Pope of the East Coast

Since nearly every Episcopalian I know is in Anaheim, California for the triennial General Convention I’ve decided to take over the church on the East Coast. So for the next few weeks things are going to look a little different around here. Consider this your insider’s guide to the mind of an ecclesiastical madman. Here we go:

1. My Title – ”Simple Country Parson” will no longer do. You will now refer to me as the Most Grand High Pope of the East Coast. The nice thing about this new moniker is that it rhymes (basically), gets to the heart of my new job description, and creates a simple yet easy-to-remember acronym that just rolls off the tongue: MGHPEC.

2. My Domain– I’ve taken over the Episcopal Church east of the Mississippi River. So everything from the river to the sea is my “see.” I look at my new territory as one giant mega-church where I’m the outlandishly paid Senior Pastor. (You should see the size of the collection plate I’ll be passing around on Sunday morning). I’m insisting on a 10% tithe from all of my subjects, I mean parishioners. Auditors are standing by to examine your most recent tax returns.

3. My Platform– Absolute conformity to my theological and liturgical whims. These may change on a weekly or seasonal basis so keep your eyes peeled for updates. You won’t actually receive any updates but you will nonetheless be expected to remain in sync with your MGHPEC.

4. Liturgical Dress– This is most important so pay attention. So there’s no confusion over who is lording what over whom (that would be me over you), my vestments will reflect my stature (in the church; not my actual height which isn’t important — 5′8″ is taller than it looks when you wear high heels). We’ll start with headgear. I won’t be wearing a miter so much as a replica of the Washington Monument. When I walk into my cathedral (which bears a striking resemblance to Giants Stadium) I don’t want to be mistaken for some measly acolyte. You won’t need to concern yourself with my other liturgical haberdashery since I will be carried into mass on a platform like the pharaoh.

5. My Polity– The church will be ruled by a top-down structure. I’m on top and everyone else is down below — which makes for a simple, easy-to-read flow chart. You may kiss my feet and/or you may kiss my ring (which is twice the size of the average Super Bowl ring). I keep it in my back pocket.

So those are some of the changes that will be implemented during General Convention. You may have thought that all the major decisions affecting the church were being made in Anaheim but this was mere propaganda. Come July 17th I may be your Pope-in-Exile. But until then I bid you to bow down and worship. Jesus, of course.

+Your Most Grand High Holiness+

The Magic (Episcopal) Kingdom

As many of my fellow Episcopalians prepare for the Church’s triennial General Convention in Anaheim this month, I thought it would be helpful to compare and contrast the convention experience with Disneyland. It’s my way of participating in the councils of the church as I promised in my ordination vow. Here goes:

 We’ll begin with the logos (that’s logos, not Logos for you Greek scholars). It’s unclear at this point whether there will be more fireworks at the convention or the park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can be assured that there will be plenty of characters in costume.

 

 

 

 

 

 Dumbo in absentia and Dumbo in situ (not to be confused with any elephants that may be in the room).

                                                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s always a bevvy of unique headgear.

                                                                                                       

Speeding Monorail versus priests striving to get on the fast-track to bishop.                                             And, finally, our respective patron saints:

                                                                              

If you’re a delegate, enjoy this year’s General Convention. And I certainly hope you fit in a trip to DisneyLand — it may help keep you grounded amid the hoopla.

When in the Course

If we had lost the Revolutionary War would we be suffering through “Tea Hour” rather than “Coffee Hour” after church? It makes me wonder. Actually the very thought makes me cringe. Chatting with parishioners over a cup of Sunday afternoon chamomile is sleep-inducing. But, fortunately, “God shed his grace on thee” and we won. Okay, that’s not quite how it went theologically. But it’s hard to imagine eating Shepherd’s Pie for Sunday brunch.

To mark this day I re-read the Declaration of Independence. It’s an amazing document, one that takes a prophetic stance on the issues of justice and human rights. We have yet to fully achieve the lofty ideals set forth, of course. But working toward helping everyone attain those “inalienable rights” endowed by our Creator is a worthy goal for all of us.

If we are all created equal by God, the deep disparity in how many of our brothers and sisters cannot adequately pursue “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” is a disgrace. So while it’s reasonable to celebrate our own independence on this day, it’s also important to remember in prayer those throughout the world who remain shackled by political, economic, and racial oppression. I encourage you to say a prayer before you eat one of the 150 million hot dogs that Americans will consume today.

And consider taking a gander at the Declaration — it never disappoints. Especially since it includes some great digs at the King of England. This document may well be the first recorded instance of “sticking it to the man.”

Riverside Redux

A few months ago I bloggedabout the controversy surrounding the new pastor at Riverside Church. The Rev. Brad Braxton had made the front page of the New York Post for commanding a $600,000 compensation package. Generally if a member of the clergy makes the Post, it’s not a good thing. You’ll never see “Holy Moly! Priest Preaches Brilliantly.” Rather it’s the holy trinity of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.

Anyway, it was announced yesterday that Braxton has resigned. To give the NY tabloids equal play, here’s a link to The Daily Newsarticle. It’s a sad day for a proud church, one that has been a leader in liberal Protestantism for generations. Besides being the tallest church building in America (I’ve always thought it looked a bit like Batman), Riverside’s pulpit has held Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Kofi Annan, and even Fidel Castro.

The church is clearly at a crossroads, as is liberal Protestantism in general. How to “compete” with evangelical mega-churches? How to get back to its social justice roots? How to be welcoming to people of different faith yet also be uniquely Christian?

Oh, and it turns out the compensation package was only $475,000 rather than the 600G initially reported. Excuse me while I go drool over the severance pay.

Gee, Mail

As part of our moving-to-Massachusetts deal with Ben we agreed to get him an e-mail address to keep in touch with his friends in Briarcliff. Do I really think a ten-year-old needs a Gmail account? No. But a promise is a promise so I set it up for him yesterday.

What took the most time was coming up with an address. He wanted “Yankees” in it, which made me cringe, but fortunately anything he came up with was already taken. That’s not entirely true — he could have had Yankees123456@gmail.com. That was available but fortunately even Ben realized it was a bit unwieldy. After trying countless combinations, I suggested incorporating “Schenck” into his address. Amazingly enough this isn’t the most popular word to use in an e-mail account. So he now has a functioning e-mail address. Ben is ready to roll on the information superhighway. Or at least e-mail his mother (which he’s already done three times).

If you think this is poor parenting, I must also confess I set up an account for Zack. What’s good for the goose, you know. I doubt there’s a whole lot of 8-year-old e-mail going back and forth around town. “Let’s meet at the playground at noon — ask your mom.” “Okay, sounds good. Go ask your mom.” But at least he can send messages to his brother

Ben’s now asking for an iPhone. But that’s where I draw the line. No BlackBerry or iPhone until you’re at least 11!

Iconography

ICON

If an icon is a window into the divine, it’s helpful to know the difference between the various types. The word “icon” (from the Greek eikon meaning holy image) has lost much of its meaning over the years. The Rev. Al  was quoted yesterday as saying, “Icon was only a fraction of what he [Michael Jackson] was.” I guess the same could be said of Jesus. Though, presumably, a much larger fraction.

CULTURAL ICON

COMPUTER ICON

On Air

I admit I like listening to sports talk radio. This feels like a confession because it’s pretty mindless stuff. It’s not as if I listen to it all day long — just in the car on short jaunts around town. And it’s also not as if I ever call in; I’m a “lurker” in internet parlance. But since sports is a passion of mine, why wouldn’t I enjoy listening to people talk about it? It sure beats political talk radio.

I’ve come to realize that I could never host a sports radio talk show because, well, I’m simply not opinionated enough. At least about sports. I mean, I love to follow my teams (Orioles, Ravens) and I care about what’s going on in the “wide world of sports.” I just don’t hold controversial, provocative, or ranting opinions about this stuff. Which is precisely what talk radio is all about (see Rush Limbaugh).

Actually now that I think about it, I did call a sports show once. When I was in sixth grade I called “Stan the Fan” in Baltimore to talk O’s baseball. I can’t remember what I said but I do recall being incredibly nervous as I got through (!) and waited on hold. But that was it; my radio debut was a one shot deal. I didn’t become a regular known as “Tim from Homeland.” But I’m sure my voice-cracking insights were profound.

I don’t think I’ll be starting an Episcopal Talk Radio show. Though there are plenty of controversial topics and ranting Episcopalians to go around. I’ll stick to listening to sports talk radio. After all, I’m always on the lookout for things to give up for Lent.

Enemy Territory

After we shared the news with Ben and Zack that we were moving to Hingham, Massachusetts this summer, they both promptly burst into tears and ran upstairs. When they came back down a few minutes later we shared some pictures of our new church and community. Then they had two urgent questions: “Is there little league baseball in Massachusetts?” and “Will we be the only Yankee fans in Hingham?”

The answer to the first question was a resounding “yes.” I’m mean, come on, it’s not like we were hauling them off to France. This was a great relief to them both. The next question was trickier because they may well be the only Yankee fans in Hingham, located in the heart of Red Sox Nation. If they plan on wearing Yankee shirts to school they may need to pack a little heat in their backpacks. But they seem undeterred. They’ve even announced that they want their  their new rooms painted with Yankee pinstripes. As an Oriole-loving Yankee hater myself, this is anathema. I hope they don’t expect me to be their personal Picasso.

Once the initial shock wore off, I’ve been very proud of how well the boys have taken the news. Yes, they will miss their friends but they’re also excited about our new adventure. It helps that the rectory is a mere 20-minute walk to the beach. But I think it also helps that Bryna and I have acknowledged their mixed emotions rather than stifling them. We have them too, after all. It’s difficult to say goodbye to so many people who have been such an important part of our lives over the past seven years.

I admit I’m worried that this move will cement their Yankee fandom forever. You might think being surrounded by rabid Red Sox fans would have the opposite effect but I know better. Moving from Baltimore to New York in 1982 made my loyalty to the Orioles even stronger. And one of the sweetest moments of my life was gloating to my Yankee-fan friends after the Orioles won the 1983 World Series. Of course this was the last time they appeared in a World Series (a long 26 years ago). So I’m afraid the boys’ love of the Yankees will become even more entrenched. Which, in my mind, puts me in the “lousy parent” category.

We’re heading up to Hingham on Sunday afternoon to show the boys around town, camp out at the rectory, and get them familiar with their new surroundings before our big move. They’re excited to see everything and I think it will help ease the transition for all of us. You can count on the fact that they’ll be wearing their Yankee shirts for the ride up.

School’s Out

Below is a column I wrote on summer church that appears in the current issue of The Living Church. I’m not positive but I would wager that Alice C0oper has never before been quoted in the publication’s 131 years. Enjoy (or not). But here it is:

GUEST COLUMN

JUNE 14, 2009 • The Living Church 23

Summer Lovin’

In 1972, punk-rocker Alice Cooper released his single, “School’s Out,” with the chorus “School’s out for the summer; school’s out for ever.” And for a generation, it was the last-day anthem of school kids everywhere. I certainly remember singing it with my middle-school friends as we raced triumphantly out of our final class with pencils and notebooks flying everywhere.

And then we all looked forward to a lazy summer with, as Alice puts it in his inimitable style, “no more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks, out for summer, out ’til fall, we might not go back at all.” That was back when the “lazy, hazy days of summer” still meant something. Before we started over-programming our children down to the precise moment each morning when we lather them up with sunscreen.

Unfortunately, some of us keep this “school’s out” mentality toward church. The “last day” often coincides with the parish picnic or Pentecost or some other year-end event. And we live into the old adage that says “Episcopalians are the only ones God trusts enough to take the summer off.” Which is, of course, absurd; a caricature of another era. A time when everyone who was anyone was an Episcopalian. And the moneyed classes left to summer (yes, it’s a verb in this case) on the Cape or the Vineyard or Bar Harbor.

Clergy often unwittingly feed into this mindset. And it’s because we could use a break! But canceling all programs during the summer, offering flat and uninspiring liturgies, and recycled sermons sends the wrong message. It puts the church on auto pilot, which is hardly an engaging way to proclaim the message of Jesus Christ. And it merely affirms people’s decision not to attend church during the summer.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. The summer months offer a wonderful opportunity to try out new things: Introduce some supplemental liturgical texts; hold a “Mass on the Grass” in the courtyard; let licensed lay preachers have a turn in the pulpit. And at the heart of this is the unstated declaration that the incarnational presence of the divine never ceases; that Jesus is with us everywhere and at all times. The summer is a wonderful chance to model this to the world.

That’s not to say there isn’t something nice about slipping into amore relaxed way of doing church once the vaunted “program year” ends. The ceiling fans are cranked up, leading to that low-level hum that pervades the silences; perhaps only two lessons instead of three are read; there’s lemonade available at coffee hour in a big, crystal punch bowl that someone’s grandmother donated decades ago; choir members confuse us by sitting in the pews rather than in the choir loft; when the rector genuflects, you occasionally catch a glimpse of bare leg which shocks you until you realize he’s wearing shorts under all those vestments. There’s a nice, gentle rhythm to summer worship. It’s just that gentle need not translate into uninspired.

The last few summers I’ve put up a bulletin board in the parish hall and encouraged parishioners to post church bulletins from far-flung locales. The purpose is twofold: to encourage folks to go to church when they’re away and to see literally how we spent our respective summer vacations. It’s proved pretty popular as we try to outdo one another with exotic destinations. The only requirement is that you actually attend the service. Sneaking into an empty church and snagging a bulletin from the previous Sunday decidedly does not count.

Enjoy church this summer at home and wherever your travels may take you. And remember that even though school may be “out for the summer,” church is not.

Our guest columnist is the Rev. Tim Schenck, rector of All Saints’ Church, Briarcliff Manor, N. Y., and the author of What Size are God’s Shoes: Kids, Chaos & the Spiritual Life.

No Ordinary Time

“There is No Ordinary Time” — this was the working title for my first (and as of yet only) book. It didn’t make it to publication, but I still love the title. It just works on multiple levels, especially for the liturgical church crowd. I thought of this since we’re now officially in Ordinary Time, that season after Pentecost that lasts until Advent. We’ll be seeing green for a looooooong time.

Of course it’s really a misnomer since there is no ordinary time — it’s all blessed by God and thus it’s all extraordinary time. In the introduction to “God’s Shoes” I wrote:

“I once saw a bumper sticker that read, “There is no secular world.” I’m not big on bumper sticker theology—“Honk if you love Jesus” and the like—but this proclamation said it all. There is no secular world. It is all sacred because God pervades everything. The divine presence weaves its way throughout our daily lives. God can be found in the miraculous and the mundane; in a family room fish tank, through a child’s probing questions, or at the town pool… I never did catch a glimpse of the driver with that bumper sticker. He or she turned off before I could peek into the window. But it doesn’t matter. We often see snippets of the truth on the highways and byways of life, just as we do in the midst of domestic chaos. We simply need to open our eyes to the possibilities.”

Happy Ordinary Time. Wake me up in December.