A Step

One of my intentions for this new year is to set aside time for journaling and reading. This entry is another effort to tease out my thoughts on my experiences with His Church and His church. 

I continue to visit our downtown Episcopal congregation. After running from my often rote and nominal Catholic upbringing, it's not where I thought I'd find myself at 53.  But, here I am. 

Because Briggs is actively angry at the visible church, he doesn't want to visit any churches right now. This is fine by me--it leaves me free to process things and worship without having to consider how he's processing things and worshipping. It's less complicated in an already complicated season of faith.

He recently asked me what I liked about the Episcopal congregation I'm attending though--why I chose it from the dozens of churches I could attend. This entry focuses on my answer to him more or less.

Why?

First--I feel like I can go there and focus on God, bring my whole self--body, soul, mind--to this physical place as a way of offering my heart, voice, thoughts, hopes to Him. I can bring all this on Sunday mornings to express a desire and attempt to reconnect formally with His church on earth, in Asheville.

Second--I feel relatively safe emotionally while attending.  I know this sounds a bit bizarre, but with all well-meaning intentions, the church can feel like a sales pitch. On one hand, it's always nice for people to notice you as new or unfamiliar.  It shows that people think outside their circles and of others.  The downside of this is that you can feel like someone's religious project.  I've seen too many surface smiles that don't carry into more authentic conversations or a consistent working out of faith in others' lives.

I don't want another spiritual project (sorting through all that) nor do I wish to be another person's spiritual project in this way.  And, I'm sure some of these feelings need to be cleared away or refined, but right now, I just want to sit in a solid pew in the corner of a beautiful santuary and connect with the liturgy.  This feels restful and restoring to me in a way that I've been longing for.

How?

I came to this congregation by happenstance and through research. At first I confused it with another downtown congregation that has a camilia bush and a pastor I knew through my Woodcock Johnson testing.

It may yet have that camilia bush (I haven't  for it!), thought to look for it, but its rector is definitely not the one I met, who is actually lead of the Presbyterian Church right next door. 

This confused connection landed me on their webpage, but after that, other things drew me further, such as:

*Their advent devotion was a selection of thoughts from members of the church. I love the thought of valuing communal expressions of faith in this way.  This alone prodded me to further investigate a church and denomination that I would knee-jerk say is not a good fit for me.

*Viewing their service online was initially a negative--too much Catholic PTSD.  However, I was encouraged that there were more bodies in these pews than in either of the other two downtown congregations on Church Street.  I'm not after a popularity contest, but I am interested in finding a congregation that is not breathing its last gasp or consumed with drumming up new members or fiancial congregatons.  I am looking for stable, established, living.  

To elaborate more---I am too weary and protective of my spirit to engage in an upstart, new church, dying church, mortally crippled church congregation.  And, I cannot imagine stepping into another Southern Baptist affiliated congregation, nor a Pentecostal denomination. Even "non-denominational" feels emotionally exhausting to me---because I've learned that this is a blanket term for many things. "Non-denominational" sounds like a great compromise and way to seek unity with the larger Church, but after being a part of a non-denominational church, I've learned it can mean too many things or nothing at all.  The categorization can be a way to hide from the negative baggage of the Baptist faith. It also usually means that the emphasis of that congregation will be determined by the pastor--or elders'--preferences. It may cast a broader net of congregants by nature, but in the end, someone or some group, healthy or unhealthy, is shaping the undergirder of that congregation. All things on earth are unstable, and all chuches are full of sinnners--this is Christianity 101--but I find that construct leaves too much undetermined and open to flux and error.

*Despite being turned off by watching a service, one morning I found myself visiting anyway.  It felt solid, safe, old, peaceful. I could relax and take in the organ prelude, the arches, the stained glass. I could feel anonymous enough--though among others--the congregation is large enough and formal enough that I could sit and take it all in without bracing myself for being welcomed and urged to attend a more intimate function.  I could be among others and yet self-contained mostly.

Since my first visit, I've developed other reasons to continue visiting--maybe I'll elaborate in another post as I try to sort it all out. Mainly though, I watch for "deal breakers" not "deal makers."  I realize it's an odd way to phrase it, but in my faith journey, I've learned from experience that it takes a long, long time to get to the middlish, not even bottom, of the spirit and outworking of a congregation and its staff.

Religious folks tend to pad up and compartmentalize themselves even to themselves. The healthier ones share some of their underbelly over time, but it takes time.  In fairness, I'm no different as a visiting congregant.  Admittedly, I'm polite but skittish.  I'm not staying for coffee after church. I'm not attending smaller or larger groups outside of the main worship service.

For now, it's enough.  It's an offering.  A step toward His bride. I'm not running away, but I'm not running toward either.

Prayer

 I just began reading Walk In Love: Episcopal Beliefs and Practices by Scott Gunn and Melody Wilson Shobe. So far, it seems a gentle, orderly approach to helping others known Christ and live out their lives in Him via the Episcopal faith.

A few days ago, I read the chapter on prayer. Part of my dissonance with my Catholic upbringing revolves around the formulaic prayers that I grew up with.  It felt like too much emptiness to recite big words over and over until I knew them so well that I could say each prayer without engaging my mind or heart within it.  Is this prayer?

And is the answer to this disconnection the types of freeform prayers characteristic of low church tradition?  These prayers may engage our minds more immediately but can also become empty pockets of flowery jargon without meaning. Such prayers can also center around our own perceptions and needs to the point where the prayer becomes more about the individual than God.

One thing I like about the book is that they connect their explanations of concepts back to what the Book of Common Prayer (BCP). Here is a difference from my Catholic experiene--there is no such book in the Catholic tradition.  Also, there is no such book in the low church tradition. In fact, it could be considered blasphemous.

The low church is great at putting the Bible on a pedestal then not wrestling with it and making too many pat assumptions about it says.  First, we have to read it.  

The high church is great at adding things on---like the BCP.  Episcopalians would respond that the majority of the BCP is scripture, which is a great point. Gunn and Wilson also point out that the BCP offers many variations on prayers and ways to celebrate while also offering a consistency and uniformity that unites us with the larger church.  

At this point, I believe these are sound arguments. The rhythm of a liturgical year feels healthy to understanding, inhabiting, and being mindful of Christ.  Although Paul states that Christians do not need to follow feast days and that all are equal in Christ, the intentionality of the Anglican approach and BCP appeal to the orderly thorough pieces of my spirit.

The Episcopal definition of prayer is beautiful and well-rounded, "responding to God by thought and by deeds, with or without words." This leaves the concept of prayer wide open--broader than pre-formed or free form prayers, spoken or internal words, it also embodies deeds, a concept that seems logical, instinctual, but also somewhat new to me.  Acting out my faith in deeds is not new, but praying through deeds, yes. 

Gunn and Wilson comment further that "an intimate, unbreakable connection exists between the words that we say in prayer and the things that we do in our daily lives." They reference the Latin phrase, "Lex orandi, lex credendi" which links prayer, belief, and action. Dipping into the history of that term, it's easy to quickly find oneself in deep waters. It's an old term which taps into the differences between Catholics and Anglicans and how these traditions view the primacy of scripture and the proper purpose and role of liturgy.

I appreciate having more to think about though.  I still don't know how to inhabit preformed words as I recite them congregationally, and I'm not sure if that is even the point.  I do see value in the act of prayer being interpreted in larger senses--prayer becoming an outworking of our faith, linked intimately to belief becoming action.

Visiting an Episcopal Congregation

 I've visited a downtown Episcopal congregation for two Sundays now.  I really couldn't tell you why I haven't returned yet to the Evangelical Lutheran congregation that I visited in early January--nothing specific pulled me away. 

Perhaps it is that the other congregation feels like a "start up," and instead of feeling energized by that newness, I feel exhausted by it. They were friendly and engaging, but I'm not sure how broad their vision is and I'm not sure that I want to be "known" quickly.

Coming from a Catholic background, I was concerned that I would have a form of religious PTSD when visiting a "high church." Instead, I find an unexpected peace in the familiarity of some aspects--kneeling for prayer, sharing peace with congregants.  The service is comforting in its structure. Looking around the sanctuary brings solidity, beauty, purpose. I find the details understated and quietly reassuring.

There are things that I don't understand fully or do well with nonetheless. The service moves back and forth between the congregational responses, hymns, and priestly duties. I'm often on the wrong page or the wrong book, shuffling back and forth between the hymnal and the Book of Common Prayer.  They recite things at a constant pace, and I long to enunciate, linger, and understand the words. After more than 25 years in the low church tradition, it can feel like "a lot" to take in.

But, I am trying. I am part of this group when I attend--I feel part of the congregation giving service to God, reciting time worn prayers, receiving communion.

I visited the church office on a whim this Tuesday with the thought of getting a parking pass.  The volunteer who was at the office desk was....a typical older volunteer. A little bit of a warm body, a little clueless, not especially tuned in or helpful.  But, the woman waiting behind me was more present and kind. I suppose the visit neither encouraged or discouraged me.

I think I will keep attending this church on Sundays, although I admit that I am not looking for quick relationship.  I would rather be quiet in a pew and slip out without having to face the mingling. I do like the thought that they gather for "formation" and share breakfast in the morning and coffee after church in the courtyard. It seems like a great way to encourage fellowship--just not there yet.

A Church Visit

This past Sunday, I attended my first physical church service in over two years after becoming estranged from our church home in the summer of 2020.  I remember sitting in the church parking lot, looking at the building and grounds from my van, marveling that this very familiar place would necessarily now become unfamilar again. We look with closer eyes in the beginning and end of things.

To clarify, I'm not a nominal Christian. All of the churches we've called home through the years matter deeply to me, which is why they became our homes in the first place and why we left each when we did. Each church marks a season and chapter in our lives and growth. I'm not a "church hopper"--way too methodical and committed for that.  But, I am a church nomad, sojourner of sorts. 

If my relationship with the church was a marriage, I'd be the person who had multiple marriages with the best intentions, but each marriage ending with a painful divorce.  At some point, the divorcee has got to wonder: Is it me? Am I the problem? Am I just not cut out for marriage?  Can I go through this all yet again in hope of finding the relationship I long for or are my expectations unrealistic?

Leaving a congregation is a weird uncomfortable thing. The decision is jarring and opens the doors for discouragement, disillusionment, and discombulation.  As a consistent church attender, it feels wrong to not be there on Sunday, rebellious. Such a choice also creates dissonance within--why did I choose to spend so many years there and invest so much of myself there?  I know that God sees it all and ordains it all, yet it always feels like I am abandoning the body and that somehow I have been less the follower than I should have been.

I've never articulated my full journey with the Church. To do so would  exhaust me, but it may be helpful for me to think through our relationship with each church piece-by-piece. Maybe it would help me gain perspective in a way that might help me not repeat mistakes. Was my membership at each church a mistake? I would categorically assert that no, none of the time I spent at each church was a mistake.  Yet it feels that way.  It feels like my expectations are too high, or that I don't seek my own faults in the relationship clearly, that someone must be wrong. God must find value and purpose in me struggling with these things and questions, but as my kids say "it's not my favorite."

Well, how did it feel to be back in a church service again?  It felt warm and familiar, yet not. I quickly recalled how uncomfortable is is to be "new" and not know the basics--where do I park, how do I get into the building, what will the service consist of, will I blend in or stick out? You have to be ready to have polite answers and a friendly face for anyone who may engage you.

In some ways visiting is refreshing after years of the same old same old congregation, building, and order of service. The visit comes with a sense of hope and potential, fresh eyes and new faces. But additionally, there is a sense of voyerism about the experience.  I am back in my van, so to speak, on the outside looking in.  Do I want "in"?  What would that be like?  Are the people I observe and meet friendly in authentic ways? Do they talk with each other and listen?

A heavily involved woman of the congregation came over and introduce herself to me. I already knew who she was because I've followed this congregation for awhile now online.  So now there is this weird sense that I have to pretend that I know less than I do.  She was great--friendly but not overly nosy, gave me some good general information that helped me know what to expect and offered connection points to consider. We talked polite surface things for a few minutes and then I was content to be alone again amid the gathering.

What did I already know about this church?  The pastor of this congregation was called out to start this church during Covid. This is part of what drew me to visit this church. I'd describe them as considerate and loving of others, respectful of Covid, traumatised by some of their prior experiences with congregations, liberal ideologically, open to His Spirit, well-intending as best as I can tell.  And as much as I don't want to be viewed as "broken or flawed," by the Church, intuitively, I find myself on guard because I know they carry some of the same wounds. Maybe we are all "the problem" after all. 

What am I hoping to find?  Community.  A place where I can seek God alongside others yet not be frustrated by cold hearts, selfish hearts, indifferent hearts, power structures that have an "us vs. them" mentality which I find rampant in both clergy and congregants.  How did we end up suspicious of each other, blaming each other, pointing fingers, misunderstanding? 

I am looking for a home where I can seek Christ, worship Christ, ask real questions and be heard. I also want friendships with Christians who long for the same.  I want to share my giftings and be enriched by other's giftings.  I want to have a Christian family that I can "do life" with. 

I am not naive or inexperienced. I do not expect a "perfect church," but I do expect one that values reading the scriptures, loving everyone, and one that desires deeper relationships with Christ and with each other.  I hope to avoid too many doctrines or practices that I know I can't get behind and must overlook. I've come more recently to the conviction that the Church spends too much time invested in their power structures and exclusions of women from particular roles and LGBTQ folks from all roles.

What should be the purpose of a congregation? Is it a structure that serves the larger community or the body? Is it a group of people that come together to sing about God and learn about salvation, morality, the Bible, tips for loving each other better?  Is it a place to give a good start to our children? How do we remember Jesus better through breaking bread every week?  Should the scriptures, bread, and congregational readings be the backbone of each service instead of anything the clergy might sermonize?  Is there any way to not go through motions, or do the motions have worth? What did Jesus speak against within the Jewish faith and how much of that should be applied to the Christian faith as well? What did Paul envision? What is God's ideal? Why does he continually allow us to make such a muck of things? Visiting a church stirs up and energizes these complicated questions. And at the end of the day, I don't know if I am making any progress in my understanding or chasing my tail. I do know it requires a certain piece of me.

My larger take aways from this church visit?  

It felt really good to be among other people who believe in Jesus and seek to follow him. 

I loved singing songs and experiencing the generally familiar rhythms of a church service.  

I found the congregation friendly with each other and friendly enough with me.  

I'm not sure if I will go back.  Not because of anything in them, but because of me.  I have church PTSD, a familiar malady I've experienced at other painful times in my faith journey.  I feel too vulnerable and cynical to engage beyond attending a weekly service.  Even that feels like a lot to process afterwards. 

And if I go back, inevitably, more people will politely engage me bit-by-bit.  I will feel more pressure to step in and give back. Next thing I'll know a decade will have passed, and I'll find myself wondering one day if I ever knew any of them very well at all. If I knew myself?  If it is me again, the problem.

As much as I want to belong to a local Christian body again, to feel "back in the fold," I'm not ready. It would be easier to check the box, warm the pew, and leave the questions behind, but it's not where I'm at. It's not an easy place to linger, but it feels real.

Why This Blog?

Most of my mornings begin with Bible and coffee. This blog forces me to slow down, to nail down the text and be precise in my processing and reflections. Admittedly, I'm prejudiced: I think everyone would benefit from beginning their morning with the Word. I was born a Catholic but became a Christian at age 23--not that the two are mutually exclusive but that was my path. Two decades later, my perspective continues to mature--through reading His Word, through His Spirit, through life losses and gains, everyday relationships and the relentless pressures of experience and time. I haven't figured it all out, nor do I expect to. In this world we are given a mere handful of fragments that allude to the greater context of our lives. All the same, they are precious fragments and worthy of our most earnest inquiry. The writings you'll find here usually start with the text then wander. They are not entirely my own. Instead, they are a mix of commentaries I'm pondering, pictures that engage me, and my certainly unpolished musings on this all. Also, I post here for my children. My parents left this world long before expected and left little to bridge the gap of their absence. This blog brings me a measure of certainty in uncertainty---to know that, like Hansel and Gretel, I've done my best to leave a trail of crumbs that lead back home, or at least not further away. I leave the blog public because we are all wandering in some sense, and I count it a privilege to come across other's crumb trails. Sometimes they point me home too.

Away from the Word and the Local Church

I have been away from some parts of my faith.

One part I've been away from is the daily discipline of reading God's Word. After approaching Bible study with tremendous intentionality and expectation for two decades, I've become burned out. Yeah, that's a weird place to be--especially considering how many people do not read their Bibles at all.

I actively began believing Jesus is God in my early 20's. After enduring a Catholic childhood with few functional examples of active faith, God felt distant if not unreal. If I am completely honest with myself, I have not released some of my hestitations in becoming a Christian--or perhaps I released them and found them again.  I'm not entirely sure.

As a Catholic child, I watched a lot of people going through the motions of their faith weekly. The motions are one of the most obvious aspects of the Catholicism. How can you attend a service weekly and miss this?  There are words to say at the right time, gestures, body postures.  There is a sense of needing to do things in the right way so as to do it right and blend in.  

In fairness, the Catholic church of my childhood was contemporary. The architecture and vibe of the church was new, not old.  The priests seemed friendly enough. Their educational programs were organized.  As churches go and as Catholic churches go, it was a good enough place.

There was some emphasis on the Bible---they gave each of us children one as we pursued our first communion and had our weekly CCD classes.  At 53, I just looked up CCD to find out what it means--Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. This case in point is what I experienced often as a young Catholic--terms that seemed far away and without context, motions that I went through.  I longed for real engagement. I think I got the morality clearly enough, but my understanding of God and His Church was limited and limiting.  That's primarily how I felt about it as best as I can recall.

It didn't help that my father was not a person of active faith, and that my mother's faith was as fragile as the rest of her.  My sister, who is ten years older than me, became a "born again Christian" as a young adult and pursued her faith as a Protestant.  I watched this from the sidelines with a good bit of skepticism. My parents didn't seem to be a big fan of it, and blamed it on her boyfriend, eventual husband.

I started this entry with the intention of exploring my relationship to the Bible and its connection to my faith journey, but like the magician's hat full of scarves, so much more spills out and who knows where the bottom lies?

I stepped away from my local non-denominational congregation in the summer of 2020 during Covid. For me, our church's approach to Covid strained and broke open cracks that were there long before then.  But, Covid pushed me to push upon them, ultimately revealing a brokeness underneath that was toxic disjointed leadership.  Yes, I do mean toxic.  

This after pursuing my local church community and life as forcefully and faithfully as God's Word. In my church journey, I've endured churches led by pastors with controlling egos and impure hearts.  I've witnessed a lack of humility in many and a tendency to lead a dual life. I've also endured lazy congregations that do not pursue an understanding of the Word at all--or, they do so in very literal, limited ways which doesn't allow for mystery and space.

I've been away from any church membership since the summer of 2020.  To this point, I truly have not been able to even think of returning.  The combination of my frustration with the local church combined with Covid and my Bible fatigue have led me to a long pause.

January 6th 2023

 George Herbert's poetry is lean and muscular, terse even. The sentence order is often inverted and the "thees, thous, and O's" separate me from his persona, so formal. Intense, reverant, heady, truthfilled, distant.

Francis Chan is another thing. Too presumptious in asserting that he understands his reader. I'm not sure he does. I'm sure he doesn't understand parts of me and my struggle with the Church.  Some of his assertions do resonate with me: his observation that I have become resigned to the current consumer mentality of church goers--true. 

I come with an oppositive perspective---want to belong to a Christian community to participate, belong, serve alongside others who are seeking God on earth, visible the invisible through our words, hands, hearts. 

Sitting in a sanctuary has never been my favorite.  Each service feels packed with mostly shallow connections between church members, the "club" mentality. In the "low church" environments I've known for almost three decades now, the preacher/speaker is the main event, the center point of the service.  His, and it's always been a "he" observations on the Word of God feel more about him trying to pull something out of the congregation. The better ones admit flaws and show a bit of his own struggle. But now am I people watching or worshipping? I'm not sure.

The Catholic services I attended for the first fifteen years of my life are a different thing altogether. The robes, hats, scarves, candles, pews, statues, and holy waters separate me instead of bringing me closer. I am other, separate, trying to draw near.  

I watched an Episcopal service last night, trying to enter in, seeing if I missed something in all of those years of putting in time at Catholic service. Here are my thoughts and questions:

Do I need to dress up to draw near to God? To worship Him? Is low church too casual? From everything I read about Jesus, I would conclude he'd say it's not relevant.  He dismissed handwashing and so many of the rites of the Pharisees.  High church feels like a resurrection of these things when Jesus said to let them go.

Why are there so many old people in high churches? Their congregations are typically half empty at least and 2/3rds of those in the pews are over 60 I'd say.  Where are the middle-aged? The youthful?  I see some children and teens coming and going through nursery or as helpers in the service. Are their parents involved? Earnest? Or are they going through motions out of duty or habit?

Why so much organ? What is the purpose of the book of common prayer? 

Observations:

From a 21st century perspective, it's laborious and creates a "people watching" event to have everyone come and kneel for communion.  If I did this every week, would it become tedious and distracting? If so, would this be a reflection of the state of my heart? Do the priests and highly involved members grow to love communion.

Why do so many of the clergy recite the common creeds and responses in a "priest voice" that again separates me from them. Their tone feels detached, disembodied. Repeating these words with everyone at a particular cadance, it's almost impossible for me to enter into them.  They fly away from me as they are spoken.  I  long to go back and ponder them if that's the point.  If the hope is not to think through them, then why are we doing this?  All of what Jesus said points away from rote recitation and relationship.

Thinking back to George Herbert's "Nature," I think the condition of my heart is similar but not similar to his own.  He describes his heart as rugged, rebellious, like a stone, and sapless. He feels that his soul could even bubble up and dissolve when exposed.  His struggle and plea to God to remake it or create a new one entirely resonates with me.  I hear King David's voice implore "Create in me a clean heart, renew a steadfast spirit in me."

It's comforting to be in good company. George Herbert and King David both sought to know God and be known by Him.

I would not say that my heart is firstmost rebellious though or a stone.  Instead, it feels weary, messy, hurt.  I want to protect my heart from "Christians" and clergy of all kinds who seem enveloped in empty motions or self-interest. I want none of that. 

Then I feel guilty for judging other hearts--clearly not my business according to the Jesus. Although David spoke often of his enemies, I don't want to put those in the sanctuary in that camp.  I'd rather avoid these people who seem to all have their own struggles with God. They are a discouragement to me because I see either emptiness, works, or them judging me back. Ugh. My instinct is to disengage so as to not become part of that problem at least.

But then, doesn't that leave me somewhat like the high clergy, semi-disembodied at times in voice, separate, distinct, definitely not feeling like part of a vibrant community or even functional one to lower the bar.