Why Am I an Episcopalian?

Two events put me on the road to joining the Episcopal Church. The first occurred in 1967 when my girlfriend, Sherry, and I entered an unlocked Church of Christ that we had never visited because it disagreed with our own Church of Christ over how many “cups” should be used in the weekly communion. We entered that church because I enjoyed seeing new churches and because it appeared to offer a quiet place to talk. Sadly, an angry man soon appeared, accused Sherry and me of “polluting the Lord’s House with lasciviousness,” and threatened to call the sheriff if we didn’t leave. 

A few weeks later, Sherry and I entered another empty church. It was an Episcopal Church, and I hadn’t seen anything so beautiful since attending a Catholic wedding at age six. Again, someone followed us in, only this time, the new arrival was the church’s priest who welcomed us warmly and told us to stay as long as we liked. These two experiences epitomize the difference between churches obsessed with sin and churches that focus upon love.
 
I look forward to church all week. In my imagination, I watch myself enter the sanctuary; remove my hat; dip my finger in holy water; make the sign of the cross; walk to my accustomed pew; bow to the altar; kneel; make the sign of the cross a second time; silently recite the Gloria, the Sanctus, the 23rd Psalm, the Apostles’ Creed, or another recitation; and make the sign of the cross a third time. As the organ booms and the procession makes its way to the altar, I stand and bow to the passing cross, and I am very happy.

Here are some of the scores of things that I love about the Episcopal Church: Liturgy; chanting; vestments; incense; confession; absolution; holy water; Paschal candles; participatory worship; holy oil; saints’ statues; kneeling rails; processional crosses; Midnight Mass; decorative altars; priestly blessings; seasonal colors; Holy Week; diverse beliefs; baptismal shells; ornate architecture; 33-bead rosaries; stained glass windows; the church calendar; the seven sacraments; the Book of Common Prayer; thousand year old music; marble baptismal fonts; palm crosses; ashes on my forehead; the consecration of the host; the blue sanctuary lamp; readings from the Bible and the Apocrypha; people who love the Episcopal Church as I do; words for the many objects employed in worship (e.g. stoup, thurible, aumbry, aspergillum, sanctus bells, and best of all, purificator); taking part in a beautifully written ancient ritual that unites a community of diverse people; the knowledge that this ritual is being repeated in Episcopal Churches all over the country, and, to a lesser extent, the worldwide Anglican Communion.

Despite my love for the Episcopal Church, I can no more assent to every catechismal claim than I can assent to every claim made by a political party. When I recite the creeds, I’m not expressing agreement but affiliation. Few people demand that the words to every poem and the lyrics to every song have rational justification, nor is that the spirit in which I approach worship. As the voices of the congregation unite in chanting the 1,300 year old Gloria or the even older Sanctus, I sometimes reach for my bandana while reflecting that the people who love these things are the people among whom I belong, if I belong anywhere. The Episcopal Church provides me with an experience of beauty and worship unrelated to rationality.

I am a Christian by culture and heredity. I have ancestors who were clergymen. A Cumberland Presbyterian minister on my mother’s side owned slaves, and an Episcopal ancestor on my father’s side built a chapel that still stands on his Virginia plantation. I now wish to enlarge upon some things I said in my last post... The people of my childhood believed that I too would preach, but doubts about God’s goodness—and later his existence—which started at age eleven only deepened. Yet, I continued to seek God through college courses in Bible and theology. I also sought God through hallucinogenics and by visiting over fifty Christian denominations, a Bahai temple, a Buddhist temple, a Quaker Meeting, two Jewish denominations, a Self-Realization Fellowship, a Hare Krishna farming commune, the massive Hare Krishna temple in West Virginia, and probably others. I accumulated religious institutions like movie cowboys accumulate notches on their six shooters, but never did I consider joining a non-Christian religion because, with the exception of an 18th century African grandmother, Christianity has been my heritage for the better part of 2,000 thousand years.

The Episcopal Church prides itself on an inclusivity that extends beyond external differences like race and income to include internal differences like disagreements over Scripture. The question then becomes where to draw the line? Would it not be hypocritical for the church to say, “We’re fine with you not believing in eternal hell, literal angels, the virgin birth, Christ’s miracles, and a blood atonement,  but if you want to worship with us, you must believe in the supernatural, although we can’t tell you what that means or prove to you that it exists.” Such a requirement would reduce the supernatural into a mere password that neither the church’s most prominent bishop of recent years, John Spong, nor its most prominent theologian, Marcus Borg, could in good conscience embrace. 

Over the years, I’ve told four Episcopal priests at two churches that I wanted to attend their church but that I saw no reason to believe in the supernatural. Three of the four said I was welcome to to participate fully regardless; one of them explaining his approval by saying that I wouldn’t want to come if God didn’t want me to be there. As seen from the inside, my desire to attend is so strong that it truly is reminiscent of the behavior of metal in the presence of a magnet. Of course, I would explain this by saying that my life goes better when I worship, and church is among the places that best elicits such a response.

I have been strongly drawn the Episcopal Church for 58-years, yet I have for the most part struggled against that desire, and it takes but little rejection on the part of churchgoers for me to stay home. The fourth priest was the first in whom I confided. Ted was his name (this was in 2012), and he was rector at St. Mary’s, my current church. After I had attended faithfully for months, he encouraged me to come in for a talk. As we spoke, I told him about my beliefs, and he suggested that I didn’t belong at St. Mary’s. On another occasion, a member in whom I confided said, “Given that you don’t believe in God, I don’t know why you’re here.” I attended another Episcopal Church for awhile, but my heart was at St. Mary’s, so when Ted retired after 29-years at St. Mary’s, I returned with the approval of the new priest, Bingham (Ted still lived nearby, but was housebound because his wife was ill).

However, I eventually fell prey to cognitive dissonance from aligning myself with an institution that, in my view, is founded upon mythology. After attending for the better part of a year, I left a second time. That was three years ago. Last winter, I found myself wanting to return but hesitated because of my poor track record. When Peggy received her cancer diagnosis in late May, I knew I wouldn’t survive her death without strong support, and that meant church. I now have two Episcopal friends (Tom and Bob) who have promised to support me should Peggy die, plus I attend an online support group through the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon. Cognitive dissonance no longer seems important.

After Ted’s wife died last year, he started attending church regularly. I wanted to make peace with him, but when he gave no indication of remembering me, I decided against talking to him about the past. However, I very much longed for reconciliation because Ted is more than one parishioner among many; his popularity is such that St. Mary’s named its dining room after him. More importantly, I wanted reconciliation for both our sakes. I quote from Matthew 5: 23-24:

“If you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.

During the weekly “Passing of the Peace,” people walk about shaking hands and wishing one another peace. Two Sundays ago, I spontaneously crossed from my side of the sanctuary to the side where Ted sits. By the time I reached him, the many people who wanted to shake his hand had left. I grasped his hand, looked him in the eye, and sincerely said, “Peace be unto you, Ted.” He returned the peace as I had given it. Last Sunday, I crossed the sanctuary again, and this time he greeted me with a priestly blessing. I took that to mean that he remembers me, and that he accepts my presence. 

I earlier mentioned another person in whom I had confided, one who said, “Given how you feel, I don’t know why you’re here.” I didn’t respond at the time because I interpreted her comment as a criticism rather than a question. I will now approach her words as though they were a question: (1) I attend the Episcopal Church because Anglicanism originated in the 1500s, and I am irresistibly attracted to institutions that are old and venerable; (2) I attend the Episcopal Church because it puts me in contact with the holy, by which I mean objects, places, creatures, and activities, that instill in me extraordinary feelings of acceptance, wholeness, and appreciation; (3) I attend the Episcopal Church because it values love, beauty, nobility, inclusivity, and compassion; (4) I attend the Episcopal Church because it offers a permanent source of community; (5) I attend the Episcopal Church for the numerous aesthetic reasons listed earlier; (6) I attend the Episcopal Church because it is the most liberal church that has maintained a strong connection to Christianity; and (7) I attend the Episcopal Church because it is among the few churches that welcome me without insisting that I change.