even going out on a limb and risking a comment that hasn’t been fully crafted inside my mixed-up brain. Joining in a discussion when I might get laughed at. I have to learn to be OK with this! If people think I’m stupid, that’s their business (and they’re wrong)! Because living like this sucks, people. It SUCKS. I can’t tell you the times I’ve held back, not said something, worried for 15 minutes about whether to say something for fear of appearing stupid then missing my opportunity (then being really angry at myself for doing so), said no, not gone out, not joined a discussion, not joined a group, stayed silent, not done something I really wanted to do, etc. because I was afraid how I would come across. I weep when I realize how many things I’ve missed because I was afraid. How many good things, helpful things I might have said because I was afraid. Afraid! It’s not a good way to live.

God loves me and created me. Sometimes, loving ourselves through our faults is difficult. I’m writing this in hopes that it will inspire me to be kind to myself, and I’m writing this in hopes that it will inspire you to be kind to yourself, too.

Keep the Fast

As much as I am able, I keep the fast. What I’m talking about is something that is almost non-existent amongst Episcopalians anymore: The Eucharistic Fast.

In fact, most of us Episcopalians have never heard of it, but it used to be a big deal (and is still a big deal if you are a practicing Roman Catholic or Orthodox Christian). If you want to read more about the fast, check out Derek Olsen’s history of it here: http://www.stbedeproductions.com/on-the-eucharistic-fast/. The short version of the story is this: at one time, all Christians were required to abstain from food and drink (even medication) from midnight the previous night before receiving the Eucharist. I’ve already mentioned that this type of fasting is still practiced by many Christians. But for Anglicans, then, who came on the scene at the time of the Reformation, what does that mean? 

Ralph Edward Coonrad writes: “The custom of fasting communion did not entirely disappear throughout Anglicanism after the Reformation, even though laxity in fasting grew just as laxity in celebration of the Holy Communion grew. Some churchmen think that a custom of non-fasting communion superceded, as general practice of the Church, the older custom of fast before receiving. But the rule of communion fast had never so completely fallen into disuse as to obliterate it altogether.”¹ So as with most things Anglican/Episcopalian, the answer is complicated. The break with Rome caused a lack of unified practice, and eventually, for many, no practice of fasting at all.

And even for those Roman Catholics who practiced the fast, the length of the fast got shorter and shorter. The reason for the shortened time span was practical: if one attended a morning mass, fasting from midnight was not a problem. It was difficult, however, for many people to fast for what would end up being close to 24 hours in the event of an evening mass. For a priest who celebrated multiple masses in one day (which became especially popular in the middle ages), when was he to eat? Times changed. Eventually the church, or part of it, changed with it. So now, current practice in the Roman Catholic church is a fast of at least one hour before receiving Holy Eucharist. It’s interesting to note, however, that to this day Orthodox Christians still keep the fast from midnight. 

So, if we go with the minimum, that’s one hour. And that’s if you’re Roman Catholic. In the case of Anglicans, there is no “requirement.” If we, as Anglicans, aren’t required to fast at all, why should we? What’s the point? Is there anything wrong with stuffing a jelly donut in one’s face, then promptly showing up at the altar to receive our Lord?

To be very clear: I think Jesus loves us whether we eat or don’t eat. I don’t think anyone is going to eternal punishment for eating a donut (or anything else) before mass. Paul writes to the Corinthians regarding food (albeit food sacrificed to idols): “‘Food will not bring us close to God.’ We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do.” (1 Corinthians 8:8 NRSV) I think that this thought could also be applied here. 

But Paul had more to say about Holy Communion to this early community of Christians who were struggling with food issues. In a later chapter, he writes, “When you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s supper. For when the time comes to eat, each of you goes ahead with your own supper, and one goes hungry and another becomes drunk. What! Do you not have homes to eat and drink in? Or do you show contempt for the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing? What should I say to you? Should I commend you? In this matter I do not commend you!” (1 Corinthians 11:20-22 NRSV). Clearly, food and Holy Communion was a difficulty, an item with which people struggled, especially in the realm of some not being sensitive to the needs of others. Although in the two separate verses I just cited, Paul was addressing two specific and separate issues regarding food (and in one case wasn’t even referring to the Lord’s Supper), I think we can use both these scriptures as food (see what I did there!) for thought. There’s nothing specifically wrong with food—but there is a huge problem when it interferes with our relationship with God and others.

But, I would like to argue that keeping the Eucharistic fast can be even more delicious than that breakfast and can bring us closer to God. I do keep the Eucharistic Fast for at least an hour. In fact, I try to keep the midnight-to-Holy Communion fast whenever possible. Sometimes, circumstances only allow me an hour of fasting, so if that’s the case, I am grateful that I can fast that one hour. And I do it not because the Church commands me to do it, and not because it’s a requirement found in the Bible. I do it because I love my Lord. Because I want to be ready to meet Him in the Sacrament.

When we don’t eat for spiritual purposes, it allows us a sense of focus. In eating, we are focused on ourselves, our needs, our desires, and our sense of taste and fulfillment. And there’s nothing wrong with this! I love to eat! But as with any fast for spiritual purposes, when we take the focus off ourselves, it allows us to focus on Jesus. Fasting in general gives us a sense of physical emptiness, but not for its own sake. It’s too easy, when we fill ourselves with food, to pretend that that’s enough. And food here in the good ol’ US of A is readily available. Most of us can usually have whatever we want, whenever we want. People use food to comfort and console. We might eat when we are happy, when we are sad sometimes, when we are stressed, when we crave something, or when we are really looking to be filled with something else. So, for me, taking food out of the equation allows me to focus and see myself spiritually in a clearer light. It tells me that there is something more important than what I want “right now.” It reminds me of my dependence on God, from whom all blessings flow.

For me, the Eucharistic fast sets the time apart. It’s not just about giving up food for that hour, or for the whole morning. It sets the Eucharist apart as something special. I’m not fasting to lose weight, and I’m not fasting to be better. I’m not fasting out of penitence, which is what one does in Lent or other penitential times. I am fasting for preparation and with prayer. The fast reminds me, whether it’s one hour or many, that I’m setting this time apart for my Lord. That my body is a temple, and that the very next thing that I receive into it will be Jesus. I think the Sacrament is efficacious by its own nature, and that it technically doesn’t matter whether we’ve had a Big Mac or nothing before the Eucharist. But I’ve experienced the Eucharist not fasting at all, fasting one hour, and fasting many hours. Honestly, I can tell you that the longer the fast, for me, the better. When there is nothing in between me and the Jesus I am receiving, I am far more focused on Jesus than I would be if I’d just eaten a huge meal. I’m often asked, “Don’t you get hungry?” My response is, “Yes, of course.” But it’s temporary. And worth it.

In Matthew 26:40, Jesus asks his disciples why they couldn’t stay awake with him for an hour the night before he was crucified. Jesus, of course, wasn’t talking about the Eucharistic fast. He was in anguish and wanted his disciples to be awake with him during these horrible hours leading up to his crucifixion. He only asked one hour of them, and they couldn’t do it. And to be clear, Jesus himself didn’t make the “one hour” fasting rule. Or any rules about fasting before mass. But I think about this scripture often when people are discussing the Eucharistic fast. An hour isn’t much to ask, is it? One hour (or more) to focus on what Holy Mass is about. One hour to fix the eyes of our heart on Jesus. One hour to prepare ourselves for one of the most sacred moments of our week—indeed, of our lives. Is one hour (or two, or six, or twelve) too much to ask?

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¹Ralph Edward Coonrad, “The Communion Fast: Published for the Joint Committee on Discipline of the American Church Union and the Clerical Union,” Project Canterbury(New York: American Church Publications, 1953), accessed February 14, 2020, http://anglicanhistory.org/usa/acu/coonrad_fast1953.html.

View from School

Lately there’s been so much talk about how the church is dying. Amongst clergy and in clergy gatherings, this is more often than not a topic of conversation. People just aren’t coming to church the way they used to, and everyone has a reason for it. We’re stuck in the “way we’ve always done things,” some clerics complain. We need to change it up some more, throw some of this stodgy traditional stuff out the window, and be more relevant! Others, however, defend tradition and essentially proclaim we need to get back to basics. Everyone has a solution to the problem, but nothing seems to be getting better. “Regular church attendance” has been declining. Even people who say they are regular attenders aren’t as regular as they used to be: one article I read mentioned that “regular” church attendance was considered to be three out of eight Sundays. To add to the distressing news of the lack of church attendance, there’s the appearance of the “nones,” or people who don’t believe anything at all. To sum it all up: people are attending church less, aren’t going to church at all, or don’t believe anyTHING at all. The facts are bleak. 

I’m a new enough cleric that I know better than to weigh in on some of these discussions. When one is new in any field, a “newbie” who speaks up with passion often can be viewed as the “know-it-all” or the “young whippersnapper,” regardless of age, when commenting on some of these subjects. So, I find myself doing a lot of listening and very little talking. I have opinions about why the state of the church is the way it is, of course, but I guess I view my job not so much as giving analysis— as it is rolling up my sleeves and doing my best to fix it. There is much Biblical inspiration for this—for example, there’s the Great Commission in Matthew 28:10-20a: Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And then, there’s Matthew 9:37: “ . . . The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” That certainly seems to be more true now than ever before!

Maybe the state of the church seems dire from certain vantage points. But from my view, I don’t see a depressing landscape. As a chaplain in a Christian school, I see it a little differently. I’m sure that not every child in my school is a Christian (in fact, I know that they aren’t) . . . But from my perspective, I see children whose faces light up when they talk about God. Who are eager to go to chapel. Who love learning about the Bible. Who ask questions, really deep, hard questions about what is happening in church (for example, one child asked me at exactly what point the water and wine became Jesus, and exactly how we know it happens . . . !!) It’s hard to be depressed and view the future of the church as dim when I see so much excitement about God! Chapel services are full of children praising God, enjoying the music, and allowing God to speak to them. Children are eager to participate. Although I only allow 4^thand 5^thgraders to be the leaders of worship (acolytes, readers, etc), I got over 60 requests to serve—and I only had room to accept about 30! When I ask questions during my chapel sermons, children eagerly raise their hands to give fantastic answers! Singing is enthusiastic and beautiful. 

At the beginning of the year, I asked children in 4^th and 5^th grade to answer some questions about God and chapel. I was deeply moved by the answers. Keep in mind that although I asked every class in the school about their chapel experience, I only got written answers from 4^thand 5^th grade. So, this is only representative of part of the school! And . . . I got many duplicate answers, so just because there’s one child who values “singing” in chapel, there were many others who said things, like, “I like singing ‘Draw the Circle Wide,’” or “I like the hymns,” or who gave similar answers. And believe it or not, one of the most common “favorite things” in chapel had to do with silence or quiet time. (Think about that when you feel that what children want and need is non-stop activity and hype! They almost never get silence and contemplation, and they definitely love and appreciate it). Here are only some of the many, many, excellent answers I received:

How do you describe your relationship with God?

I go to God for everything so I think our relationship is strong.

I have really bad anxiety, so whenever I have anxiety attacks, God makes me feel safe and happy or even just knowing God is there.

Because he is always with me even in the tough times.

I know God is everywhere. I always feel taken care of when I am with God.

I pray to Him. And I cherish Him.

Special, because it’s just my own little time with God and nobody else will know what I’m saying or what I’m thinking.

I have a loving relationship with God.

Very close

What do you enjoy most about chapel?

The peace and quiet

Learning about God and Jesus’s life

The skits

I love to sing, “Morning has broken,” because it was my Papa’s (RIP) favorite song

Hymns

Sermon/homily/skits

Praying

Singing

The bell

The bread and the wine because it makes me feel closer to Jesus

The Eucharist (I got lots of creative spellings on this one!)

The harvest is plentiful, and the workers are few. I wish I could express how much people need Jesus. How hungry they are for the REAL THING. For something that lasts. For food that keeps us unto eternal life. For a peace that is not as the world gives. These children are definitely hungry for it, and they are so open and vulnerable about it that they aren’t ashamed or self-conscious to admit it! 

So, from my view, I don’t find the landscape depressing at all. Challenging, for sure, but with so much hope for the future. People are searching for something Real–for what only Jesus Christ can give them. 

Call me “Mother”

My most frequently asked question since being ordained a priest, much to my surprise, has been, “What do we call you?” After telling people that I want to be addressed as “Mother Melanie,” I don’t always get the response I expected. In fact, the response (with varying hints of emotion, confusion, exasperation, and even pushback) is something along the lines of, “Why do you want us to call you that? Our other priest was a woman, and she always asked us to call her (fill in the blank with a variety of terms: Pastor, Chaplain, Reverend, etc.—or just a first name). OR, “Wait . . . isn’t Mother the title of address for a nun?” Please note that none of these people seemed to question why we called the male priest “Father.”

I’ve not done a poll or anything scientific, but I’ve heard various reasons for priests who are women NOT wanting to be called “Mother.” Responses include: “She didn’t want us to think of her as a mother, since she wasn’t one.” “She’s not really our mother, so she doesn’t want us to call her that!” Or, “A title smacks of clericalism. Call me by my first name!” Or, “Calling me mother makes me sound old. Don’t call me that!” Sometimes I haven’t been given a reason. I know both from the responses I get to this request and from knowing clerics who are females that many of my female colleagues want to be addressed as something other than “Mother.”

My short “elevator speech” response to this is typically, “You call the male priest here FATHER. Why wouldn’t you call me Mother, since Mother is the female equivalent of Father?” Often that satisfies the person, but if they look doubtful, I often add, “Or you could call me ‘Father’ if you wish. That is historically appropriate since priests have been called that for centuries!” Usually that leaves the person stammering uncomfortably, either trying to explain to me why I should not want to be called “Mother” or, alternatively, that they’d be happy to call me “Mother Melanie,” because they don’t seem to want to assign a title to me that seems not to reflect my biological sex. I’ve even gotten the retort, “Well, you went to school for this, so you can be called whatever you want!” Which is absolutely the WORST reason that I should be called “Mother.”

Not all priests go to seminary to be priests. Canonically, there must be a program of preparation and formation, but it does not necessarily have to be seminary. Some do attend seminary but choose to do so in a non-traditional sense, and some areas are unable to send priests to a traditional seminary for cost or practicality purposes. What counts is the laying on of hands by a bishop in apostolic succession (and the presence of two presbyters.) So, it’s not “I’ve been to seminary, so you have to call me what I want!” It’s not that at all! Not all priests go to seminary!

And as far as calling me some of these other titles . . . it’s not that it’s “wrong” to call me by those. Unfortunately, though, they don’t give testimony to the fullness of what a priest really is. (And YES, I am a priest. I am NOT a “priestess,” a word used for those who practice Wicca or for those who practice other pagan religions) Although I am a “Chaplain” that is not all I am. True, I am the Lower School Chaplain at Holy Innocents’ Episcopal School. But . . . I am much more than that in my vocation as priest. “Chaplain” is more like my job title at the school. And it’s true, I am a “Pastor,” but I am also much more than that—a pastor is a shepherd of his or her flock, and a preacher, but a priest is much more. As one priest who went from Protestant pastor to priest wrote, “When I was a pastor . . . my lips were not purpled by the Blood of Christ. I did not stand at the altar in persona Christi. I did not have access to the Sacraments and centuries of holy tradition.” So, priests are pastors, yet more than pastors. And yes, I’m considered a “Reverend,” but technically, my title is “The Reverend”—not “Reverend.” “Reverend” is an adjective, not a noun, which modifies the name of the priest. So, it’s grammatically incorrect to call someone “Reverend Smith.” To call a female priest any of these things that I just listed does not give the full weight and responsibility regarding what she really is and does.

As far as calling a priest by FirstName (with no title) . . . sigh. It’s probably a combination of the way I was raised (grave respect for authority) with a huge dose of traditionalism thrown in. I was taught to use titles for people who had any sort of authority over me, whether it be spiritual authority, older adults who deserved respect, teachers, firemen, bosses, professors, etc., you name it. I was raised with the expectation that you used titles unless the person was a peer. Period. Everyone had a title except the boys and girls with whom I attended school and church. So, it seems really weird to me to call someone who I respect as an authority in their field (and when I’m on their turf) by a first name. I almost always err on the side of formality and ONLY call them by first name (with no title) when invited to do so (and sometimes even then I have issues with it). I understand that during the 60s and 70s there was a huge anti-authority backlash. Clericalism was at its height, and people often rebelled against this. People who became clerics after living through this time seem to have a love of informality. The pendulum swung hard toward informality in society in general during the sixties. It’s typically the clerics from this generation—largely, the “Boomers” that tend to be this informal. It’s their choice, for sure  (and of course, not every Boomer feels this way!) And I understand that when there have been abuses by clerics, it might be unpalatable to call someone by a title. But I think there’s more of a tendency toward respect when one does use a title.

And there is much more to it than, “Mother is the female equivalent to Father”—Although that is sort of the “shortcut” answer. The long answer has been answered much more thoroughly and capably by Mothers Julia Gatta and Eleanor McLaughlin in the article, “What do you call a woman priest?”* In this article the two priests note, “It does not help to incorporate women into the regular ranks of clergy when special, asymmetrical modes of address are used for them.” Essentially, what you’re saying when you call your male priest, “Father” but your female priest something else, is that they are different, less than, or not quite the equal of their male counterparts. McLaughlin and Gatta also trace the history of the titles of “Father” and “Mother,” explaining that both titles derive from monastic titles which began to be assigned in the 3^rd and 4^th centuries to the spiritual leaders—spiritual fathers and mothers— who lived in the desert. Over time, “Father” began to be used for so-called secular clergy (non-professed clerics), however, women were not allowed to be ordained priests during this time. So, essentially, “Father” stuck, but “Mother” remained a monastic title. Nevertheless, using the title of “Mother” underscores the “line of continuity in which [female clerics] stand with the spiritual mothers of ages past who exercised charismatic, pastoral, judicial, and prophetic authority within the institutional church.”

Please call me “Mother Melanie” or “Mother Rowell.” Not because it’s my preference. But because it’s the most appropriate title.

*Gatta, Julia, and Eleanor McLaughlin. “What do you call a woman priest?” Episcopal Times: The Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts (October 1981).