by John Sutherland
I went to the evening service on Ash Wednesday. Everyone was aware that we had given up our organ for Lent. It's a coincidence, mostly. The organ needed to be down two weeks for repairs at some point, so why not now?
I'll be glad when that wonderful, quirky instrument is back, but I had no doubt we'd be okay, supported by the choir and all the quality voices that hold up this parish every Sunday.
In fact, one of my favorite moments, even when the organ is in good repair, is when it drops out.
Normally, this happens during a robust hymn with solid four-part harmony, during the third or fourth verse. Gary lets go of the keyboard and conducts from the bench with both hands, and the choir responds to the challenge with gusto. It's like we're stepping off the edge of the loft and onto a cloud that somehow supports our weight.
(Yes, I know: the incense smoke is so thick some times, it just might support us.)
But it's a wonderful moment. It's a very spiritual moment. It's filled with hope and promise, assuring us of the good things that will happen if we just step forward bravely, and sing.
John Sutherland has been a member of St. Paul's for twenty years. He is sometimes a member of the choir, has done time on the Vestry, and generally tries to bake enough communion bread to keep his hands from idleness.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Lenten Voices: Drowning into Newness
by Stephen Crippen
In the church of my childhood, it didn’t take long to notice what Lent was all about. All you had to do was walk into the sanctuary and behold the large rough-hewn cross, usually constructed from the trunks of last year’s Christmas trees. You wouldn’t necessarily notice that on the left, right near an exit door, was the tiny baptismal font. Lent was not about Baptism, or preparation for Baptism, or reflection on Baptism. It was all about the cross.
The hymns were dark, sometimes bloody: “Alas, and did my Savior bleed…” “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens…” “Beneath the cross of Jesus I long to take my stand…” Every Wednesday in Lent the church would hold dramatic retellings of the Passion story from the perspective of various characters: one week, a parishioner dressed (with full makeup and lighting!) as Mary Magdalene would tell us what it was like to be with Jesus in his last hours. The next week, a disciple would talk about his fear, his impulse to run away from Jesus.
I realized only later that the original purpose of Lent was to prepare people for their Baptism at Easter, and encourage all the baptized to reflect on their own baptismal identity. What does it mean to be “baptized into Christ’s death?” What does it mean to “grow into the full stature of Christ”? (That’s a line from the Baptism liturgy.) Lent is a way to decode some of this mysterious language. It’s about Baptism.
Okay…but let’s not forget the cross. The mystery of the cross can even help us delve more deeply into the mystery of Holy Baptism.
At St. Paul’s, our art and architecture seem to be forcing us in the direction of my childhood parish: our crucifix is huge, rising dramatically above the whole space. We’ve improved our font—it is now a deep pool, a round earthenware vessel of abundant water—but the cross still looms, that mysterious and sometimes frightening and (especially for children) eternally fascinating symbol. What does it mean? What am I supposed to do with it? And, is that what they mean by being baptized into Christ’s death?!
Well, yes, but like all rich symbols, the meaning is always more than we imagine, more than we can grasp. The symbol leads us further into the life of God. It’s not supposed to offer a neat and tidy (or simply scary!) explanation.
But for those like me who need help with this, I share with you a poem written by my favorite poet and hymnwriter, Susan Cherwien. She opens up—though never completely!—the symbol of the cross. With her as a guide, we can walk a little further toward the garden of Easter, with both the fountain and the Tree of Life at its center.
Bright Joining
by Susan Palo Cherwien
Bright joining of godly and human
eternity coupling with present
embracing clear light and thick darkness
blest cross, star announcing the Savior.
Blest union of evil and holy
absorbing and willing transforming
embracing the pain of the cosmos
blest cross, outstretched arms of the Savior.
Grand juncture of dying and living
a drowning deep blue into newness
embracing Christ’s death and arising
blest cross, sign anointing our forehead.
Great fusion of body and spirit
in exile yet living the promise
embracing life’s daily small dying
blest cross, faith traced hand upon body.
Bright bonding of matter and power
enfolding, expelling, igniting
embracing deep space and small fragment
blest cross, cosmic arms of the Savior.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
In the church of my childhood, it didn’t take long to notice what Lent was all about. All you had to do was walk into the sanctuary and behold the large rough-hewn cross, usually constructed from the trunks of last year’s Christmas trees. You wouldn’t necessarily notice that on the left, right near an exit door, was the tiny baptismal font. Lent was not about Baptism, or preparation for Baptism, or reflection on Baptism. It was all about the cross.
The hymns were dark, sometimes bloody: “Alas, and did my Savior bleed…” “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens…” “Beneath the cross of Jesus I long to take my stand…” Every Wednesday in Lent the church would hold dramatic retellings of the Passion story from the perspective of various characters: one week, a parishioner dressed (with full makeup and lighting!) as Mary Magdalene would tell us what it was like to be with Jesus in his last hours. The next week, a disciple would talk about his fear, his impulse to run away from Jesus.
I realized only later that the original purpose of Lent was to prepare people for their Baptism at Easter, and encourage all the baptized to reflect on their own baptismal identity. What does it mean to be “baptized into Christ’s death?” What does it mean to “grow into the full stature of Christ”? (That’s a line from the Baptism liturgy.) Lent is a way to decode some of this mysterious language. It’s about Baptism.
Okay…but let’s not forget the cross. The mystery of the cross can even help us delve more deeply into the mystery of Holy Baptism.
At St. Paul’s, our art and architecture seem to be forcing us in the direction of my childhood parish: our crucifix is huge, rising dramatically above the whole space. We’ve improved our font—it is now a deep pool, a round earthenware vessel of abundant water—but the cross still looms, that mysterious and sometimes frightening and (especially for children) eternally fascinating symbol. What does it mean? What am I supposed to do with it? And, is that what they mean by being baptized into Christ’s death?!
Well, yes, but like all rich symbols, the meaning is always more than we imagine, more than we can grasp. The symbol leads us further into the life of God. It’s not supposed to offer a neat and tidy (or simply scary!) explanation.
But for those like me who need help with this, I share with you a poem written by my favorite poet and hymnwriter, Susan Cherwien. She opens up—though never completely!—the symbol of the cross. With her as a guide, we can walk a little further toward the garden of Easter, with both the fountain and the Tree of Life at its center.
Bright Joining
by Susan Palo Cherwien
Bright joining of godly and human
eternity coupling with present
embracing clear light and thick darkness
blest cross, star announcing the Savior.
Blest union of evil and holy
absorbing and willing transforming
embracing the pain of the cosmos
blest cross, outstretched arms of the Savior.
Grand juncture of dying and living
a drowning deep blue into newness
embracing Christ’s death and arising
blest cross, sign anointing our forehead.
Great fusion of body and spirit
in exile yet living the promise
embracing life’s daily small dying
blest cross, faith traced hand upon body.
Bright bonding of matter and power
enfolding, expelling, igniting
embracing deep space and small fragment
blest cross, cosmic arms of the Savior.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Lenten Blogging Project
Keep an eye here on our blog throughout Lent, as we have several parishioners (and one clergy person) who have committed to making blogging a part of their Lenten discipline this year. Each of these people will be posting about once a week from now 'til Easter, which means there will be a lot of material here to help the rest of us have a thought-provoking, connected Lent.
Thanks to all who are participating, and stay tuned!
-Alissa
Alissa Newton is St. Paul's Lay Pastor for Young Children and Families, a postulant to Holy Orders and the editor of the parish blog.
Thanks to all who are participating, and stay tuned!
-Alissa
Alissa Newton is St. Paul's Lay Pastor for Young Children and Families, a postulant to Holy Orders and the editor of the parish blog.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Journeys of Faith: Coming to St. Paul's from a Jewish Background
by Barb Levy
I grew up as a secular Jew, simply defined as “a person of Jewish heritage, but not observant of Judaism.” My mother always said that there were four types of Jews: orthodox, conservative, reform, and unaffiliated. We were unaffiliated Jews. But even though I didn’t study the 613 commandments, my Jewish identity was not simple to define:
I am often asked, when I say I am an Episcopalian from a Jewish background, ‘But were you a religious Jew?’ as if becoming a Christian is not such a big deal if you aren’t leaving the religion of your people. On the contrary, reactions I’ve had from relatives and friends (whether Jewish, feminist, or both) made coming out as a lesbian seem like a picnic.
Notwithstanding the reactions of those around me I felt drawn, with the help of clergy and spiritual friends (who later became sponsors) at St. Paul's, to wrestle with my many intellectual, historical, and emotional barriers to Christianity. I began to question, resist, surrender, and journey—at my own pace—amid the stumbling blocks.
I witnessed other adult baptisms, endured a long catachumenate, and was fully immersed in baptism at the 1992 Easter vigil. To this day the memory of my baptism, along with the extraordinary music, liturgy, and breathtaking sense of awe and mystery that can be experienced at St. Paul’s on any Sunday, keeps me coming back to a sacred home I never imagined I would enter. St. Paul’s, with its remarkable assortment of family members and customs is a profoundly blessed community.
Christianity is still rife with anti-Semitism, and the patriarchal language and images of God still trip me up. I still struggle with split identities. When the sign of the cross is made on my forehead with ashes or anointing oil, it traces the crosses carved into the foreheads of Jews during pogroms. I can’t hear the lyrics “keep them from the strangers’ ways” from Fiddler on the Roof without desperate sadness.
But somehow when I close my eyes and pray, bow, kneel, genuflect, and participate in the Eucharist, I know that my prayers are rising upon clouds of incense or wings of song to the same One Holy God beyond definition who loves us all beyond our comprehension.
Lent (which I describe as “a six week Yom Kippur”) is almost upon us. During these forty days in the wilderness, we recall Jesus’ temptations and agony, act out the disciples’ fear, denial, and betrayal, watch or sleep in the Garden of Gethsemane, and ultimately experience another wondrous Easter. In my own way, I will connect once more to first-century Jewish Christians, whose roots lie tangled somewhere with my own.
This is a place like no other. Thanks be to God!
Barb Levy is webmaster at St. Paul's, and owner of Stepping Stone Graphics. Her blog entry on Gay Pride and the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul may be found here.
I grew up as a secular Jew, simply defined as “a person of Jewish heritage, but not observant of Judaism.” My mother always said that there were four types of Jews: orthodox, conservative, reform, and unaffiliated. We were unaffiliated Jews. But even though I didn’t study the 613 commandments, my Jewish identity was not simple to define:
- My father’s mother spoke Yiddish and witnessed one of the Kishinev pogroms before fleeing to America. (The anti-Jewish riots in Kishinev, Bessarabia [were] a well laid-out plan for the general massacre of Jews on the day following the Russian Easter.)
- Some of my Jewish friends felt I was “not really a Jew,” since I didn’t go to Hebrew School or have a Bat Mitzvah.
- My father was a navigator in WWII; Jews were not allowed to be pilots.
- He and my mother were both turned down for jobs because they were Jewish.
- A family member on my mother’s side became a Christian and was never spoken of again.
- Most of my family’s friends were Jewish. They were passionate, political, intellectual, caring, and funny.
I am often asked, when I say I am an Episcopalian from a Jewish background, ‘But were you a religious Jew?’ as if becoming a Christian is not such a big deal if you aren’t leaving the religion of your people. On the contrary, reactions I’ve had from relatives and friends (whether Jewish, feminist, or both) made coming out as a lesbian seem like a picnic.
Notwithstanding the reactions of those around me I felt drawn, with the help of clergy and spiritual friends (who later became sponsors) at St. Paul's, to wrestle with my many intellectual, historical, and emotional barriers to Christianity. I began to question, resist, surrender, and journey—at my own pace—amid the stumbling blocks.
I witnessed other adult baptisms, endured a long catachumenate, and was fully immersed in baptism at the 1992 Easter vigil. To this day the memory of my baptism, along with the extraordinary music, liturgy, and breathtaking sense of awe and mystery that can be experienced at St. Paul’s on any Sunday, keeps me coming back to a sacred home I never imagined I would enter. St. Paul’s, with its remarkable assortment of family members and customs is a profoundly blessed community.
Christianity is still rife with anti-Semitism, and the patriarchal language and images of God still trip me up. I still struggle with split identities. When the sign of the cross is made on my forehead with ashes or anointing oil, it traces the crosses carved into the foreheads of Jews during pogroms. I can’t hear the lyrics “keep them from the strangers’ ways” from Fiddler on the Roof without desperate sadness.
But somehow when I close my eyes and pray, bow, kneel, genuflect, and participate in the Eucharist, I know that my prayers are rising upon clouds of incense or wings of song to the same One Holy God beyond definition who loves us all beyond our comprehension.
Lent (which I describe as “a six week Yom Kippur”) is almost upon us. During these forty days in the wilderness, we recall Jesus’ temptations and agony, act out the disciples’ fear, denial, and betrayal, watch or sleep in the Garden of Gethsemane, and ultimately experience another wondrous Easter. In my own way, I will connect once more to first-century Jewish Christians, whose roots lie tangled somewhere with my own.
This is a place like no other. Thanks be to God!
Barb Levy is webmaster at St. Paul's, and owner of Stepping Stone Graphics. Her blog entry on Gay Pride and the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul may be found here.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Journeys of Faith: Coming to St. Paul’s from a Lutheran Background
by Stephen Crippen
My parents brought me up in a Missouri Synod Lutheran church in rural Minnesota. Our parish was progressive by Missouri Synod standards, but it didn’t stray too far from the minimalist style and robust (and stern!) theological tradition of German Lutheranism. Nevertheless, my mother had been a Roman Catholic before marrying my father, so every once in a while she would turn to me in the middle of a church service and say something like, “You know, they could engage all of the senses if they wanted to. They could use incense. Worship is best when it engages all of the senses.”
Years later, I began to understand my mother’s motivations. She never expressed regret about her decision to become Lutheran, but she cultivated in me a love for beauty in liturgy, and I suspect her whispered comments to me were an expression of longing for what she had left behind. Her influence inspired me to join Lutheran parishes that embraced a rich liturgical tradition and a sacramental vision. Before I left the Twin Cities for Seattle in 1997, I was a happy member of Mount Olive Lutheran (ELCA) in Minneapolis, a parish replete with glorious music, graceful liturgy, and yes, incense. More striking still was Mount Olive’s location deep in the heart of south Minneapolis, an urban area marked by poverty and urban blight. At their best, Mount Olive proclaims a vision of justice in a neighborhood that cries out for it.
In Seattle, following a five-year stint on the staff of a Lutheran parish, I visited St. Paul’s on the strength of its reputation as a good “liturgical” church. When I first arrived here, I was attracted to the fine music and splendid liturgical life, but also challenged to adjust to some unfamiliar things. I remember struggling with the sung Nicene Creed, which seemed long and labored for me, at least at first. (Now, of course, a spoken Creed sounds odd and awkward to me, like we’re skimping on something important!) And as a borderline extrovert, there were times when St. Paul’s felt a little too quiet and solemn for my taste. But I made a good decision: I told myself to settle down, keep coming back, and keep opening myself up to this interesting and entrancing little parish community.
Now, more than five years later, St. Paul’s is not as quiet, much larger, and (it seems) about as extroverted as I am! But my parish home has retained—and even greatly enhanced—its ability to draw me into awe and wonder, ravish and challenge me with fine preaching, and take me out of my everyday life—not as an escape, but rather for the purpose of transforming my life, clarifying my call, and sending me back into my home and workplace with a renewed sense of meaning and purpose.
A Lutheran church like Mount Olive in Minneapolis offers a similar culture and community, a similar setting in which the assembly draws ever closer to the heart of God, a similar parish in which both justice and beauty are found in abundance. But I am glad to be at St. Paul’s, centered as it is in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, and moving as it is into a time of renewal and growth. At St. Paul’s, I find myself excitedly emailing my dad to tell him about the great preaching (for it was my dad who taught me to listen for that!), and also drawing close to my mother (who is now among our beloved dead) to whisper into her ear, “You were right. And it’s lovely!”
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find other entries by Stephen on our blog, and his most recent sermon here.
My parents brought me up in a Missouri Synod Lutheran church in rural Minnesota. Our parish was progressive by Missouri Synod standards, but it didn’t stray too far from the minimalist style and robust (and stern!) theological tradition of German Lutheranism. Nevertheless, my mother had been a Roman Catholic before marrying my father, so every once in a while she would turn to me in the middle of a church service and say something like, “You know, they could engage all of the senses if they wanted to. They could use incense. Worship is best when it engages all of the senses.”
Years later, I began to understand my mother’s motivations. She never expressed regret about her decision to become Lutheran, but she cultivated in me a love for beauty in liturgy, and I suspect her whispered comments to me were an expression of longing for what she had left behind. Her influence inspired me to join Lutheran parishes that embraced a rich liturgical tradition and a sacramental vision. Before I left the Twin Cities for Seattle in 1997, I was a happy member of Mount Olive Lutheran (ELCA) in Minneapolis, a parish replete with glorious music, graceful liturgy, and yes, incense. More striking still was Mount Olive’s location deep in the heart of south Minneapolis, an urban area marked by poverty and urban blight. At their best, Mount Olive proclaims a vision of justice in a neighborhood that cries out for it.
In Seattle, following a five-year stint on the staff of a Lutheran parish, I visited St. Paul’s on the strength of its reputation as a good “liturgical” church. When I first arrived here, I was attracted to the fine music and splendid liturgical life, but also challenged to adjust to some unfamiliar things. I remember struggling with the sung Nicene Creed, which seemed long and labored for me, at least at first. (Now, of course, a spoken Creed sounds odd and awkward to me, like we’re skimping on something important!) And as a borderline extrovert, there were times when St. Paul’s felt a little too quiet and solemn for my taste. But I made a good decision: I told myself to settle down, keep coming back, and keep opening myself up to this interesting and entrancing little parish community.
Now, more than five years later, St. Paul’s is not as quiet, much larger, and (it seems) about as extroverted as I am! But my parish home has retained—and even greatly enhanced—its ability to draw me into awe and wonder, ravish and challenge me with fine preaching, and take me out of my everyday life—not as an escape, but rather for the purpose of transforming my life, clarifying my call, and sending me back into my home and workplace with a renewed sense of meaning and purpose.
A Lutheran church like Mount Olive in Minneapolis offers a similar culture and community, a similar setting in which the assembly draws ever closer to the heart of God, a similar parish in which both justice and beauty are found in abundance. But I am glad to be at St. Paul’s, centered as it is in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, and moving as it is into a time of renewal and growth. At St. Paul’s, I find myself excitedly emailing my dad to tell him about the great preaching (for it was my dad who taught me to listen for that!), and also drawing close to my mother (who is now among our beloved dead) to whisper into her ear, “You were right. And it’s lovely!”
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find other entries by Stephen on our blog, and his most recent sermon here.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Journeys of Faith: Coming to St. Paul’s from a Roman Catholic Background
by Debra Sequeira
When my husband and I first entered the doors of St. Paul’s at a 10:30 Sunday service twelve years ago, our senses were fully engaged. As a former Roman Catholic, I was immediately transported to my youth at the first whiff of lingering incense. I surmised that this church had experienced several decades of liturgical processions, with heavenly smoke permeating the walls and rafters. It was a part of my past that I missed. The people present who were waiting for the service to commence were praying on their knees or sitting quietly or talking softly with neighbors. I noticed what appeared to be a homeless man, as his clothes were in tatters and his overall appearance disheveled. He walked up the aisle and lay prostrate below the altar. I could hear him speaking and crying and I wondered if this was his first time at St. Paul’s as well. Those sitting in the pews did not reveal any alarm at this act of contrition and I was filled with a flood of peace—“Yes,” I said to my husband, “these truly are the people of God.”
The Episcopal service had a rhythm, a flow, and each part of the service glided into the next. At times I followed along in the prayers and the singing; other times I listened to the voices surrounding me. It seemed apparent to me that congregants felt free to worship in the manner that was most comfortable for them, whether sitting, standing or kneeling; reciting or keeping silent vigil. And the choir! This church is blessed, I thought, with its own heavenly host!
The sermon for that Sunday, the first Sunday in Advent, was about the pains and joys of waiting—active waiting. Could one parish have it all, I thought—celestial music, graceful liturgy, and transformative preaching? The only break in the flow came in the form of “greeting one another with the sign of peace.” Though never one of my favorite moments in any liturgy, I was pleasantly surprised by the warmth of the people. We both felt genuinely welcomed and one couple took it upon themselves to introduce us to others. Not only did we return after that first Sunday, but within three months we were both involved in the liturgy. We have been delegates at the Annual Convention for the Episcopal diocese and I was honored to serve on the “search committee” for the new rector, Mother Melissa Skelton. I was quite certain that I would never see a woman priest in my lifetime as a Roman Catholic! Another one of the many joys of being an Episcopalian! And, yes, I am a proud Episcopalian, as I was received by the bishop into the church six months after first visiting St. Paul’s. So, after joining and/or participating in seven different Protestant denominations since leaving the Roman Catholic Church, I can finally say I am home.
Debra Sequeira is Associate Dean in the College of Arts and Sciences at Seattle Pacific University.
When my husband and I first entered the doors of St. Paul’s at a 10:30 Sunday service twelve years ago, our senses were fully engaged. As a former Roman Catholic, I was immediately transported to my youth at the first whiff of lingering incense. I surmised that this church had experienced several decades of liturgical processions, with heavenly smoke permeating the walls and rafters. It was a part of my past that I missed. The people present who were waiting for the service to commence were praying on their knees or sitting quietly or talking softly with neighbors. I noticed what appeared to be a homeless man, as his clothes were in tatters and his overall appearance disheveled. He walked up the aisle and lay prostrate below the altar. I could hear him speaking and crying and I wondered if this was his first time at St. Paul’s as well. Those sitting in the pews did not reveal any alarm at this act of contrition and I was filled with a flood of peace—“Yes,” I said to my husband, “these truly are the people of God.”
The Episcopal service had a rhythm, a flow, and each part of the service glided into the next. At times I followed along in the prayers and the singing; other times I listened to the voices surrounding me. It seemed apparent to me that congregants felt free to worship in the manner that was most comfortable for them, whether sitting, standing or kneeling; reciting or keeping silent vigil. And the choir! This church is blessed, I thought, with its own heavenly host!
The sermon for that Sunday, the first Sunday in Advent, was about the pains and joys of waiting—active waiting. Could one parish have it all, I thought—celestial music, graceful liturgy, and transformative preaching? The only break in the flow came in the form of “greeting one another with the sign of peace.” Though never one of my favorite moments in any liturgy, I was pleasantly surprised by the warmth of the people. We both felt genuinely welcomed and one couple took it upon themselves to introduce us to others. Not only did we return after that first Sunday, but within three months we were both involved in the liturgy. We have been delegates at the Annual Convention for the Episcopal diocese and I was honored to serve on the “search committee” for the new rector, Mother Melissa Skelton. I was quite certain that I would never see a woman priest in my lifetime as a Roman Catholic! Another one of the many joys of being an Episcopalian! And, yes, I am a proud Episcopalian, as I was received by the bishop into the church six months after first visiting St. Paul’s. So, after joining and/or participating in seven different Protestant denominations since leaving the Roman Catholic Church, I can finally say I am home.
Debra Sequeira is Associate Dean in the College of Arts and Sciences at Seattle Pacific University.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Journeys of Faith: Coming to St. Paul’s from an Evangelical Background
by Kate Rickard
My life has taken many twists and turns I would never have imagined, but then again, whose has not? One of the more significant turns for me has been the journey away from my evangelical upbringing toward Anglicanism. This pilgrimage has led me to a new landscape with different traditions and practices that reflect the passion of my heritage but better meet the deep desires of my heart for spiritual meaning and relationship with God. While I continue to have great respect and love for my evangelical heritage, I felt disconnected to the ancient traditions of our Church and the stories of men and women who had gone before us. For me, there was no sense of mystery surrounding the Godhead; nor was there room for faith that earnestly questioned God rather than only defending Him/Her. As I often found myself in the 'questioning God' category, I wondered if there was a community that would provide a new context and lens through which I could worship God and continue to mature in my faith.
When I experienced the Eucharist for the first time at St. Paul's, I was drawn in like a cold wanderer to a warm home. There was something in that experience I still fail to put words to and to be honest, I don't feel a strong need to compeletely understand it. Since attending St. Paul's, I've encountered a mysterious, loving and incarnate God who is real to me in the faces of my neighbors and the wine and bread of Eucharist. The Anglo-Catholic tradition has opened me to new ways of seeing our world that are "sacramental;" the world is infused with the holy and all life is sacred. I also feel freed up to be in relationship with others in a way that is mutually transformatitive and honoring to Christ.
This pilgrimage has not always been comfortable. At first, attending St. Paul's was a little bit like travelling to a foreign country. I wasn't sure how I fit in among the "locals" and I often didn't understand the language. When should I bow? Should I make a deep bow or just a little bow? Ooops! I missed a bow! Are people looking at me? When should I sing? What should I sing? Which book are we using and what page are we on? Why are we making all these gestures in the first place? And why is Mother Melissa flinging water onto me with a branch?!?
I found that when I let go of worrying about understanding and perfecting my role with all the Anglo-Catholic bows, genuflections, smells and bells, I began to experience the heart of the liturgy. And I started to enjoy myself! I realized that the physcial movements of bowing and genuflecting along with chanting and pausing for silence pull my entire being into an experience of God's presence. The liturgical practices also connect me in a tangible way to my brothers and sisters as we all move and sing together.
When I attend evangelical churches now, I am amazed at how different my new Anglo-Catholic home is from the tradition of my upbringing. There are times that I miss the spontaneity of the evangelical church and the earnest, simple way the Holy Spirit is sought. However, within Anglo-Catholicism, I've found room to grow and expand the horizons of my faith in new and energizing ways. Quite frankly, my faith is infused with more hope than I ever imagined possible. And I have found that there is just as much passion and Spirit within the ancient liturgies, use of the daily office, and symbols of my new tradition - it is only expressed in different ways. This wanderer is glad to have found a home to settle down and grow old in.
Kate Rickard is in discernment towards Holy Orders in the Episcopal Church and works at Seattle Pacific University. You may also read her lay homily here.
My life has taken many twists and turns I would never have imagined, but then again, whose has not? One of the more significant turns for me has been the journey away from my evangelical upbringing toward Anglicanism. This pilgrimage has led me to a new landscape with different traditions and practices that reflect the passion of my heritage but better meet the deep desires of my heart for spiritual meaning and relationship with God. While I continue to have great respect and love for my evangelical heritage, I felt disconnected to the ancient traditions of our Church and the stories of men and women who had gone before us. For me, there was no sense of mystery surrounding the Godhead; nor was there room for faith that earnestly questioned God rather than only defending Him/Her. As I often found myself in the 'questioning God' category, I wondered if there was a community that would provide a new context and lens through which I could worship God and continue to mature in my faith.
When I experienced the Eucharist for the first time at St. Paul's, I was drawn in like a cold wanderer to a warm home. There was something in that experience I still fail to put words to and to be honest, I don't feel a strong need to compeletely understand it. Since attending St. Paul's, I've encountered a mysterious, loving and incarnate God who is real to me in the faces of my neighbors and the wine and bread of Eucharist. The Anglo-Catholic tradition has opened me to new ways of seeing our world that are "sacramental;" the world is infused with the holy and all life is sacred. I also feel freed up to be in relationship with others in a way that is mutually transformatitive and honoring to Christ.
This pilgrimage has not always been comfortable. At first, attending St. Paul's was a little bit like travelling to a foreign country. I wasn't sure how I fit in among the "locals" and I often didn't understand the language. When should I bow? Should I make a deep bow or just a little bow? Ooops! I missed a bow! Are people looking at me? When should I sing? What should I sing? Which book are we using and what page are we on? Why are we making all these gestures in the first place? And why is Mother Melissa flinging water onto me with a branch?!?
I found that when I let go of worrying about understanding and perfecting my role with all the Anglo-Catholic bows, genuflections, smells and bells, I began to experience the heart of the liturgy. And I started to enjoy myself! I realized that the physcial movements of bowing and genuflecting along with chanting and pausing for silence pull my entire being into an experience of God's presence. The liturgical practices also connect me in a tangible way to my brothers and sisters as we all move and sing together.
When I attend evangelical churches now, I am amazed at how different my new Anglo-Catholic home is from the tradition of my upbringing. There are times that I miss the spontaneity of the evangelical church and the earnest, simple way the Holy Spirit is sought. However, within Anglo-Catholicism, I've found room to grow and expand the horizons of my faith in new and energizing ways. Quite frankly, my faith is infused with more hope than I ever imagined possible. And I have found that there is just as much passion and Spirit within the ancient liturgies, use of the daily office, and symbols of my new tradition - it is only expressed in different ways. This wanderer is glad to have found a home to settle down and grow old in.
Kate Rickard is in discernment towards Holy Orders in the Episcopal Church and works at Seattle Pacific University. You may also read her lay homily here.
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