The Week of April 28, 2024

The great Anglican divine and poet George Herbert (1593-1633) penned the following poem about the Blessed Virgin Mary, called “Anagram.”

How well her name an Army doth present,
In whom the Lord of hosts did pitch his tent!

Short and succinct, it says so very much. It’s called “Anagram” because the word “Army” can be rearranged into the word “Mary.” One online analysis suggests that the power of Mary is like that of an army. So, army is “a reference to the vast number of people who have been saved through her intercession” (https://allpoetry.com/poem/8472553-Anagram-by-George-Herbert). Church tradition has been inclined to find a connection between the Ark of the Covenant in the Old Testament and Mary, a kind of “Ark” in the New Testament, for Mary bore the Son of God.

In the Anglican tradition (as in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions), we have a high view of the communion of saints. Not only do we believe that they exist in the nearer presence of God, but we pray for them; and they pray for us. Why should this be surprising? Wouldn’t we ask a dear friend to pray for us in a difficult moment? The communion of saints is bound up with us who are still in our earthly pilgrimage. And as the Theotokos (God-bearer) and Mother of God, Mary is known as the “queen of heaven.” Why would we not beseech the intercession of Mary?

Devotion to Mary has always had a place within the Anglican tradition, although it was somewhat suppressed in the immediate years following the English Reformation. Within the Anglo-Catholic tradition of Anglicanism, Mary has always been revered in various ways. The rosary is prayed in many churches. Statues of Mary can be found. Marian antiphons are included as part of worship. In fact, at Good Shepherd, we begin every Morning and Evening Prayer with a Marian devotion (either the Angelus or Regina coeli in Eastertide). Our Tower bells peal the typical series of bells (three sets of three, and then nine) as we recite these devotions. A plaque in our Tower entrance notes that an electric mechanism was installed at some point to ring the Angelus bells in memory of the Incarnation. (We’re currently trying to find a decent mechanism to play the Angelus bells after the original mechanism was removed a few years ago.) On a regular basis at Good Shepherd, our recitation of the Angelus reminds us of the tactile nature of the Incarnation. And this is only fitting, since Mary is the one “In whom the Lord of hosts did pitch his tent!”

At Good Shepherd, we have a beautiful Lady Chapel, in honor of Our Lady, with a lovely statue on the wall. A rack of votive candles (of the color blue, which is Mary’s color) stands in front, and at the end of some days, when I enter the church for the evening Office, I find that some unknown visitor has popped into the church and lit some candles, asking for Mary’s prayers. On the north side of the pulpit in the church, there is a Shrine to Our Lady of Walsingham, remembering the appearance of the Blessed Virgin Mary to a medieval nobleman in the 11th century at Walsingham in Norfolk, England. To this day, there is a shrine (jointly shared by Anglicans and Roman Catholics) in that little village. I have often imagined Mary’s persistent intercession (like an army!) anchoring Good Shepherd, Rosemont, in its roughest moments. The very invocation of her name has great power, as George Herbert so wisely noted.

May is traditionally the month of Mary. Flowers begin to bloom, and we get a taste and scent of new life springing up from the earth. We’re reminded of fertility and abundance. We can imagine that as Mary conceived a child by the power of the Holy Spirit in the most unexpected way, so new life springs among us in surprising ways. May is a time to celebrate Mary. It’s also a time to rejoice in the manifold ways in which God gives flourishing to our lives in times when they seem as dead as the cold of winter.

To celebrate the month of May and the Blessed Virgin Mary, we are hosting a special concert on Friday, May 3 at 7 p.m. in the church, featuring Ruth Cunningham, a marvelous musician who was a founding member of the famed women’s vocal ensemble Anonymous 4. Ruth, who sings ancient chants and improvises new ones, will sing and accompany herself on harp. For some of the chants, she will be joined by our own Robert McCormick on the organ in joint improvisations. You will not want to miss this concert! Not only will you hear glorious Marian music, but you will have a chance to make a donation to support the Rosemont Community Retreat House, which is a major outreach ministry of this parish. It is also a considerable source of revenue (through donations) that supports the overall ministry of Good Shepherd. To enable this ministry to flourish into the future through outreach into the community and wider Church, as well as to further the financial health of the parish, we need your support of the retreat house. And one way you can help is to attend next Friday’s concert. Even better, invite a friend. You can learn more about Ruth and hear her music-making by visiting her website. You can purchase a ticket to the concert online or at the door. The concert will also be livestreamed to Facebook and to our parish website. I hope to see you on Friday, May 3, but before then at church on Sunday!

O God, who by the Resurrection of thy Son, Jesus Christ, didst vouchsafe to give gladness unto the world; grant, we beseech thee, that we being holpen by the Virgin Mary his mother, may attain unto the joys of everlasting life, through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.                        

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of April 21, 2024

Over the Tower doors of the church building, there is a statue of Jesus the Good Shepherd. This shepherd looks young but reasonably confident. He seems to have a bag of provisions but no armor. The rescued sheep is carried on his shoulders, and in a beautiful, intimate gesture, the sheep’s head is craning towards the face of the Good Shepherd. This statue is a striking contrast to the image in the stained glass window over the West doors of the church, which features St. Michael the Archangel, armed for battle. There certainly is a place for such an image of protection, of Michael bravely battling the forces of evil. But in a violent world that is often hyper-defensive, I personally feel a greater draw to the image of Jesus the Good Shepherd.

For 130 years, the faithful have entered the doors of our parish church building where the statute of Jesus the Good Shepherd now stands (it was added some decades after the church was constructed). For 130 years on this site in Rosemont, sheep have ritually entered into the sheepfold. At times in our history, there has been division, deep challenges, and looming danger, but what has kept the sheepfold of our parish church in existence has been the indefatigable love of the Good Shepherd.

Have you noticed how, throughout Scripture, Jesus fails to get embroiled in others’ anxiety and conflict? Have you detected how non-anxious and non-defensive he is when confronted with accusations, snide questions, and even death? The statue of the Good Shepherd over the Tower doors to our church reminds us of the source of our strength, life, hope, and protection. That source is the life of prayer, offered to God the Father, in the Name of Jesus the Good Shepherd, by the power of the Holy Spirit. That prayer, anchored in God’s gracious providence, is the only thing that can explain the continuing existence of this parish church today.

The love of the Good Shepherd reminds us that no matter how much we stray or wander and no matter how much danger we face, our hope and strength are found in God alone. Indeed, the Church’s very unity will be found in heeding the voice of the Good Shepherd, and if we take St. John’s words seriously, we will likely be very surprised at those we encounter in the sheepfold of eternal life. Those numbers will be larger than we could ever have fathomed or, in our sinfulness, have wanted. We tune out the Good Shepherd’s voice when we get caught up in reactivity and anxiety. We heed his voice when we quiet our own voices and emotions to hear his gentle but confident voice calling, “Come and follow me.”

In my nearly four years as rector of this wonderful parish, I have seen a beautiful congregation of sheep forming and becoming one in love under the guidance of the Good Shepherd. When I arrived here in August of 2020, I could never have predicted that our little sheepfold would look like it does today. I am always surprised at those who decide to walk under the statue of the Good Shepherd and into this parish church, clearly following the voice of Jesus. In the wider Church’s current anxiety over decline, we forget that there is no quick-fix method of getting people through the gate into the sheepfold. Ultimately, that’s not really our job. The voice of the Good Shepherd is always calling them, but to walk through the gate, one must want to be found. Our Christian duty is to help others hear the Shepherd’s loving voice.

At Good Shepherd, Rosemont, in keeping with the spirit of the One for whom our parish is named, I pray that we can keep the gate for the sheep wide open. It’s not our job to be gatekeepers; only Jesus is the Gatekeeper. May we never forget what the voice of the Good Shepherd sounds like, and may we always strive for the selfless love that he models in his goodness.

This Sunday, Good Shepherd Sunday, we celebrate our Feast of Title. I hope to see you walking through the Tower doors, under the image of Jesus the Good Shepherd. Come to morning Mass and give thanks for being led by his voice to this parish and into the greater sheepfold of God. Then return for Choral Evensong and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at 3 p.m. Let’s celebrate the flourishing of this parish once again under the guidance of the One who never fails to lead us and stay with us even when the wolfs come. May Christ the Good Shepherd lead us and guide us home into the loving arms of God, who calls us each by name.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of April 14, 2024

If we were to adopt the geographical trajectory of St. Luke’s writings (his Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles), everything that happens before the resurrection of Jesus is intended to move towards Jerusalem. And afterwards, all action moves from Jerusalem to the ends of the earth. Thinking about this in terms of the Church year, much of our preparation moves towards Jerusalem. We consider Easter to be a high point, and we imagine the days following as anti-climactic, perhaps even less important. But there are many missed opportunities in such thinking.

There are forty days of Lent and fifty days of Easter. For fifty days (called the Great Fifty Days) the Paschal candle towers over all our prayer and worship in the church, reminding us that by the power of the resurrection, we are compelled to continue the trajectory of our discipleship to the ends of the earth, bringing the light of Christ into the darkest places of our communities and lives.

When looking at the register of services in our sacristy, I’d love to see those numbers skyrocket after Easter. I’d love to have my inbox full of messages from people wanting to know how they can use their unique gifts for the sake of the Gospel. I’d love to see parishioners inviting others (“from the ends of the earth”) to experience the transformation, joy, and power of the resurrection. The Great Fifty Days of Easter are a time for evangelism.

I wish evangelism were not a nasty word, but I understand why many balk at it. So much damage—mental, spiritual, and physical—has been done in the name of evangelism. But just because it has been hijacked by careless and irresponsible Christians doesn’t mean that it has no value. Indeed, all the more, it’s our bounden duty to reclaim evangelism from those who would use it violently.

We might imagine that the devil, in his chilling wiliness, laughs when Christians shy away from evangelism. This is exactly what evil would like: for a good thing gone wrong to lose its original power. But I haven’t given up hope that thoughtful and compassionate Christians will indeed rescue evangelism (which, after all, has to do with the good news) from its bondage to evil.

We are rather like those earliest disciples of Jesus who cowered in the upper room out of fear. They feared for their lives as ambassadors of the Gospel. It was far easier to stay locked behind closed doors rather than venturing bravely out into a dangerous world to announce good news. But we know that, with time, those disciples did venture out, some to their deaths in remote corners of the world, but all to plant communities of hope in a world just as broken as our own.

So, what can we do this Eastertide? First, we can show up on the first day of the week to share in the breaking of bread and in the prayers (see Acts 2:42). It’s helpful to remember that unless prevented by illness or exceptional circumstance, this means in the flesh, in person. There’s no more important thing we can do as Christians because this sacred action that has been the defining feature of the Church from the resurrection of Jesus reminds us that we need God and each other. Being together, in our bodies which will one day be raised by God, is what coaxes us out of our complacency and wears down the rough edges of our sinfulness. It’s what heals us. Second, we can recall that having broken bread and shared in the prayers with each other and possibly even with total strangers, we are commanded to move out through open (not locked) doors into a world that desperately needs our witness, perhaps quiet, perhaps bold. Two things are required of us: to break bread and say our prayers together and to be natural, sincere evangelists who live embodied lives that reflect our own inner transformation in the power of the Spirit.

Evangelism is not for a select few, such as the ordained or visible lay leaders. It’s for each of us. Eastertide is the season for us to celebrate that if we say we’re Christian, then we are to believe and act in hope. And such hope doesn’t allow us to give up on the world or the Church. It demands that we expect the Church to grow, not for the sake of numbers but for the sake—indeed for the salvation—of the world. And may the life-giving, transformative Gospel of which we are inheritors spread to the ends of the earth, not for the sake of human or ecclesial power but for the sake of love.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of April 7, 2024

It can be difficult to return to normal after Holy Week and Easter. For weeks, many of us have been preparing for the complex liturgies of the Triduum (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter). And there is a naturally felt movement to a climax in celebrating Easter with all its pomp and glory. It seems somewhat anti-climactic to return to “normal.” But Easter is only just beginning.

It’s wholly unfortunate that the Second Sunday of Easter is treated as “Low” Sunday. No Sunday is “Low,” and certainly no Sunday is unimportant. In fact, there may be no more important Sunday for keeping the momentum of Eastertide going than the Second Sunday of Easter. This Sunday, then, is the Sunday for launching us fully into the rest of the Great Fifty Days of Easter.

Historically, in the ancient Church, the Great Fifty Days was a time in which the newly-baptized were integrated into the life of the Church. Heretofore, they had only participated partially in the Sunday Masses as preparation for their baptism. But with their baptism at Easter, they were now members of Christ’s Body. Baptism was not an endpoint; it was a beginning. And so it is with all of us who have been baptized. Easter reminds us that our life and work in Christ are only just beginning.

Admittedly, around campus this week, things seems a bit quiet. It was a blessing to have guests with us in our retreat house for Holy Week and Easter, including our preacher for the Triduum, Mother Sarah Coakley, as well as Deacon Durango Jenkins, visiting from Virginia Theological Seminary. I’m grateful for their presence in enriching our liturgies. I also am deeply thankful for the hard work of our staff, choir, acolytes, lectors, those who assisted with retreat house hospitality, and all others who helped in various ways as we prepared for Holy Week and Easter.

For me, this past Holy Week and Easter were a glimpse into what Good Shepherd, as a parish, can be. We were able to celebrate last week’s important liturgies with three sacred ministers (priest, deacon, and subdeacon), a longstanding tradition at Good Shepherd but largely impossible these days because I’m the only cleric here. Attendance was better than it’s been in many years. The retreat house was full. And so the temptation is to feel a letdown after such excitement. But now, as we’re only beginning the Great Fifty Days of Easter, is a time to let that excitement propel us into our new future as a parish. What might this look like for us?

For some of you, perhaps it was your first Holy Week and Easter here. How were you changed? In what ways are you being called, like the early Church’s newly baptized, to use your gifts for ministry in building up the Body of Christ? For others, what dreams do you have for this parish, having witnessed it at “full steam”? What did the Holy Spirit teach us during Holy Week and Easter that beckons us into our new future at Good Shepherd? These are the questions that we are only beginning to explore as we approach the Second Sunday of Easter, not “Low” Sunday, but a Sunday that energizes us into the new creation that God is preparing for us.

Easter is a time of newness. But remember that when the Risen Christ appears to his disciples after his resurrection, he still bears the mark of his wounds. As we at Good Shepherd move into a new future, our wounds are not erased. We still bear them, but we and the wounds are changed. The wounds no longer define our identity. The resurrection means that Jesus was physically raised from the dead, as we, too, shall be, but it also means that life as we once knew it has changed. We’re living in a new reality. There are many weeks ahead in which we are being called to explore that new reality, intentionally, as we journey towards Pentecost. May this Eastertide be a blessing to you, and may you prayerfully discern how God is calling you to be a part of Good Shepherd’s newness as we daily rise from the dead to new life.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of March 31, 2024

As I write these words, we are (in linear time, at least) somewhere between Jesus’s betrayal and arrest and his crucifixion. As you read them, perhaps he is already on the cross. But, of course, we are in God’s time, not linear time. Every day, Jesus is crucified and every day he is risen, and yet for these Three Sacred Days of the Paschal Triduum, we try to enter God’s time and make some theological sense of what is happening.

The greatest temptation right now is to jump to Easter, so, now, I’m not writing with easy assurances of the Easter greeting. While we are always partially in Easter, but at this moment, we need to linger with the uncomfortable silence of the aftermath of Jesus’s death and his resting in the tomb. This is the space that most people wish to flee. The silence of our lives as we are with Jesus in the cold tomb causes all our unanswered questions, grief, pain, suffering, insecurity, anger, and envy to surface. But if we are to be redeemed, these things must come out. We must hand them over to God. And now is the time.

Every year, I find myself putting most other work on hold for a week or two as I finalize liturgy leaflets, write sermons, work on liturgical customaries, practice chanting, and ensure that all is in order for Holy Week services. While it may be tempting at times to imagine this as a waste of time, it is not. As I’ve said before, the liturgies of the Triduum are the earthly context in which we are “working out our own salvation with fear and trembling” (Philippians 2:12). And because I believe this is true, then all the time rehearsing with acolytes, printing leaflets, decorating the church, and attending the liturgies themselves is at the heart of who we are as people living in Christ.

I’m deeply grateful to all who are assisting with the liturgies of Holy Week and Easter: liturgical participants, Altar Guild, musicians, staff, and countless others who serve behind the scenes. Thank you. It’s a delight this year to have the Rev. Dr. Sarah Coakley with us as our guest preacher for the Triduum, as well as guests in our retreat house, who are spending this holy time with us. Thank you to those helping with retreat hospitality.

I pray that these Three Days may be a blessed gift in which you rush not to Easter too quickly but stay on the cross and then in the tomb for a time. God is there with you, as the poet Malcolm Guite says in a meditation on the Stations of the Cross, “on his knees” with you. And when we rush to the tomb on Easter morning, we bring all that has surfaced this week and let God take it and redeem it. I leave you with this poem by the late Anglican priest and poet R.S. Thomas:

The Answer

Not darkness but twilight
In which even the best
of minds must make its way
now. And slowly the questions
occur, vague but formidable
for all that. We pass our hands
over their surface like blind
men feeling for the mechanism
that will swing them aside. They
yield, but only to reform
as new problems; and one
does not even do that
but towers immovable
before us

Is there no way
of other thought of answering
its challenge? There is an anticipation
of it to the point of
dying. There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in a place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body.

(R.S. Thomas Collected Poems: 1945-1990, Phoenix Publishing, p. 359)

The Week of March 24, 2024

Were you there when they crucified my Lord? These are the opening words of the traditional Spiritual. Most people, thinking rationally and “remembering” past events as the English word “remember” suggests, would answer, “No; of course, not!” But as we begin Holy Week, and as we seek to reclaim a deeper way of remembering, the answer to the words of that Spiritual can only be, “Yes; of course, we were there!”

We were there when they nailed Jesus to the tree, when they laid him in the tomb, and when he was raised from the dead. To understand Holy Week, we must believe that we were there. During Holy Week, we enter kairos, or God’s time, which transcends human chronos time. Kairos time is a time in which remembrance is deep and participatory. Just as our Jewish friends engage in such deep remembering with the celebration of Passover, Christians do as well during this holiest of weeks. The grammar of remembrance defies the rules of the English language. Consider these words from the great Exsultet hymn in praise of the Paschal Candle, sung by the deacon at the Great Vigil of Easter: “This is the night, when you brought our fathers, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the Red Sea on dry land.” Such a mingling of tenses makes no sense unless we were there when God did all this. And Holy Week is when we remember, deeply and in a participatory way, that we were and we are and we always will be there at the heart of salvation.

If we pay attention to St. John’s Gospel, we will see that the evangelist invites us into a view of salvation that is partially realized. Salvation meets us here in the present, as well as in the future, and it’s also in our past, too. And if this is indeed true, then when we participate in the liturgies of Holy Week (and when we participate in any of the Church’s liturgies), we are truly participating in our own salvation. And so this means that in our longing for God to save us by making us whole, reconciling us to himself and to one another, there’s nothing more important that we can do than participate in the saving liturgies of the Church. Going to church, in this sense, matters greatly.

The drama of Holy Week all begins on Palm Sunday, when we face the glaring dissonance of human sin pitted against God’s salvation in Christ. If we are bothered by the celebration of the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, hailed by the fickle crowds as King, and the ensuing jeers of “Crucify him!”, then we have properly understood something of this liturgy’s purpose. It’s not meant to make sense. It’s meant to disturb us out of our complacency, as any recognition of sin should do. We hear for the first time during Holy Week an account of Jesus’s Passion, this year from Mark. Holy Week is not linear time but time in a spiral. We need to hear more than one account of Jesus’s Passion during this week to understand how salvation unfolds in the mystery of God’s time.

On Maundy Thursday, we begin to move out of our estrangement (only from our perspective, of course) from Christ through sin into fuller identification, first through the washing of feet, which embodies Christ’s command to selfless love and through sharing in the Eucharistic feast, as we remember its institution. But we are left at the end of the liturgy with a stark reminder of Christ’s abandonment in the stripping of the altar and in the lonely watch before the Blessed Sacrament as we “watch” with Christ in his prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing that we, like Jesus’s disciples, often struggle to watch with Christ. (Sign up here to watch after the Maundy Thursday liturgy.)

Good Friday is an oxymoron. We experience both the starkest liturgy of the Christian year (so stark, in fact, that it’s the only day where Mass is not celebrated) and also a profound identification with Christ as we move into our vocation as a priestly people. This occurs in the Solemn Collects, where we inhabit the place prepare for us by the Great High Priest, Jesus himself, interceding on behalf of the world. We hear St. John’s Passion account, and this is essential, for in it, we see that the cross is the moment of glory. Christ reigns from the tree, community is formed at the foot of the cross, and the whole world is being drawn to God the Father.

And then we finally arrive at the Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter. It is the Christian Passover. As we move out of the apophatic silence of Holy Saturday, everything becomes new: a new fire of Christ’s light, new water of baptism, and new Eucharistic bread and wine. We move from death into life. The First Mass of Easter is our first celebration of the hope of the resurrection and of what Christ has done for us. It’s the liturgy that acts out the upending of the world that occurs in the Gospel.

My understanding of the salvific character of the Holy Week liturgies is influenced largely by the scholarship of James Farwell in his book This Is the Night: Suffering, Salvation, and the Liturgies of Holy Week. I commend it to you. I can’t encourage you enough to attend all the liturgies of Holy Week. The Paschal Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter are one liturgy. If we long for salvation, these liturgies are essential to our Christian discipleship. If you need to take any days off from work, this is the week to do so.

Our guest preacher for the Paschal Triduum is the Rev. Dr. Sarah Coakley, former Norris-Hulse Professor of Divinity at the University of Cambridge. We will also be blessed to have a visiting deacon for the liturgies of the Triduum and Easter, the Rev. Durango Jenkins, a student at Virginia Theological Seminary, and this will allow us to celebrate these liturgies with three sacred ministers, a rare gift these days at Good Shepherd!

As we approach the saving liturgies of Holy Week, I pray that you may find the joy of God’s salvation, a salvation that can’t be separated from the suffering of our world. It’s a salvation that meets us in that suffering, and this is the good news of the Gospel, the greatest news of all.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of March 17, 2024

In a recent book I finished reading called The Way of Thomas Merton: A Prayer Journey through Lent, the author makes this insightful claim, reflecting on Merton’s approach to reading the Bible: “[T]he Bible must be read existentially. That is to say, in order to read the Bible at all is to read it as if one’s life depended on it, not as if the book were meant for someone else. The book’s meaning and value simply does not yield itself to a purely analytical or dispassionate reading. An ‘alienated reading,’ as Merton calls it, looks at the Bible as an artefact of the past or a species of antique theology. Neither reading is in sync with the book’s true organizing principle” (from Robert Inchausti, The Way of Thomas Merton: A Prayer Journey through Lent, London: SPCK, 2022, p. 89).

I’ve certainly found in my teaching that the Bible is often approached as an artifact, or at the very least, with some sense of separation, or “alienation” as Merton put it, between reader and text. I have come to diligently avoid Biblical commentaries that are dryer than a valley of bones and that miss the forest for the trees in interpreting a living Word that should put sinews and flesh on the dry bones of our lives. After all, the Letter to the Hebrews tells us that “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (4:12). Our modern mindsight too often wants to treat Scripture as an archaeological dig or an objective text mined for knowledge or, more usually, clues to be crudely used for salvation.

But historically, the Bible was read more imaginatively, and certainly more prayerfully than we are wont to do. Monks of old, who had few books in their libraries, would “chew” on the text slowly. This method of reading, often called lectio divina, involved a slow and prayerful reading of a Biblical text until some word or phrase would “light up.” The reader would then put the text aside and use said word or phrase as an impetus to prayer.

Another prayerful way of reading Scripture is Ignatian in character (inspired by Ignatius of Loyola). One puts oneself in the text, “as if you were there” when the action happened. The readers hears things, smells things, touches things, and is sensorily engaged with the text. One might be the woman at the well whom Jesus doesn’t condemn but looks upon in love. One might be Jonah, pouting under the bush. One might even be Judas, who betrays his Lord.

In the bimonthly Bible study that I lead at Bryn Mawr College, we attempt to read the text on various levels, but principally, in a spiritual fashion. And my experience has shown that most of the students are less interested in heady, academic “mining” of the text than they are in discerning how the text is speaking to their lives, right then and there. Such holy reading submits to the movement of the Holy Spirit.

The final spiritual practice of Lent named in the Invitation to a Holy Lent on Ash Wednesday is “reading and meditating on God’s holy Word” (BCP, p. 265). There are many ways to do this, some of which I’ve already enumerated. Praying the Daily Office of Morning and Evening Prayer is one of the best ways to swim in the sea of Scripture. The Daily Office regularly exposes us to more Scripture than we’d normally encounter in other liturgies. And obviously, we hear a lot of Scripture at Sunday Mass. But I want to suggest that the way we encounter Scripture liturgically is far different from a Bible study. In the liturgy, we don’t encounter Scripture with our heads buried in the text; we allow God’s Word to speak to our hearts through the ritual movement of our bodies and the shape of the liturgy. We listen. And when we listen—rather than read—we are impacted differently.

We will soon be entering into the holiest of weeks for Christians. In the liturgies of that week, we participate in the saving events of our salvation, and the use of Scripture in those liturgies is intended to convict, judge, and give hope to our mortal lives. Above all, this Word of God, which we hear all the time, is living and active. It gives meaning to our lives, past, present, and future. It’s one way in which God touches each of us personally. As we draw near to the cross and empty tomb, may God’s holy Word enliven your heart and your mind, and may you find in it, the risen Christ, who has already prepared a place for us in the heavens.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of March 10, 2024

This past week during our campus ministry’s Bible study at Bryn Mawr College, we discussed the “Parable of the Rich Fool” from Luke’s Gospel (12:13-21). If you recall, in this parable, a well-off man finds himself with an abundant harvest. Running out of room for storage, he decides to tear down the existing barns and build larger ones to store up his overflowing crop. At that very moment, God comes to him and says that he will die that night. The question is this: to whom will belong all that the rich man has amassed? Without knowing he would die (and perhaps imagining that he was invincible), the man has saved up his fortune for nothing. The moral of this parable is that there is judgment for those who are not “rich toward God.”

As we discussed this challenging parable at our Bible study, we explored what this might mean for us today. Does it mean that we shouldn’t prepare for our future through fiscal responsibility or savings? Are we not supposed to “store up” material things to provide for our children and relatives after we’re gone? We could ask question after question in this vein. But I don’t such questions are really what Jesus was after when he told this parable. I think that Jesus was speaking about a posture of abundance as opposed to a posture of scarcity. If you recall, the “rich fool” enters into a solipsistic dialogue with himself. He addresses his own soul in the dialogue. It’s a terribly self-centered conversation that he’s having. And God is the one who interrupts this self-centeredness with a stark reminder that the man is mortal and the world is larger than this man and his wealth.

My reading of this parable is that it’s not a question of preparing for the future or not. Of course, we should be sensible in preparing for our future, that of our loved ones, and yes, of the Church that will live on after we have died. Rather, the parable poses the questions of whether our preparations for future security are fear based and whether or not we are willing to give even more than we are willing to save. Jesus’s parable challenges our desire for security, which is usually material security or emotional security. We want to store up everything we can so that we can be happy. In short, if we see with the eyes of scarcity, it’s hard to trust God.

Trusting God is what the spiritual practice of self-denial is all about. Self-denial can look like any number of things, but ultimately, it’s about parting with what seems dearest to us in order to strengthen our reliance on God alone. In this sense, self-denial is quite similar to fasting. Fasting refers, particularly, to refraining from food or drink to remind ourselves that we don’t live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of God (Deuteronomy 8:3). Self-denial means that we refrain from doing something that pleases us in order to recall that it is indeed possible to survive (and even thrive!) without the thing that has taken hold of us. Self-denial is not masochism or deliberate torture of ourselves; there’s no edification in such practices. Instead, denying ourselves is instructive in forming our whole-hearted dependence on God alone.

Self-denial is the opposite of what the rich fool does. The rich fool is foolish because he things that material happiness is all there is to life. But with the mind of Christ, what seems foolish to the rich fool is wise, and the rich fool (wise by the world’s standards), is indeed foolish. Self-denial reaffirms our truest joy and spiritual fulfillment as coming from the One who is the Source of our life and strength: God.

There is a striking paradox in self-denial. The more we deny ourselves, the more we find our true selves, as we have been created and are loved by God. In self-denial, what we’re really denying is not our self but a self shaped by lies, which tell us that we need money, material things, success, affirmation (fill in the blank) in order to be fulfilled. When we deny ourselves—emptying ourselves so that God can fill us with his Spirit and life—we find who we really are in God.

What does self-denial look like, practically speaking? During a season of self-denial, such as Lent, it could be as simple as refraining from eating something that we rely too much on (e.g., sweets, desserts, chocolate are the typical Lenten ones). It could mean that we stop ordering all those things we don’t really need but which are readily accessible online (do we really need one more piece of clothing or that extra book?). Perhaps we give up practices that are spiritually harmful, such as gossiping or reveling in criticism of others, practices that perversely make us feel stronger through the denigration of others. Maybe we give up social media, because it has become an obsessive source of self-affirmation for us. Whatever we give up or deny ourselves, it should be something that hurts when we part with it. In that experience of loss, we will hopefully discover that we have gained something far better—an awareness of our true self as made in the image of God. Ultimately, we learn that in our fear, we can yet trust God to take care of us.

At its heart, self-denial means that we break the vicious cycle of turning inwards on ourselves. We enlarge our world to include, first of all, God, and then our neighbors and all of creation. Self-denial affirms our citizenship as members of the family of God. That is what Lent is all about: living more fully into the promises we made in baptism, or promises that were made on our behalf. And in doing so, we discover who we truly are.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of March 3, 2024

These days, we can have almost anything we want on demand. We can rent our favorite movie while staying in a hotel. We can order almost anything we need online. The world has become a vast marketplace. We are the consumers, and if we don’t find what we want, we will go or shop wherever we can.

But imagine for a minute that you’re in a situation where you can’t get what you want. Maybe your internet is down and you can’t order that book for your Kindle (since you just finished another book). Or you’re looking for a particular ingredient in the grocery store, but they’re out of stock. What do you do? These are privileged problems, but regardless, they teach us something. When we can’t get what we want on demand, we usually find ways to cope. Moreover, we might even realize that the things we so readily covet are actually inessential to our lives.

The spiritual practice of fasting is intended to teach us how to rely on God alone. “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD” (Deuteronomy 8:3). Fasting, in and of itself, is not utilitarian. It’s not intended to get something or achieve something, for that would defeat the purpose of fasting. Fasting opens interior space within us to make room for God. Fasting enables us to prioritize God over all other things. Fasting also reveals those dark things inside our souls that we paper over with possessions and habits. In his book A Celebration of Discipline, Richard Foster notes that “[w]e cover up what is inside us with food and other good things, but in fasting these things surface. If pride controls us, it will be revealed almost immediately. . . Anger, bitterness, jealousy, strife, fear—if they are within us, they will surface during fasting. At first we will rationalize that our anger is due to our hunger; then we will realize that we are angry because the spirit of anger is within us. We can rejoice in this knowledge because we know that healing is available through the power of Christ” (from A Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster, p. 55).

The Invitation to a Holy Lent, which we heard on Ash Wednesday, highlights fasting as an intentional practice of Lent. The point of fasting is not to earn points with God or fulfill an obligation. The point is to make room for God within our cluttered selves and amid a cluttered world. Ash Wednesday and Good Friday have traditionally been days of fasting, and our prayer book designates them as such. There are different types of fasts. One might choose a modified fast, where one full meal is consumed in a day, drinking only water throughout the day. If one does not have liturgical duties on either of those days or work obligations that could be impaired by a rigid fast, one might choose to eat nothing during the day. In any case, severe fasts must be taken with caution and preparation, especially if one has medical conditions that would make fasting physically dangerous.

There are also other kinds of fasts that are common in Lent. A longstanding custom within Anglo-Catholic circles (and still in Roman Catholic circles) is to avoid flesh meat on Fridays. A practice that is traditional throughout the year is to abstain from any food or drink (except water) at least an hour before consuming the Body and Blood of Christ at Mass. I recognize that we live in an age that tends to dismiss these practices as “old-fashioned,” but I believe that there is great merit in these spiritual practices. They all remind us that we don’t live by bread alone but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. St. Augustine of Hippo understood this when he observed that our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God. God alone can fill the empty void in our lives, and the spiritual practice of fasting helps us see that no amount of food or retail therapy can truly satisfy that void in our lives.

In a technological age, we might even benefit from digital fasts. How much time do we spend reaching for our smartphones when we have a minute to spare in the line at the grocery store or are bored? What if that minute was spent in prayer or in reminding ourselves of how much God is in love with each of us? Fasting can include so many things.

Whatever spiritual practices you’re considering this Lent, remember that they have one purpose alone: to open ourselves to God more fully. Practices will not win us favor; we have no need for that. We are already favored in God’s eyes. Practices will reveal our sinful proclivities and besetting sins more clearly. And at the end of the day, hopefully we will see that all of those things we think we so desperately need are just stale bread. What we truly need is the living word that comes from the mouth of God.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of February 25, 2024

Prayer may seem like the most obvious thing in the world to a person of faith, and yet it may seem, too, like the most difficult thing imaginable. In my experience, most people feel ill-equipped to pray, for whatever reason. They might simply have a narrow view of what prayer is. There is much worry about praying in the right way. And during difficult times, it may seem like there are no words for prayer.

Prayer is one of the spiritual practices named in the “Invitation to a Holy Lent,” which we heard on Ash Wednesday. Lent may be a season in which you’re feeling especially called to deepen your prayer life. It’s certainly a fitting season to focus on one’s prayer life. If much or all of your prayer happens in the context of public worship, Lent could be a time in which to explore “private” prayer (although prayer is never really private!). The good news is that there are many ways to pray. Prayer is less about getting it right than about being in conversation with God. And to learn how to pray, you have to start doing it.

But let’s say that you are struggling with how to pray. Our Lord himself offers direct advice: “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened” (Luke 11:9-10). If you are struggling to pray, begin by asking God for something! There’s certainly merit in being careful about trying to manipulate God through prayer (God doesn’t need it, and it’s not how prayer works). But this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t ask for things. Wise asking might not be as specific as “God, take away my cancer,” but rather, and still directly, “God, heal me.” Or “Lord, I’m deeply anxious; help me.” Name what is on your heart, but leave it open for God to work his inscrutable answer out in his own way. What seems like a scorpion to us, might, in fact, be an egg (again, see Luke 11:12). Of course, God already knows the secrets of our hearts, but when we ask God for something, we enter into a particular kind of relationship with God. In doing so, we are changed, and we begin to discover how we are inextricably bound to God and one another.

At Good Shepherd, our own witness to active prayer with words is the Daily Office. Monday through Friday, the Angelus bell rings and Morning Prayer is prayed at 9 a.m. and Evening Prayer at 5:30 p.m. Morning Prayer is also said on Saturdays. These services are livestreamed, and they last no more than thirty minutes. The Daily Office is not always “interesting.” It may, indeed, seem boring at times. The point of the Office is not to stimulate our feelings or emotions; the point of the Office is to live out a persistent witness to prayer. The Church, in the Daily Office, intercedes faithfully and almost perfunctorily (but no less effectively) for the world. In over three years of praying the Office here at Good Shepherd, I have seen many, many answers to prayers, usually surprising, “delayed,” and uncontrollable. It’s yet proof that God doesn’t operate as one of us in our finite sphere but with us and for us as the Source of all life and being. (For more on this, see a wonderful book by Mark McIntosh and Frank Griswold, Seeds of Faith, which we are using in our Pilgrims in Christ formation class.)

If, however, your prayer is full of words, consider praying silently by simply being in the presence of God. One of the best books I know on this is Into the Silent Land, by Martin Laird, a former neighbor of Good Shepherd and an Augustinian priest who teaches at Villanova University. And in our very midst, we have parishioner Donald McCown, who teaches about contemplative prayer professionally and leads a weekly Wednesday evening contemplative prayer group at Good Shepherd (7 p.m.). Maybe silent, wordless prayer is what is most enriching for you this Lent.

There are ample opportunities this Lent to explore prayer. Try a Daily Office or Stations of the Cross. Make the Mass weekly (if not more frequently) part of your life, even and especially when you don’t feel like going. Remember, prayer is not really about feelings. In particular, I draw your attention to “A Lenten Quiet Day of Visio Divina,” to be led by Donald McCown on Saturday, March 2, from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. and featuring liturgical art curated by Davis d’Ambly, a renowned liturgical artist and Friend of this parish. This Quiet Day will be a beautiful way to “enter into the silent land.”

As always, I’m available to discuss your life of prayer with you, and if you need further reading suggestions, I would be happy to help you as well. May this Lent be a time of knowing the Spirit, who, as St. Paul reminds us, is already praying within us.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of February 18, 2024

During this past week’s Ash Wednesday liturgy, I, as the Celebrant, invited the congregation to a holy Lent using a bidding found in the Book of Common Prayer. I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God's holy Word (p. 265). The Church’s long tradition highlights five spiritual practices for a holy Lent. For the next five weeks, I will focus on each of these five spiritual practices. My hope is that these practices will help you in your own Lenten journey.

Self-examination and repentance coexist as a unified practice, and you may very well associate this practice most specifically with Lent, however appropriate it may be throughout the Church year. But in reflecting on self-examination and repentance, I want to home in on Christ’s great gift of reconciliation. In the bosom of the Church, we encounter this gift in sacramental form in the Reconciliation of a Penitent (BCP, p. 447). This sacrament is sometimes called auricular or private confession (although it’s really not private since it involves two people gathered in the Name of Christ). And while a hearty embrace of this sacrament has yet to grow among Episcopalians and Anglicans, it has always been a part of our tradition. The earliest Anglican prayer books enjoined those troubled in conscience to unburden themselves through confession to a “wise and discerning priest.” But we Episcopalians have a superb gift in our very catholic prayer book, which offers two forms for the Reconciliation of a Penitent. These forms appear for the first time in the history of American prayer books with the book of 1979.

For those of us who grew up in the Roman Catholic tradition, and who perhaps had difficult experiences with sacramental confession, I invite you to reconsider the sacrament through an Anglican lens. I have always found the Anglican emphasis in sacramental confession to be on thanksgiving for God’s gift of forgiveness. Rather than requiring an “act of contrition” after God’s absolution has been declared, Anglican confessors will usually offer a prayer or psalm to pray as an act of thanksgiving for the freedom of forgiveness. Once God has forgiven, there’s nothing more we need to do except give thanks! Remember, we can’t earn our forgiveness, so our job is, after repentance, to accept it!

This weekly message is far too short for me to explicate the detailed practice of sacramental confession, but I know of no better resource to aid you in understanding it than Martin Smith’s excellent book Reconciliation: Preparing for Confession in the Episcopal Church. Martin Smith is an Episcopal priest and former monk of the Society of St. John the Evangelist. I encourage you to read his short, but profound book, to learn more about confession in the Anglican tradition.

As you may know, confession is available at any time by appointment. Simply email me to set up a time that is convenient for you. You may, admittedly, have some reservations in confessing to your parish priest. Many do, but it’s a most common practice. And I must assure you that the seal of the confessional is morally absolutely. The confessional is perhaps the most vulnerable place on earth, and any responsible confessor will treat it as such, which means respecting the sincere faith required of anyone making a private confession. And any responsible confessor will also be making her or his own regular confession. Otherwise, she or he is in grave spiritual danger of succumbing to pride (wise advice learned from a former parish priest of mine).

Although the Anglican adage about confession has always been, “all may, some should, none must,” I think that the sacrament is a beautiful gift that would benefit all of us. The purpose of sacramental confession is not to fulfill an obligation or rule but to find God’s healing grace at work in our lives. For some who are easily troubled in conscience, the act of naming sins and hearing audible words of forgiveness is a tangible/visible sign of God’s grace of forgiveness. I can’t imagine that anyone wouldn’t benefit from this.

But perhaps most importantly, I know from my own personal experience that letting go is one of the most difficult things to do. It’s so easy to hang on to resentments, anger, jealousy. . you fill in the blank. . . because they give us the illusion of power and control. And although we endeavor to hold ourselves accountable for our sins, it’s usually best if someone else helps us. A thorough self-examination for sacramental confession is much more effective than anything we can do in the five seconds before a “general confession” during Mass. In the Sacrament of Reconciliation, the Church, represented by a priest (who is also a sinner), holds us accountable to our baptismal vows. The counsel of a wise priest is also important. Sometimes, we are confused about what is a sin and what is not. A confessor can be helpful here.

I’ve said before that I think most people are more than aware of their sins and shortcomings. And yet, awareness doesn’t always equate with full repentance. It certainly doesn’t equate with the freedom of healing found in experiencing God’s gift of forgiveness. If you are being held hostage to some spiritual darkness that won’t let you go, sacramental confession will help you.

The paschal mystery which underlies all our Lenten preparation for the mystery of Easter is about dying to old life and rising to a new one. This is at the heart of the resurrection. It’s at the heart of reconciliation. If you are burdened by something you’re holding on to, and if you need to experience the marvelous power of freedom from sin, sacramental confession is God’s gift to us in this life to enable it to happen. Avail yourself of it. May this Lent be for you a time of release, in which the risen Christ helps you move from Egypt into the Promised Land.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of February 11, 2024

As we mark the beginning of the season of Lent this year with the observance of Ash Wednesday, we find a peculiar intersection of the secular calendar with the Church’s calendar. Ash Wednesday falls on Valentine’s Day. Ash Wednesday is a day of fasting and self-denial by the Church’s reckoning; Valentine’s Day is a day for chocolates and fancy meals with those we love. We are faced with a choice on February 14. Can we honor both? Or is this odd calendrical moment an opportunity to embrace some of the depth of Lent?

It’s easy to blindly associate Lent with self-examination, penitence, and repentance. And while such themes are prominent ones during Lent, they don’t offer, alone, the fullest picture of Lent. The Book of Common Prayer liturgy for Ash Wednesday contains a bidding that the priest says to the congregation, which is known as “An Invitation to a Holy Lent.” The bidding explains the traditional purpose of Lent, and while penitence, fasting, and self-discipline figure into it, they are not ends in themselves. They are practices by which the soul is opened up to God’s abundant grace that enables us to be reconciled with God and one another. Historically, during Lent, catechumens were prepared for baptism at the Great Vigil of Easter. And notorious sinners who had been separated from the Body of Christ were again reconciled to the Church.

I’m suggesting that Lent is not only about sin; it’s about love, too. It’s about the infinite, incomprehensible love of our God, who looks with great delight on a Church that, year after year, shows up on Ash Wednesday to say, “we’ve messed up. . .again. But we long to be in right relationship. . . again.” On Ash Wednesday, several of the appointed readings will remind us of a stubborn Scriptural refrain: “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger and of great kindness” (Psalm 103:8). This is how God’s love manifests itself. Lent is all about love, not greeting cards or emojis or balloons, but Love itself, who never gives up on us.

The great paradox of Lent is that in temporarily parting with things that are dear to us, we understand what should be dear to us. In meditating on the cost of the greatest act of love the world has ever known, we find the cross-shaped freedom of life in Christ, which alone can bring us fullness of life. On Ash Wednesday, we’re also reminded that from dust we came and unto dust we shall return. Oddly enough, this is both a recognition of our mortality and also a reminder that God “hate[s] nothing [he] has made,” as the Ash Wednesday collect tells us. We are dust and more than just dust, because God will one day raise that dust to new life in Christ.

I encourage you to embrace this Lent as an extraordinary gift. It’s a period of time in which we can reevaluate what rules us: our “loves” or true Love itself. It’s a season to put aside estrangements of any sort and find reconciliation. It’s a time not to take ourselves too seriously and yet to savor how seriously God is invested in our well-being. It’s a time to find the joy of our baptismal call to life in Christ, which can only be found—again, paradoxically—by dying to self.

If I could make one gentle suggestion, it would be this: a nice dinner out is a feast that can be easily transferred, but Ash Wednesday comes once a year. We live in a chaotic world, but the Church’s calendar gives us helpful markers to order our lives. Observing Ash Wednesday is such a marker that gives definition and solidity to our Lenten intentions. Whatever your plans may be on Ash Wednesday, you will have two opportunities to mark the beginning of a holy Lent at Good Shepherd: 8 a.m. Low (Said) Mass and 7 p.m. Sung Mass. If neither of those works for you, please find a church near your office or somewhere else that has a scheduled Ash Wednesday service that you can attend. We lose much of the richness of the salvific nature of the Church’s liturgies if we only confine our attendance to Sundays.

I suspect that most of us are painfully aware of our shortcomings, although a purposeful self-examination is crucial to being fully honest with ourselves and God. But I suspect that many of us struggle with accepting God’s infinite love for us. This may very well be the best reason to attend Mass on Ash Wednesday: to be reminded, amid our acknowledged frailty, that God desires nothing less for us than to be reconciled with him and all of creation. For God is the one who is perfectly compassionate and merciful, and infinitely patient. And Lent is all about love.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of February 4, 2024

The second chapter of the Revelation to John begins thus: “To the angel of the church in Ephesus write: These are the words of him who holds the seven stars in his right hand, who walks among the seven golden lampstands: I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance. I know that you cannot tolerate evildoers; you have tested those who claim to be apostles but are not, and have found them to be false. I also know that you are enduring patiently and bearing up for the sake of my name, and that you have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first” (Rev. 2:1-4). You have abandoned the love you had at first. These are chilling words. The accusation is that, despite perseverance and spiritual zealousness, love has been lost. The Ephesians have lost their way. And how easily we, too, can lose our way and abandon the love we once had.

We might frequently ask what we can offer the Church, but what if we asked, conversely, what the Church can offer us? When the Church is at her best, I’m convinced that she helps us reacquaint ourselves with that first love. What is that first love? Theologically speaking, it could be found in the innocence and joy before the Fall when God and humanity walked together blissfully in the Garden and delighted in one another. It can be found in the time before Cain murdered Abel, when we weren’t so envious of one another and so afraid. But that first love is somewhere, too, in the background of our lives. Was it the love in the first part of a relationship? Was it a love in the freedom of play as a child? Was it the ardor of first finding Christ in your life before that became tired for you? Was it the joy of learning a new instrument for the first time? I imagine that we can all think of first loves.

The shadow side of devotion and faithfulness in the spiritual life is that they can easily grow cold. The initial fervor of returning to church after some time away can dissipate after the honeymoon. And for those who’ve never spent any time away, perhaps that first love of the mystery of faith has settled into a numb dullness. It seems that with the Ephesians, perseverance and zeal to a cause had become bland works without any spirit of delight in God. This is often where religion goes wrong. It goes wrong when our intolerance for “evildoers” becomes the foundation of our spiritual practice and masquerades as faithfulness but perpetuates anger. It goes wrong when we simply go through the motions “just because we’re supposed to” even though we have stopped longing to experience joy. It goes wrong when our reactivity against a culture that we perceive to be persecuting us is the dynamism of our “faithfulness” but there is no compassion for those who’ve lost their way.

Every day as the sun rises we have an opportunity to reclaim the love we had at first. It may be as simple as a prayer to God to help us to embrace that first love. And though the Church gives us many things (even as we can give much to the Church), what the Church can give us amid so much pain, loneliness, and listlessness, is a place to find our first love. This, I think, is at the heart of worship. It’s not difficult to find reasons to stay away from church. If we’re looking for them, we can certainly find them. But of all the promises made by other things to give us delight and joy, the truest joy of all—our first love—is found in the bosom of the Church.

And why? Because when we lose ourselves in worship in the context of a community of the faithful, we find our truest selves. We find that first love, embodied in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Worship at its best is an expression of that first love. When we worship, we should have no agenda except to be with God and to delight in God’s abiding presence. There is no ulterior motive to worship; it’s pure, unadulterated delight in God and in the fellowship of one another. No other place in the world can offer this in the same way.

If you’re lonely or aching or in a place of spiritual aridity, the Church is a place where you can recover your first love. If you’re confused or uncertain, the Church may not give you tidy answers, but she will embrace you in the arms of love. If you’re weary of the changes and chances of the world in which we live, the Church will not eliminate your problems but will give you the constancy of Christ’s love and the comfort of the Holy Spirit.

At Good Shepherd, I see glimpses of this first love in so many ways: in your faces as you sing the great hymns of faith, when we all face East and profess our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed, in the happy children playing in the children’s corner and running up to Communion, in the utter delight of coffee hour and parish potlucks, and in the care and concern you have for one another. Hang on to these glimpses of the first love. And keep coming back time and again to the Source of that love, the God who always draws us into his open arms.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of January 28, 2024

When I was a child, my family would occasionally gather in the living room to watch old reels of family movies projected onto the wall (I’m showing my age!). Those were always bonding moments when we could relive significant moments as a family and bask in that connectedness. Our annual parish meeting is rather like watching a video of the past year. It’s an opportunity to glance back at the previous year and celebrate all that God has done among us.

Perhaps family meetings don’t always summon the most positive of feelings. Maybe you associate them with resolving problems or needing to hash something out. In the case of our parish “family meeting” (i.e., our annual parish meeting), such is not the case! Our parish bylaws state that a business meeting must be held each year, and we typically do so at the end of January. This Sunday, January 28, we will hold our annual parish meeting after Sung Mass.

I hope you will attend. As I’ve been saying in the announcements at Mass, the annual meeting is really a joyous occasion. While there is some business to conduct, the meeting is primarily an opportunity for us to gather as a parish family for conversation, reflecting on the joys and challenges of the past year and looking ahead with hope to a new year. We will elect new members of the parish vestry (the governing board of the parish that holds fiduciary responsibility). We will also elect lay delegates to the annual diocesan convention, as well as lay delegates to local deanery meetings (a deanery is a geographical collection of parishes within the diocese).

But what is most exciting to me about the annual meeting is rejoicing in how God has been vividly at work at Good Shepherd in 2023. I strongly urge you to read our annual parish report, which has been the collaborative effort of staff and those in leadership positions. Reading this report is like watching a video of the past year at Good Shepherd. So much has happened, thanks to the marvelous grace of God and the faithfulness of so many people.

If you are an eligible voter, please review the biographical information about candidates for the elections at the meeting. Elections are not contested, but your vote is essential. If you are not an eligible voter, I do hope you will still come to the meeting. This meeting is for everyone. And the annual meeting is about far more than elections. Your presence is crucial as we move forward in ministry together. Our parish meeting is really a loving conversation.

Although I have offered a written report in the annual report, I will offer additional reflections at the parish meeting, and you will also hear from others in leadership. Brett Hart, the parish treasurer, will give a summary of our financial situation and introduce the vestry-approved 2024 budget, also found in the annual report. You will get the most out of the meeting if you are able to review materials ahead of time. There will be time for your questions as well.

The meeting will be held in the church, so if you’re attending Sung Mass, please hang around, and vestry members will distribute materials for the meeting. If you normally attend the 8 a.m. Low Mass, I hope you will come back for the annual meeting. Lunch will follow the meeting in the retreat house (thanks to Jack and Jeannette Burnam), and this will be yet another opportunity to engage in fellowship with one another. Additionally, Jonathan Adams, one of our parishioners, will be present with a laptop to assist each of you in updating your contact and personal information in Realm, our parish database. Please do this sometime over lunch or before you leave for the day!

I have said more about this in my rector’s report, but I’ll say it again: each of you is integral to the growth and health of Good Shepherd. No one is exempt from this! We’ve all been given specific gifts for ministry by God, and this parish (and the wider Church) is not what it can be without your gifts and presence. I’m looking forward to seeing you on Sunday!

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of January 21, 2024

As I have gotten older, I have begun to pay closer attention to people and occurrences in my life. I have come to believe that if I’m actively at prayer, then my spiritual perception is somehow being heightened by God. There is not always a direct correlation between a specific prayer and an ensuing connection with a person or event. Rather, prayer serves as a general spiritual foundation for making wise, godly decisions. For this reason, I increasingly pay attention to what is happening around me, because often, God is speaking to me through people and what those outside the Church call “coincidences.” Sometimes, what God is saying to us at first seems like a challenge or an obstacle. Patience and perseverance can shift the narrative to see that what once seemed to be a difficulty is actually an opportunity.

As many of you know, in 2016, Good Shepherd began renting space in the Parish House (the building that faces Lancaster Avenue and that borders the circle drive in front of the church) to the Six:Eight Vineyard Church. In 2019, the lease with Six:Eight was extended and expanded to include rental of the entire Parish House. This meant that Good Shepherd had to vacate its parish offices, formation rooms, and fellowship space (Kemper Hall). When I arrived as rector in 2020, we moved the parish offices to the former rectory (now the retreat house), and since then, we have used the retreat house for office space (including my office) and children’s and adult formation. It’s also where we hold Sunday coffee hour most of the year. If you’ve been to coffee hour and fellowship events recently (or attended last year’s annual parish meeting), you will know that we’re outgrowing the retreat house space for parish events. This is a good problem to have!

Last month, Six:Eight Vineyard Church notified us that they would not be extending their lease in the Parish House (the lease offered an option of renewing for another three years). Sadly, Six:Eight has closed its doors, so I ask that you please pray for that congregation’s former members as they try to find new spiritual homes. Although Six:Eight has already held its final service, our lease with the church does not officially end until May 31, 2024.

Since we received notice from Six:Eight last month, I have been praying about this situation, and the vestry and I have talked a lot about it. We are discerning how to secure new rental partners for the Parish House so that we can continue to receive needed rental revenue to support ministry at Good Shepherd. At first glance, this moment in time can seem like a formidable challenge. Having to secure new rental partners and determining the best means to do so are not easy tasks. And yet, I also believe that God is calling us to embrace this challenge as a great opportunity. Many parishes these days see their ageing, large buildings as albatrosses hanging around their necks. But at Good Shepherd, we have (at least, recently) treated our buildings as incredible resources. Once property is sold, it can never be recovered, and thank goodness, during its difficult years, Good Shepherd didn’t choose to sell any buildings on the campus. Looking at our property with Gospel eyes, we can more easily realize that God has given us a marvelous gift of space to steward and use for ministry and mission. So, the question now is, how will we do so?

At our parish annual meeting on January 28, you will hear more about plans for the Parish House space. At the moment, we intend to move our parish offices and formation rooms back to the Parish House after May 31. This means that three additional guestrooms will open in the retreat house. The larger question for the Parish House is how the remainder of the space will be used for ministry and mission. This is the work of prayerful discernment. And because, by canon law, our church property legally belongs to the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania (for whom we hold it in trust), any long-term rental arrangements in the Parish House will need to be vetted and approved by the offices of the diocese.

The availability of the Parish House space for us at this moment in our life together is not insignificant. As we’ve continued to grow, we’ve begun to imagine what we could do with such beautiful space for the parish’s ongoing visioning for ministry. God is speaking to us through the events of the past month or so. God will continue to communicate with us. Your prayers, your attention, and your spiritual awareness are needed to support the work of the vestry and me in this time of discernment. I hope you will plan to be present at the annual meeting on Sunday, January 28 after Sung Mass to hear more about how you can be a part of our prayerful discernment of the future of ministry at Good Shepherd.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of January 14, 2024

It’s not uncommon within parish ministry transitions for music to be the vehicle of stability. I know of many parishes that experienced conflict or difficult clergy transitions in which the music ministry and its musician leader were the primary sources of stability. Yes, God was at work, guiding it all, but God was doing so through music. Good Shepherd, Rosemont, is no exception. In the past decade as the parish transitioned from challenges into new life, our music ministry under the direction of Matthew Glandorf was a source of vitality in the parish. And the parish vestry rightly decided that to compromise funding and support of music would be destructive to the parish’s future. I am continually thankful for the parish’s leadership and their commitment to supporting music at Good Shepherd.

We’ve just emerged from a brief time of transition in our music ministry after Matt Glandorf’s move to Germany. Last Sunday, we gave thanks for Jack Burnam’s fantastic work in leading our music program through a time of transition. And this Sunday, we welcome our new Organist and Director of Music, Robert McCormick.

Our call of Robert as our next musician is a significant moment in our parish life. The music search committee and vestry recognized that through music, Good Shepherd is poised to expand its ministry in remarkable ways. Indeed, in this parish, music is not superfluous; it is integral to our life together in God. Robert will soon be discerning ways to grow the Parish Choir through the addition of capable adult volunteers, and this spring, he will be laying the groundwork for a children’s chorister program to begin in the fall. Through such programming, music can become an evangelical (in the best sense of the word, that is, good news!) witness from out of this parish.

Robert brings enormous gifts, not just of musicianship but also of liturgical intelligence, pastoral sensitivity, administration, and importantly, of community building within choirs. In his previous positions, he has grown children’s chorister programs to robust levels and led adult choirs that were highly integrated within the lives of those parishes. Robert is known not only for his exceptional musicianship and choir-training but also for his gift of improvisation, an essential skill in Anglo-Catholic parishes. Robert has already planned to play an organ recital at Good Shepherd on Sunday, March 10 at 3 p.m., so please mark your calendars. This recital will be a fundraiser for our music program.

You can read more about Robert in our parish email, but I hope you will plan to be present this Sunday as we welcome Robert to our parish staff. Please join us at coffee hour as well, and then stay for adult formation with Dr. Ellen Charry.

I am grateful to our music search committee and vestry, who shepherded the parish through our music transition. This is an incredibly exciting time for Good Shepherd, and may our witness to the community and world be strengthened and heightened through God’s marvelous gift of music!

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of January 7, 2024

Last April, shortly after Easter, our former Organist and Choirmaster Matt Glandorf told me that he had accepted a church music position in Germany. Just a few days later, I emailed Jack Burnam to ask if he might be willing to serve as Interim Organist and Choirmaster through the remainder of the calendar year. Thankfully, Jack said yes! In the past few months, Jack has brought many gifts to us, including his depth of experience in church music, musicianship, thoughtfulness, vast musical knowledge, and devotion to the Christian faith.

Personally, it was a real relief to me to be able to focus on the search for a new Director of Music and know that the music ministry was in incredibly capable hands. But more than that, I found myself enjoying immensely serving in ministry with Jack. I would look forward to Tuesday Evening Prayer, when I knew that Jack would pray with me after being in the office, as well as Thursday Evening Prayer. And with Jack’s presence at Good Shepherd, we had the added bonus of getting his wife, Jeannette’s, presence, too. I feel like they’ve become a part of this church family, and I hope they do as well.

This Sunday will mark the end of Jack’s time as Interim Organist and Choirmaster. Our new Organist and Director of Music, Robert McCormick, will begin his duties next week. As a small gesture of gratitude for all that Jack has done for us, we will have a special celebration after Sung Mass this Sunday, including a light lunch and cake. Although we will have some kind of precipitation this weekend (which may be more rain than snow), if it’s safe for you, I hope you will plan to be at Mass on Sunday (The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ) as we say thank you to Jack. We will not say goodbye, because I expect (and hope!) we’ll continue to see Jack and Jeannette.

And thankfully, we have two more services with Jack. On Friday, January 5, we will celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany on its eve. Epiphany is one of seven principal feasts of the Church year (in other words, it’s a big deal). I strongly encourage you to attend Mass at 7 p.m., which will include a procession and the blessing of chalk for marking doors at home, an Epiphany custom. In typical Anglo-Catholic fashion, at Good Shepherd, we celebrate certain feasts with gusto, which is increasingly rare in the Church. It’s a great privilege to be able to pause amid our ordinary lives and celebrate God’s time breaking into ours. After Mass, we will enjoy a potluck supper in the retreat house. Sign up to bring a dish here. If you haven’t yet attended one of our potlucks, you’re missing out! They’re lively social occasions and the food is delicious (i.e., not just your usual array of church casseroles and jello salads).

I look forward to seeing you this weekend as we celebrate the close of Christmastide and give thanks for Jack’s marvelous service through music at Good Shepherd.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of December 31, 2023

Following the 6 p.m. Mass on Christmas Eve, I noticed that only a handful of people had exited the church following the organ voluntary. When I went back inside after greeting a few people at the door, I noticed that many of those in attendance were still standing around in the pews and aisles, engaged in festive conversation. No one seemed to want to leave. Everyone looked happy. It was a fitting conclusion to a beautiful Mass, with glorious music from the choir and organ, a procession, and the comforting words from holy Scripture that the good news always meets us in the darkness.

If you ask me, that scene after Christmas Mass is a vivid symbol of what our life together in worship and community should be like. The inside of the church should be a place where we feel drawn, like an insect to light, to adore almighty God, have the Word of God broken open for us, and feast on the Body and Blood of Christ. I hope everyone in that church took something of that evening’s palpable joy out into the world with them.

I cherish the fact that Good Shepherd is a genuinely happy place. The sense of happiness on Christmas Eve spilled over into the intimate Mass on Christmas Day, as we sang more carols and heard the great Prologue from John’s Gospel. And the joy of Christmas isn’t over. The Church celebrates this joy right up until Epiphany on January 6, and the Church’s calendar of feasts is the primary means by which we enter into this joy, as well as into the mystery of our faith, which teaches us that joy is also wrapped up with sorrow, like a newborn baby in a manger, wrapped in clothes that eerily resembled his future graveclothes. Indeed, true joy is only known in the midst of earthly travail. The good news is that Christ comes to us in all that grieves and afflicts us.

This Sunday, we will sing yet more carols and continue the celebration of Christmas. I also hope that you will make a point of attending Low Mass on the Feast of the Holy Name, January 1, at 9:30 a.m. The Major Holy Days of Christmastide are part of how we enter into the mystery of this season, and at Good Shepherd, we honor the prayer book’s intention of celebrating these days with the ultimate act of thanksgiving, the Mass. And please mark your calendars for a Procession and Sung Mass on the Eve of the Feast of the Epiphany, January 5 at 7 p.m., as we close out the Christmas season. A potluck will follow in the retreat house. I’m deeply grateful for all who helped decorate the church for Christmas and served in liturgical ministries, as well as to Jack Burnam and the choir for the marvelous music.

May God bless you and your family in these remaining days of Christmas. The seasonal blessing at the end of Mass during Christmastide says it best: “May Christ, who by his Incarnation gathered into one things earthly and heavenly, fill you with joy and peace.”

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of December 24, 2023

As I write these words, it is the shortest day of the year, December 21, the winter solstice. The sun is just beginning to break on the horizon, although it’s almost 7 a.m. And I can’t help but think of the timeless words of the Christmas carol “O little town of Bethlehem”: “In thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light.” It’s tempting to sentimentalize these words, but they are deeper than meets the eye.

The author of this hymn was Phillips Brooks (1835-1893), an Episcopal priest and rector of the Church of the Holy Trinity, Rittenhouse Square, a parish in our diocese, when he penned the words to the beloved carol in 1868. Brooks was visiting the Holy Land while on sabbatical, and during his visit to Bethlehem, he was inspired to author this hymn. But in the background of Brooks’ cozy words was the Civil War. Brooks had been a forceful champion of abolition. Indeed, Brooks had struggled with the evils of slavery since his days as a seminarian at Virginia Theological Seminary (my alma mater as well). When Brooks was a student, slaves would have lived on campus. The words of “O little town of Bethlehem” are not simply a product of Romanticism. Consider these words in verse three: “No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.”

The fourth verse captures something of the hope that Brooks saw in Christmas: “Where children pure and happy pray to the blessed Child, where misery cries out to Thee, Son of the mother mild [“undefiled” in the original!]; where charity stands watching and faith holds wide the door, the dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.” It’s those final words of verse four that epitomize the gift of Christmas. “The dark night wakes, the glory breaks.” Each year Christmas comes to remind us that this feast is more than sentimental Christmas pageants. While “no ear may hear his coming,” salvation does come to us, quietly, intimately, yet powerfully, in a small baby. Daily, the risen Christ comes to us, and “the dark night wakes” and “the glory breaks.”

Undoubtedly, we are living in a dark time with echoes of Brooks’ own day. This is the story of human history. But thankfully, “Christmas comes once more.” Amid the gift wrapping, the anxiety of families, the season of flu and COVID, the outbreak of yet another war, and the political instability, “Christmas comes once more.” It comes to remind us that our truest identity is found in a Savior born as a baby to refugee parents in a manger under the threat of a ruthless empire. And no matter how many empires have wreaked their havoc in human history, “Christmas comes again once more.”

Despite the bedecked streets and stores and Christmas muzak, Christmas will begin on the eve of December 25. And at Good Shepherd, it will last for twelve days. Perhaps the light of Christmas can break into your darkness, whatever that may be, by settling into these twelve days. The day after Christmas, we celebrate the first martyr, St. Stephen, reminding us that although the light shines, darkness is always around. But the light is greater. I encourage you to attend Masses on the three Major Holy Days after Christmas (see our schedule). Leave your tree up through Epiphany, and do join us for Procession & Mass on the Eve of the Epiphany, January 5, at 7 p.m., as we celebrate the close of Christmas.

Amid all the uncertainty that our world brings, I pray that this Christmas will be light in the darkness for you. Thank you to all who are helping with decorating and liturgies for Christmas at Good Shepherd. And I’m especially grateful for our wonderful staff, who are working so hard during this time of year. May the blessing of the Christ Child be with you and your family, whether you are currently in light or in darkness. However you may feel, wherever you may be, know that unfailingly, “The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.” Thanks be to God.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
Oh, come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

The Week of December 17, 2023

In seminary, my liturgics professor, the Rev. Dr. James Farwell, said in one class that all theology is poetry. That statement has stayed with me for years. Far from undermining the truth behind theology or relativizing it, Dr. Farwell was reminding my class of the power of words and the literary art in trying (however vainly) to speak of the ultimate truth of God, which defies description in human words. Words matter, but in the realm of theology, the multivalent meanings of words especially matter. When we attempt to speak of God, we attempt to speak of a mystery beyond our understanding, and yet we try. We must try.

Have you ever noticed the poetry of the imagery present even within the creeds that we say weekly? We proclaim that Jesus is “Light from Light” and “is seated at the right hand of the Father.” The Holy Spirit is “the giver of life.” In these imagistic phrases, we are trying to say something utterly true about one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit within the confines of human language. The best theologians, in my mind, are those who understand poetry. It is a difficult endeavor indeed to speak of God and avoid an unimaginative, over-literalization of human language (which often leads to heresy) and a rigid orthodoxy that is devoid of any literary art.

The Anglican tradition is far from the only strand of Christianity that values poetry, but when I think of Anglicanism I inevitably think of poetry. The poetic tradition within the English language is a who’s who list of Anglicans: John Donne, Thomas Traherne, W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot, and of course, George Herbert, to name a few. I think that poetry is especially compatible with Anglicanism because our via media or “middle way,” at its best, strives for a humility when speaking about God. There is latent within this a sense of via negativa or "negative theology”: who God is is found most powerfully in what we can’t say about God.

Scripture itself is full of poetry—not just the genres themselves, but the use of words and echoes of the Old Testament within the New and hymns of God’s majesty inserted into other kinds of texts. Liturgies are poetic, where time is not linear and where we encounter Scripture much differently than how we might meet it in a Bible study. Some of the best sermons I know are poetic. Christians are fairly inept at understanding the power by which the Holy Spirit fires our imaginations to lead us into all truth. Truth is too powerful to be confined to our fallible human constructs.

It seems fitting that for this year’s Advent Quiet Day we explore the poetry of George Herbert (1593-1633), an Anglican priest, renowned orator, musician, and astounding poet. Herbert’s poetry is deeply theological and also deeply musical (the best poetry is!). Words light up with unexpected resonances, and the verses sing. And yet within this beauty of language are deep truths of God and the human soul in relation to God. One can sense that Herbert was all too aware of his frailty and sinfulness, and he wrestles with this in his poetry. But he always arrives at the truth that so often evades our consciousness: God’s mercy, forgiveness, and love are persistent in trying to meet us. And often, relishing our own frailty and sinfulness is a form of pride that prevents us from being close to God, almost deliberately so [see his poem “Love (III”].

As we pray through the fleeting days of this Advent, I invite you to consider attending tomorrow’s Advent Quiet Day. Parishioner Donald McCown will explore poems of Herbert and offer instruction in entering into a state of contemplative awareness. And Sarah Cunningham, a world-renowned viol player affiliated with our Main Line Early Music Concert series, will perform viol music of Tobias Hume (c. 1549-1645) a rough contemporary of Herbert’s. This year’s Advent Quiet Day is a gift in a season of busyness to slow down, breathe, and pray through the art of poetry and music. Mass will be offered in the middle of the day, and our day will be flanked by Morning and Evening Prayer. Simple breakfast fare and lunch will be provided.

I hope to see some of you on Saturday, and may these final days of Advent be an opportunity for you to encounter the poetry of God

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle