I remember back in 2003 when the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion were wrestling with the consecration of Gene Robinson as our communion's first openly LGBT bishop, hearing some sisters and brothers wistfully long for when the storm would be over and we could "get back to being the church."
I remember being both sympathetic and saddened by those longings.
Sympathetic because those moments in history we are thrown in the midst of the storm are disorienting, frightening and exhausting -- especially for those of us privileged not to live in the storm the rest of the time. Those moments are hard and require hard work from people whose lives are already pretty full of labor.
Sympathetic because I know the gravitational pull of church being a refuge from a world that is changing so quickly. A place to "be still and know that God is God" and to be about the work of prayer, worship & study and tending to one another as the gathered and beloved community. That idea of church as refuge can feel so holy, compelling and life-giving to us that outside events that disrupt can seem like a distraction from the work of the church.
Saddened because those very places of sympathy reveal how easy it is for all of us -- myself included -- to be tempted to a narrow view of who we are called to be as the church, and the great gift God gives us in those very events that disrupt so profoundly.
Saddened because I realized how easy it is for all of us -- myself included -- to be tempted into thinking and speaking in categories of "us/them" and "either/or" that never seemed to pass Jesus' lips.
Looking back over the past decade since that moment in time, I believe we as Christ Church Cathedral have much to be proud of in how we received and embraced the gift of that storm. We used it to build on a history of welcoming all to Christ's table and stepped forward to witness to Christ's love in new ways.
We witnessed to it within our doors -- asking the hard questions posed by our Oasis Affirmation of Welcome.
We witnessed to it outside our doors -- not shrinking from the platform it gave us to witness to the St. Louis region of our mission to "restore ALL people to unity with God and each other in Christ."
All people. No exceptions.
We experienced the deep truth that while we absolutely must be a place to "be still and know that God is God" and to be about the work of prayer, worship & study and tending to one another as the gathered and beloved community -- that alone that is a vision for the church that is lacking in breadth, depth and joy. Alone that is a vision that is not worthy of we who follow the one who gave himself for the life of the whole world.
All people. No exceptions.
In the past three weeks, I have felt a growing tension. Certainly I have felt it inside myself, and I have also heard it in conversations I have had with people in the Cathedral community.
As I came back from my vacation the day after Michael Brown was gunned down in Ferguson, I have been drawn not just to what was unfolding on the streets of that small community, but more deeply into the foundational rifts of race & class, power & privilege that have long festered throughout St. Louis.
At the same time, prayer, worship, study, fellowship and pastoral care of one another, stewardship of time, talent, treasure and the buildings we have been given -- all those things we traditionally see as "the work of the church" don't go on holiday.
I felt a growing tension inside myself as I tried to balance the two. I felt a growing tension in the Cathedral community as I had conversations with people who were expressing gratitude for the work being done in and about Ferguson and also those expressing concern that my focus was neglecting the care of the gathered community.
And the tension is all the more acute as I recognize deep truth in each voice.
And so as we prepare to welcome Bishop Robinson to Christ Church Cathedral later this month, I thought back to 2003 and realized that we are once again in the midst of a storm that is both challenge and gift. That our experience of that storm can inform God's call to us out of this one.
Christ Church Cathedral was a beacon of the Gospel for the past decade for full inclusion of LGBT persons in every level of church and society because for us this was not a political issue but an incarnational one. Our conviction that all God's children deserve a place to offer their gifts at the table regardless of sexual orientation is rooted in our deep knowledge of one another.
For the saints at Christ Church Cathedral, marriage equality is not a theological debating point ... it's an incarnational experience. It is the sacramental love of Shug and Doris, Ron and Don, Tom and Dennis, Betsy and Alicia and so many more.
We didn't and haven't taken a break from prayer, worship, study and tending to one another as the gathered beloved community to work for full inclusion of those among us who are LGBT both in our own community and in the world. Because that work out in the world has always been driven by that very work done within the community. Because justice is never merely an idea. True justice, lasting justice is always rooted in seeing the image of God on one another.
True justice, lasting justice is always rooted in not seeing "the other" or a "them" but seeing an ever-expanding "we."
Circumstance has put we in St. Louis in the center of a national conversation on race, class, power and privilege. And we have the opportunity to embrace this moment in time, the challenge and gift of this storm. But we are not faced with the choice of either witnessing for racial justice or doing "the (internal) work of the church."
The two are inseparable.
Today, as we did throughout the past decade, we can build on a history of welcoming all to Christ's table and step forward to witness to Christ's love in new ways. We can listen to the lived experience of the amazing saints of color in our own gathered and beloved community. We can together gather at the foot of the cross and pray, worship, study and build deeper and deeper relationships with one another -- particularly across those lines that divide us within our own body.
Then even as we are informed and converted by those relationships, we can go outside our doors -- not shrinking from the platform we are being given to witness to the St. Louis region of our mission to "restore ALL people to unity with God and each other in Christ."
We can, rooted in our incarnational knowledge of the deep beauty and worthiness of every image of God in human form, insist that no race or class be privileged over another, that all treat one another with love and equity, and that the current gaps in opportunity, education, economics and prosecution/incarceration be dismantled as unworthy of a city that wants to make glad God's heart.
The title of this blog is "Come Together" -- and we are being given an opportunity to do just that. But it will take all of us. It can't just be me or a few of us. It will take all of us praying, worshipping, studying, and reaching out in fellowship and care for one another. It will take all of us being converted by those relationships going out and building new relationships across the Delmar Divide and the many other divides that fracture us as a region.
57 years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King stood a few blocks from our Cathedral at the old Kiel Auditorium and, speaking of race relations in the United States said:
"We have come a long, long way, and we have a long, long way to go."
Those words remain true today. But perhaps the most important single word of that sentence is the first word -- we.
Together, we have come a long, long way. And together, we do have a long, long way to go.
And we will get there, together.
All people.
No exceptions.
I remember being both sympathetic and saddened by those longings.
Sympathetic because those moments in history we are thrown in the midst of the storm are disorienting, frightening and exhausting -- especially for those of us privileged not to live in the storm the rest of the time. Those moments are hard and require hard work from people whose lives are already pretty full of labor.
Sympathetic because I know the gravitational pull of church being a refuge from a world that is changing so quickly. A place to "be still and know that God is God" and to be about the work of prayer, worship & study and tending to one another as the gathered and beloved community. That idea of church as refuge can feel so holy, compelling and life-giving to us that outside events that disrupt can seem like a distraction from the work of the church.
Saddened because those very places of sympathy reveal how easy it is for all of us -- myself included -- to be tempted to a narrow view of who we are called to be as the church, and the great gift God gives us in those very events that disrupt so profoundly.
Saddened because I realized how easy it is for all of us -- myself included -- to be tempted into thinking and speaking in categories of "us/them" and "either/or" that never seemed to pass Jesus' lips.
Looking back over the past decade since that moment in time, I believe we as Christ Church Cathedral have much to be proud of in how we received and embraced the gift of that storm. We used it to build on a history of welcoming all to Christ's table and stepped forward to witness to Christ's love in new ways.
We witnessed to it within our doors -- asking the hard questions posed by our Oasis Affirmation of Welcome.
We witnessed to it outside our doors -- not shrinking from the platform it gave us to witness to the St. Louis region of our mission to "restore ALL people to unity with God and each other in Christ."
All people. No exceptions.
We experienced the deep truth that while we absolutely must be a place to "be still and know that God is God" and to be about the work of prayer, worship & study and tending to one another as the gathered and beloved community -- that alone that is a vision for the church that is lacking in breadth, depth and joy. Alone that is a vision that is not worthy of we who follow the one who gave himself for the life of the whole world.
All people. No exceptions.
In the past three weeks, I have felt a growing tension. Certainly I have felt it inside myself, and I have also heard it in conversations I have had with people in the Cathedral community.
As I came back from my vacation the day after Michael Brown was gunned down in Ferguson, I have been drawn not just to what was unfolding on the streets of that small community, but more deeply into the foundational rifts of race & class, power & privilege that have long festered throughout St. Louis.
At the same time, prayer, worship, study, fellowship and pastoral care of one another, stewardship of time, talent, treasure and the buildings we have been given -- all those things we traditionally see as "the work of the church" don't go on holiday.
I felt a growing tension inside myself as I tried to balance the two. I felt a growing tension in the Cathedral community as I had conversations with people who were expressing gratitude for the work being done in and about Ferguson and also those expressing concern that my focus was neglecting the care of the gathered community.
And the tension is all the more acute as I recognize deep truth in each voice.
And so as we prepare to welcome Bishop Robinson to Christ Church Cathedral later this month, I thought back to 2003 and realized that we are once again in the midst of a storm that is both challenge and gift. That our experience of that storm can inform God's call to us out of this one.
Christ Church Cathedral was a beacon of the Gospel for the past decade for full inclusion of LGBT persons in every level of church and society because for us this was not a political issue but an incarnational one. Our conviction that all God's children deserve a place to offer their gifts at the table regardless of sexual orientation is rooted in our deep knowledge of one another.
For the saints at Christ Church Cathedral, marriage equality is not a theological debating point ... it's an incarnational experience. It is the sacramental love of Shug and Doris, Ron and Don, Tom and Dennis, Betsy and Alicia and so many more.
We didn't and haven't taken a break from prayer, worship, study and tending to one another as the gathered beloved community to work for full inclusion of those among us who are LGBT both in our own community and in the world. Because that work out in the world has always been driven by that very work done within the community. Because justice is never merely an idea. True justice, lasting justice is always rooted in seeing the image of God on one another.
True justice, lasting justice is always rooted in not seeing "the other" or a "them" but seeing an ever-expanding "we."
Circumstance has put we in St. Louis in the center of a national conversation on race, class, power and privilege. And we have the opportunity to embrace this moment in time, the challenge and gift of this storm. But we are not faced with the choice of either witnessing for racial justice or doing "the (internal) work of the church."
The two are inseparable.
Today, as we did throughout the past decade, we can build on a history of welcoming all to Christ's table and step forward to witness to Christ's love in new ways. We can listen to the lived experience of the amazing saints of color in our own gathered and beloved community. We can together gather at the foot of the cross and pray, worship, study and build deeper and deeper relationships with one another -- particularly across those lines that divide us within our own body.
Then even as we are informed and converted by those relationships, we can go outside our doors -- not shrinking from the platform we are being given to witness to the St. Louis region of our mission to "restore ALL people to unity with God and each other in Christ."
We can, rooted in our incarnational knowledge of the deep beauty and worthiness of every image of God in human form, insist that no race or class be privileged over another, that all treat one another with love and equity, and that the current gaps in opportunity, education, economics and prosecution/incarceration be dismantled as unworthy of a city that wants to make glad God's heart.
The title of this blog is "Come Together" -- and we are being given an opportunity to do just that. But it will take all of us. It can't just be me or a few of us. It will take all of us praying, worshipping, studying, and reaching out in fellowship and care for one another. It will take all of us being converted by those relationships going out and building new relationships across the Delmar Divide and the many other divides that fracture us as a region.
57 years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King stood a few blocks from our Cathedral at the old Kiel Auditorium and, speaking of race relations in the United States said:
"We have come a long, long way, and we have a long, long way to go."
Those words remain true today. But perhaps the most important single word of that sentence is the first word -- we.
Together, we have come a long, long way. And together, we do have a long, long way to go.
And we will get there, together.
All people.
No exceptions.
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