Bringing Convention Home

In a few months, the General Convention office will publish a big, fat book that contains all of the actions that we took here in Utah. You could, I suppose, buy one and pour through it page by page in order to get a sense of what went on during these two weeks of Convention. (If there aren't support groups for people like that, there should be.) But even reading every line of the record of the 78th General Convention cannot convey the spirit behind each resolution and the tone of each debate. So much of what has happened here is bigger and more important than what will be put in print, and I hope that in the weeks and months ahead I can convey some of that to you.

 

Worship is one part of this experience that I hope to hold onto for a long time. In some ways, our daily gatherings for Eucharist are similar to those we celebrate together at St. John's―lessons, hymns, sermon, prayers, bread, and wine. In several other ways, however, they are radically different. How often does one of our clergy slip seamlessly from English to Spanish in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer? When was the last time we had Native American flute, drums, and dancing on Sunday morning? Our congregation likes to sing, but how often do we have the chance to gather with 1500 people in a massive, resonant auditorium and let the sounds of "Praise to the Lord" fill the whole space? Each day so far, my eyes have filled with tears at some point during our worship because I have found the experience of gathering with the fullness of our church to praise God emotionally overwhelming.

 

The diversity of our church could, perhaps, be hinted at in a demographic chart, but being at General Convention reminds me that our church is made up of lots of people who look and talk and think and worship and follow Jesus differently than I do. I celebrate the presence and leadership that people of color bring to this Convention. I enjoy hearing from people whose congregations are made up of non-English speakers. I marvel at the unique spirituality of indigenous people. I embrace the heartfelt testimony of individuals who have experienced discrimination because of their identity. At St. John's, our exposure to diversity is fairly limited, but our place within the whole Episcopal Church offers us countless opportunities to explore meaningful, transformative encounters with fellow Christians who are not just like us.

 

Although we are barely half way through our legislative work, we have already accomplished some remarkable things. The bishops have elected and the deputies have confirmed the election of the first African-American Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, the Rt. Rev. Michael Curry of North Carolina. That moment was significant both as a "first" in history and as a sign that the leaders of the Episcopal Church share Bishop Curry's passion for the gospel―the good news of Jesus Christ for the world. Building on that momentum, we have approved a series of bold and far-reaching endeavors to help our church embrace evangelism and congregational development in the twenty-first century. Later this week, we will debate other resolutions that aim to restructure our church to help us encourage mission and ministry at the local level as we deemphasize hierarchical methods and focus more resources on what takes place in the parish and diocese. Still, despite all of the excitement and energy surrounding what is happening here in Utah, completing the work of General Convention depends upon us―you and me―picking up where Convention leaves off and bringing those initiatives back to Alabama.

 

Earlier this week, during debate on a resolution about prison reform, Deputy Lowell Grisham from Arkansas urged us to go back to our parishes and speak to others about that vote. The resolution we passed is an important one. It calls upon the leaders of the Episcopal Church to speak out against the "mass incarceration system," and it asks every congregation in our church to take up at least one specific initiative to combat the destructive consequences of our current criminal justice system. The resolution even lists fourteen ideas for such work. But then what? Yes, the final section of the resolution calls for each diocese to report back to the 79th General Convention about the "initiatives engaged at the congregational and diocesan levels," but, two and a half years from now, when someone from our diocese sends me an e-mail asking what we have done about prison reform, it will be too late. The burden of holding up that important work to our congregation falls to me and to you. We must remember it and take it on. Keep in mind, however, that this is only one of hundreds of important resolutions that we will pass. Who keeps up with them all? Hopefully, together, we all do.

 

In the weeks ahead, it will be tempting for us to focus only on the big, headline-grabbing stories from General Convention―the election of the new Presiding Bishop, the decisions surrounding same-sex marriage, and the outcome of the restructuring debate. I assure you, however, that the enormous bulk of our work is found not on the front page but between the lines. That is where we must turn if the work done here is to bear fruit. Do not stop at the beginning. Dig deeper. Look with me at the many, many things your Convention has done. Support prison reform in Alabama. Look for ways to combat racism in Decatur. Learn how you can share the good news of Jesus Christ with others in a digital age. Call your legislator and tell him or her what you and your church think about providing access to education to all children and youth regardless of immigration status. Whatever it is, however you do it, pick up the work of our church and make it part of the ministry we share back home. Do not restrict General Convention to something that happens way out in the desert. Make sure our church's work comes all the way home.

It Is Enough

In the House of Deputies, we have passed several important resolutions that do bold things like commit $3million to improve digital evangelism and set aside $1million for revitalization of congregations. So many of the resolutions that have passed with great emphasis and energy in our house have come with huge price tags. Where will this money come from? We don't know. We do know what happens if they aren't funded by the church. We know that without funds all of the energy and excitement and momentum expressed in these resolutions will fizzle out and die.

Or will they?

On Sunday, we will all be back in our churches (or at least somewhere other than General Convention). As the gospel appointed for that day, we will hear Mark 6:1-13. In those words, we will hear Jesus say a lot about evangelism that flies in the face of the logic of fear that seems to have taken hold on the legislative process.

As he sends out the disciples two by two, Jesus tells them to take nothing with them--no purse, no money, no bag, no change of clothes, no food, no nothing. Just go with what you have on your back. Pick up a good walking stick and go.

Imagine what it feels like to have an authority figure send you out to do important, amazing, challenging work but tell you that you can't make or take any preparations. How puzzling! How disconcerting! How confusing!

But there is a different logic to that sort of evangelism. It requires living day to day. It requires being highly sensitive to the community to which you have been sent. It requires you to let go of the outcome and focus on the process. I believe that that is what Jesus is saying to the Episcopal Church.

I wholeheartedly support these resolutions. I hope the church will fully fund them. Actually, I hope the church will rethink the way it funds programs and ministries and stop asking GC what we think should be funded and start asking GC what the priorities for the coming triennium will be. Then, Executive Council can fund whatever it thinks is best according to those priorities. But that's another post for another day. Back to the matter at hand... I do hope that these costly, bold, expansive, hopeful resolutions will pass both houses and be funded. But I don't think the church needs to doubt the possibility that lies ahead regardless of funding.

If we confuse the funding of these resolutions for the spirit and drive behind them, then we are guilty of perpetuating the lethargy that has crippled our church in the last few decades. We must support radical freedom by embracing the take-what-you've-got mentality of Jesus. Don't let budgets define our ministry. Trust that our ministry will define our budgets. Yes, advocate for funding, but don't worry about the outcome. The energy is there. It is the Spirit that motivates and propels us. Never doubt the one whom we are serving in this work. He is sending us out. He has given us the commission.

Unity of Spirit

Almighty God, you have built your Church upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone: Grant us so to be joined together in unity of spirit by their teaching, that we may be made a holy temple acceptable to you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

When we gather for worship on the morning after the election of the Rt. Rev. Michael Curry as the next Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church and hear that this is the Collect for the Day, it will be difficult not to sense that God is doing something pretty spectacular in the life of the Episcopal Church. Jesus Christ himself is the cornerstone of our church. He is where it starts. And from there the church has been built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets and, I would add, is still being built upon their successors. Their teaching, we pray, is the means by which we are joined together "in unity of spirit." Yesterday's election was an expression of that unity, and I am proud to be a part of a church that--in formal and informal ways--has identified Bishop Curry as the right bishop to serve in that capacity for the next nine years.

Weeks ago, I wrote in this blog that I would be voting against the confirmation no matter who was chosen. That was, as I hope I made clear, not based on the quality of any of the candidates. In fact, I still believe that any of the four faithful men who were candidates for the office would have done a wonderful job, and I would have been proud to call any of them my Presiding Bishop. I intended to vote no because of the process behind the decision. I will not rehash that entire argument here, but I want to stress that the process for selecting a PB is broken. Partly that has to do with the money and time we spent--over $200,000 and two years. Partly that has to do with the still unclear expectations our church is placing upon our PB--is he/she to be a visionary or an executive or a pastor or a president or all of those or none of those? Mainly, however, is has to do with the fact that no one other than bishops is entitled to vote.

Several times--both here at Convention and back at home before we arrived--people asked me for whom I would vote. I honestly did not have an answer. I never thought of it that way. Why? Because I don't get to vote. None of the deputies does. Yes, the Joint Nominating Committee, consisting of all orders of ministry, presented to us an excellent slate of nominees, but OUR next Presiding Bishop is chosen only by bishops. As the office of the PB has grown in power and importance (from a simple presider in the House of Bishops to a primate and leader in our church), so too has the distance between bishops and the rest of the leadership of our church. Those things, of course, move in parallel. As the PB becomes more of a primate and the process to choose him/her does not adapt to involve everyone in the election, the gap between the decision makers in our church--bishops on one side of the divide and everyone else on the other--widens and widens and widens. For that reason--because our church desperately needs to be pulled back together--I intended to vote no on confirmation. But I didn't.

I proudly voted for the confirmation of Michael Curry because, over the past few weeks and especially during this Convention, it has become clear to me that Bishop Curry is the clear choice of the entire Convention and the entire Episcopal Church. A first-ballot election for PB is unheard of. (Ballots weren't publicized until 1997, and there hasn't been one since, and several bishops expressed no memory of it happening before that, either.) When the candidates spoke to the House of Deputies, the room was consumed by "amens" and head-nods and smiles and other tangible signs of hope and endorsement whenever Bishop Curry spoke. No, his answers weren't the best. Yes, the other candidates said some very important things. But Bishop Curry represents a choice that exceeds the words he said or the experiences on his resume. In my estimation, built upon observations and conversations with others, he represents our collective hope for the unity, revitalization, and Jesus-centered future of the Episcopal Church.

There is still much to discuss at this Convention. What will we decide on same-sex marriage? Will we recast the structures of this church to shift the balance of power? Will the political rangling over whose voice is the loudest at the table--the PB's, the PHoD's, the Executive Council's, the House of Bishops, the House of Deputies--rip us further apart? Will the lack of consensus on these critical issues threaten to plunge us into further division when we leave Utah without settling our disputes? Actually, the election of Bishop Curry, I think, changes all of that. Sure, any of that can happen. No, I have no idea how things will work out. But I have a deep-seeded hope in my soul, and I feel that hope in others, and I believe that the hope we have expressed so far at this convention will carry the day. I believe what we pray this morning--that the teaching of the apostles and prophets, when built upon the foundation of which Jesus Christ himself is the cornerstone, leads us to unity of spirit. This is a time for unity, and I believe that unity will prevail.

Hearing and Seeing

I've remarked a few times about my favorite thing at General Convention. Sometimes, I tell people my favorite part is seeing old friends. Sometimes, I tell people my favorite part is the instant collaboration among Episcopalians who have never met each other. Never do I tell people that my favorite part is the interminable amendment debates (despite being the genesis of two so far). Despite having several "favorite" parts of General Convention, my really really favorite part is the worship.

For starters, it's a beautiful thing to have 1000+ people worshipping in the same place at the same time. Some churches have that every single Sunday, but I don't. To hear 1000 voices singing, praying, praising, confessing, greeting, and celebrating together is a wonderful thing. And, more than that, the way we worship is spectacular.

Episcopalians in Alabama and Utah and Washington may not realize that the Episcopal Church comprises congregations and dioceses all over the world. I don't mean the "Anglican Communion," which has different churches ("provinces") all across the globe. I mean the Episcopal Church--with the same prayer book, same Presiding Bishop, and, of course, same General Convention. Because of that, right here in Utah, we have Episcopalians who speak several different languages, and that means our worship takes on a Pentecost-al feel.

Those of you who go to church as often as I do probably don't need to hold the prayer book during the service. We know what follows, "Lift up your heart." We have the Creed more or less memorized. The Confession is written on our hearts and minds just as clearly as on page 360. Because of that, I don't usually look at the liturgial text when I worship unless I am leading worship. I prefer to lose myself in the aural experience and concentrate on the spoken word.

But at General Convention, those spoken words are often in Spanish. I don't really speak Spanish. I know enough to recognize a few words, but I certainly cannot pick up on the theologically nuanced language of our worship. So, when someone is speaking or reading in Spanish, I have some choices. I can let my ears pick up one or two familiar words--enough to keep up but not really enough to participate. I can open up the digital worship guide and read along in English. Or I can watch the interpretation.

Another language used during worship at General Convention is American Sign Language. On the platform, along with those leading worship, are usually two interpreters. Faithfully, they listen to what is being said (English or Spanish) and, using ASL, gesture accordingly so that the hearing impaired can understand. I do not know ASL any better than I know Spanish, but there is something so beautiful about the way our interpreters render the spoken word that I am drawn into its dance in a non-verbal way.

Yesterday, Gay Clark Jennings, President of the House of Deputies, preached in the service in which we remembered the life and witness of Isabel Florence Hapgood, who translated the Russian Orthodox Divine Liturgy into English. Gay spoke of translation--the importance and limitation of language conveying deep meaning. Using the analogy of a stuffed suitcase brought to General Convention, Gay reminded us that our understanding of God is never big enough to take it all in. As Gay spoke of that crammed-full suitcase, the interpreter next to her began cramming and stuffing and shoving things into an invisible bag right there on stage. Although not a mime, her gestures were plain and clear. The audience erupted in laughter. It was so perfectly, beautifully, absolutely clear to everyone in the room no matter what language she speaks.

I like words. I write a lot. I talk a lot. I listen a fair amount, too. But I often forget to "listen" for the silent but clear words that are and aren't being spoken. Rarely does the Spirit speak to us in English or Spanish or even ASL. But the Spirit is speaking. We cannot only listen with our ears. We must watch the faces of each other. We must look to the heavens. We must stare down at the earth. We must feel the Spirit's breath. Words cannot express the magnitude of what God is saying to us. Our posture must be one of reception.

We believe in the Word made Flesh--Jesus Christ, the incarnate Son of God. That Word, which was "spoken" in the creation, has come to us. Yes, we can listen to what Jesus says to us, but we can also see who he is and watch what he does and train our gaze on his witness. If we are only listening for words, we may miss the Word who is with us.

All about Power

I grew up watching He-Man. (Actually, I liked She-Ra better. She was a more interesting character, though I lived in fear that my peers would find out.) He-Man spent most of his time bumbling around as a slacker-in-disguise named Adam. But, when a crisis came, he would grab his sword, point it to the sky, and declare, "By the power of Greyskull...I have the POWER!" And, as lightning struck his body, he was transformed into the super strong, totally awesome hero He-Man. I cannot begin to imagine the number of times I picked something up, pointed it to the sky, and repeated, "I have the POWER!" As a kid, that was the coolest thing I could think of--having all of that power.

Adults rarely point their smartphones or car keys or croziers toward the sky and declare it, but most of us still get the same rush of excitement when we claim power for ourselves. Power is what drives the human race--and I don't mean electricity. Power is the ability to do. It is the capacity for action. We all have it. Some of us are experts. Some of us are physically imposing. Some of us control resources. Some of us hold the respect of others. None of us is He-Man, but all of us crave power. We like being in control. (And, when we don't want to be in control, we like to have the power to declare that it's someone else's turn to be in charge.) There is no escaping it.

Sunday's sandwiched gospel lesson (Mark 5:21-43) is an exercise in power. All of the central characters are exploring power relationships. Jairus is described for us as a leader of the synagogue, which means he was accustomed to a position of power. He was wealthy. He was respected. He was religious. He had control. But then it all fell apart. His daughter was sick. She was dying. And he could do nothing. He was powerless to help her. He approached Jesus and "begged him repeatedly" to come and help her. He was at Jesus' mercy. He couldn't even speed the teacher along and had to wait as he dealt with another supplicant.

The woman with a hemmorage was powerless and had been for years. Although at one time she had enough money to spend on many physicians, she now sneaks around the crowd, not daring to speak to anyone. "If I just touch his cloak," she said to herself. When called out by Jesus after her healing, she approaches him with fear and trembling. She is at his mercy. And Jesus offers it. He declares her made well--saved, actually. She is called his daughter. Jesus gives her back what she had lost.

Who is in control? Who has the power to act? Is our power real or perceived? I have lots of power. Some of it I celebrate, while other parts I am ashamed of. I have the love and support of family and friends. I have a job with responsibilities--formal and informal. By the world's standards, I am rich. As a white man, I have the privilege of being in the dominant (there's a power word) culture and living in a world that, for the most part, gives me what I demand of it. Because of that, I struggle more than others to recognize that all of that power really means nothing in God's kingdom. In fact, as Sunday's lesson teaches us, all my power actually gets in the way of God's kingdom breaking into my life.

Jesus has come to give me life--to give all of us abundant life. Who has the power? He has the power. But I must yield my power-hungry self to the power of his love. That yielding is called repentance. That love is called forgiveness.

At General Convention, we talk a lot about power--about the sins of racism and classism and sexism. As an institution, we have a history of power. We were a church dominated by white male tradition, and we used that to secure a place in the American landscape. But those power structures are changing. Like Jairus, we are discovering that we are powerless--we have been stripped of our control. The world isn't interested in listening to us talk about ourselves. The world wants to hear about Jesus--the one who came to give power to the powerless. Will we be powerless? Will we hold up our hands and prayer books and croziers and declare, "I have no power but Jesus?"

The Greatest Among You

When was the last time you overheard (or participated in) a childish argument over who was the best? From years ago, I recall knock-down, drag-out fights with cousins over whose dad was the strongest, the smartest, the richest. I remember disputes with friends over whose football team was better--a debate that had nothing to do with the team's current record and everything to do with the child's blind devotion. I shudder to think about how important having the best grade or getting the most recognition was for me as a grade-school student. So often our humanness is drawn out in comparisons.

My children already know the standard argument strategy that appeals to their peers. "But mom!" they cry, "Susan's mom lets her have it." Comparisons start very early, and they mean everything. What I hope my children don't realize is that they matter to grownups like me as well. When my child points out that her friend is being treated, rewarded, provided for better than what I am giving to my daughter, it gives me pause. I try to hide that from her, of course, or else life would soon become unbearable, but I certainly don't want to be the parent whose child is anywhere but the top.

I don't think it's an accident that the diciples show us the very same sort of debate and conflict over comparisons in their own relationships. In today's gospel lesson (Luke 22:24-30), we read that "a dispute also arose among them as to which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest." It's a silly thing for the disciples to argue over, of course. What do you mean "which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest?" Were they competing for Jesus' favor? Were they looking for preferential treatment in the kingdom as we read in some other gospel accounts? Did they want the nicer accommodation during their travels? Were they trying to avoid the unpleasant chores necessary for their common life? I don't really know exactly what they were arguing over, but I do know exactly what that sort of argument feels like. It's not quite as plain as "I'm better than you are," but it comes pretty close to that.

Jesus rebukes them for their vanity. He compares their striving to that of the Gentiles--those whose kings "lord it over them." But he goes further than that. "The greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves," Jesus explained. "I am among you as one who serves." To those who know the whole gospel story, his words evoke images of washing the disciples' feet, of submitting himself to the authorities, of dying for their sakes. Jesus' life, teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection testify to a new expression of greatness--one that lauds humility and celebrates servanthood. It is the principle upon which the church is founded, but it's one that is hard to embrace.

At General Convention, I am surrounded by those who give of themselves for the sake of the others. Many of them are wearing red aprons--volunteers who are here for two weeks to help out with just about everything. They are pages, guides, runners, cleaners, hosts, servers, and drivers. Many of them have come from far away, paying their own expenses to serve at this Convention. There are others, too. There are janitors and cooks and security personnel. They staff the hotels, restaurants, and shops. There are alternates and spouses and legislative aides who are here to support others but rarely get credit for it. Deputies and bishops, too, are here to serve the church, but our service isn't particularly humble. We would do ourselves and our church well to observe the servanthood of those around us and attempt to follow their example.

All of us--from the proudest to the most humble--are called to go even further. Jesus didn't only kneel down and take the role of the servant by washing his disciples' feet. He gave up everything for them, and we must likewise give everything up, too. In the church, there can arise a competitive humility that undermines the principle of sacrifice. "Let me get that door for you," one deputy might say to another. "No, no," the other replies, "let me get that for you." And five minutes later both are still gesturing to each other insisting that the other deputy go first. It's a silly example, but there are plenty of more subtle instances of people showing off how humble they are. Unlike children, we are more likely to debate just how much we give to our ministries or how many challenges we have endured for the sake of the church. The only way to break through to genuine humility is to die with Jesus and let him put to death the pride within us.

When you're hanging on the cross, there isn't really much more you can give, is there? We must seek that place--not in mock service or pretend sacrifice but in real, substantial, nothing-left-to-give humility. We must allow the example of Jesus to guide us. We must center ourselves on his humility. We must ask God to grant us a servant's heart. We must beg him to take away all that we have so that we can have no more to give. As Jesus said to his disciples, that is what it means to eat and drink with him in the kingdom. Let it be so for us and for the whole church.

Opposites Attract

For the past week, I've been treking through the wilderness and National Parks of Utah and northern Arizona. My friend and colleague Craig Holmes and I put a lot of miles on our rental car. We went to some amazing places and did some astounding things. Over and over, I was reminded of the magnitude of creation. I was drawn deeper into the divine life as I experienced the limitless imagination of the creator. 

Although my companion and I spent nearly every minute of every day (sleeping and waking) with my companion, lots of that time was spent in slience. It is cliche, but, when we arrived at the Grand Canyon, we both climbed over one of the guard rails near the North Rim Lodge, scrambled out onto a deserted place on the rocks, and sat for twenty solid minutes--just staring out at the enormity of the canyon before us. Overwhelmed with a sense of my finitude and insignificance, I encountered the human condition in a way I had never felt. My limitedness, my brokenness, my fragility, my inconsequentiality were all immediately present as I looked out over the millions of years of process that lay before me. I couldn't speak. I didn't want to speak. Afterward, Craig expressed a mourning that he felt--a sadness that he had to leave but shouldn't leave and knew he would likely never be back in that place again. It was powerful. We didn't say a word,

Yesterday, I arrived in Salt Lake City (SLC) for the 78th General Convention of the Episcopal Church, and I have been surrounded by noise and words and faces ever since. I love the noises. I love spending time with people. My face lit up when I saw an old friend. I laughed with seminary buddies. I bowed my head with a nod of respect when I saw an old mentor. If nothing else, General Convention is an ongoing, 18-hours-a-day, thousands-of-people, always-something-to-talk-about, always-someone-to-talk-to festival. It's full of words. Our legislative committee has over 50 resolutions to consider. I'm reading more right now than I ever do. It is an extrovert's dream. I love everything about it, but part of me pines for the red hills and scrub grass of the Utah desert and, more substantially, for the silence that come with them. 

I am a talker by nature, but I love silence. I'm here to contribute to the mission of the church and the building up of God's kingdom in the words that I hear and speak but also in the silence I keep. I'm looking forward to early, quiet mornings. I'm looking forward to lonely, quiet nights. Yes, I miss my wife and family very dearly. I would love to share part of this experience with them. But, if they were here, I would also need to search for some silence. I need it--especially during these 11 days of innumerable words.

Be still and know that I am God, the Psalmist wrote. At the commissioning of legislative officers and aides, the Presiding Bishop reminded us that we are the body of Christ. We don't "do" the body of Christ. It's who we are. She expressed that the way we do our work is more important than the product of our labors. Although the work is important, of course, she's right. It doesn't matter how much or how little gets done if we're working for our own sakes. And how will we know whether we're doing the Lord's work or merely pursuing our own path? If we're quiet long enough to listen.