January 17, 2025

In my report to the vestry for its January meeting, I reflected on the Church—and specifically, Good Shepherd, Rosemont—as a place to be found, especially when we’re lost. At the risk of repeating myself to our vestry, it seems important to share my reflections with you, parishioners and friends of the parish. It would behoove us to ponder exactly what makes the Church the Church in 2025. Why go to church? Why invest time and energy in the Church when we have plenty of demands on our time from organizations and entities outside of her? For those of us who believe in the importance of the Church and her mission, why is the Church inseparable from our desire to lead full and meaningful lives? I’d like to share my own responses to these questions by way of a message I recently wrote to our vestry, which I offer here in a slightly revised form.

I’m not surprised that one of the most beloved stories in the Bible is the Parable of the Prodigal Son, or of the Loving Father, or of the Son Who Was Lost but Found, or whatever you want to call it. I think this story is popular not only because it’s a wonderful story but because we all know what it feels like to be lost. And we relish the security of being found. In St. Luke’s Gospel, this beloved parable is preceded by the Parable of the Lost Sheep and the Parable of the Lost Coin. In the former, even one sheep among ninety-nine others is sought after with great zeal and love. In the latter, a woman turns her house upside down until she finds one lost coin. As much as many Christians out there delight, rather perversely, in telling us about a God who seems to have it in for us, the God described across the pages of Scripture and revealed to us in Jesus Christ is a God of infinite love who seeks everyone who is lost. This God knows us by name. This God knows every hair on our heads. This God is the “hound of heaven” who pursues us in love. When we’re lost, God will find us, somehow, somewhere.

From the moment I was called to be the rector of this parish, I was acutely aware of the theological significance of the parish’s namesake. I still take seriously the call to be a good shepherd, and I try to be a responsible shepherd. It’s ironic that a parish with such a name went astray for so long. And having been here for four and a half years now, it’s not lost on me that we’re a sheepfold for lost sheep. I don’t mean “lost” in the sense of being profligate or wasteful or irresponsible, but I simply refer to that very intrinsic part of the human condition—being lost. We’re all lost. When we sin, we’re lost. When we’re lonely and searching for community, we’re lost. When we’ve lost someone dear to us, we’re lost, too. When we’re unhappy with some aspect of our lives and know that there must be something better, we’re lost. When our children are out of control and we feel that we can’t help them, we’re lost. When the world seems like an increasingly dangerous place and we long for safety, we’re lost. When we’ve not made God a part of our lives before but now yearn for him, we’re lost. Yes, all of us are lost in some way. All of us have been lost. Indeed, all of us are lost in some fashion or another.

I’m always delightfully surprised at how many newcomers find the Church of the Good Shepherd, and I’m convinced that the Holy Spirit has drawn them here. And I also maintain that there’s something special about the community forming at Good Shepherd. It’s true that the Church should always be a refuge for sinners and a home for the lost, but some churches are more unfriendly, less welcoming, more cliquish places than others. The Church of the Good Shepherd is not. I feel strongly that we’ve been called to a ministry of hospitality, which involves more than dishing out a muffin or a mug of coffee after Sunday Mass. It means scouring the church with our eyes until we notice the person who is new among us. It means leaving our comfortable circles at coffee hour to go and speak to the person who is sitting alone. It means saying our usual hellos to our old friends at church and then walking up to the person who has attended for the first time and kindly, but without any pressure, offering to escort them to coffee hour. It means reaching out by email to the newcomer and inviting them for coffee. It means risking the discomfort of breaking our shyness to make conversation with someone new.

But it’s even more than this, and here’s where it gets a bit scary. Ministry to the lost means first recognizing how we are lost. It means unearthing those painful memories of being bullied in school or ostracized or made fun of. And then from that dark place, we keep our eyes open for those among us who are also lost. We tell them about the place that has changed our lives, where we’ve been found and have experienced community—Good Shepherd, Rosemont. We invite them to experience this home, this safe sheepfold, with us. In short, we follow the Great Commission to be evangelists, the duty of every Christian.

You already know that I believe our parish and the wider Church is called to grow. Growth is assumed in the Gospel message. But for our parish to continue to grow and become sustainable for a long future, we can’t merely rely on those who find us on their own (and through the work of the Holy Spirit). No, the Holy Spirit often uses us to find others. We shouldn’t neglect this charge. So, invite someone to church. Tell them about this place that you love so much. If you have an idea for how this parish can minister more effectively to the lost, voice your idea but also lead the charge in realizing it. Our parish’s growth will depend not just on ideas but on leaders committed to turning ideas into reality. We all have a hand to play in the growth of this parish. 

I hope that it can be the mission of each one of us to always be on the lookout for that lonely person. Please talk to them. And would you please go a step further? Would you use our Realm directory to locate the email address of someone new and invite them to coffee or tea? Or lunch? The Church will be stronger if we don’t just talk about community but live it in an intentional way.

We’re told nearly every day that the Church is dying, but what such despairing, narrow-minded messages overlook is that in a world that is deeply lost, where cruelty can assert itself with ease, and where there is an increasing loss of meaning, the Church is the steward of a treasure. That treasure is the Gospel. And this means that for the person who has no home at school or in the workplace, or for the person who is struggling to find friends or community, or for the person who is quietly suffering or deeply lonely, the Church is their true home, because it’s the home of us all. The Church will revive if we embrace this and believe it. If we refuse to continue feeding the beast of a world that demands more and more of our time but chews us up and spits us out, and if we turn, instead, to the Church that will comfort, nourish, and strengthen us, then we will have learned something about what all of us need from the Church. The Church’s mission is always to the lost, because the best news we can offer to the world is that, although we once were lost, now we’re found.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 10, 2025

I was recently reminded of an old Anglo-Catholic phrase “assisting at Mass.” We Anglo-Catholics have a peculiar language at times, but below its quirkiness lies a rich piety if we aim to discover it. “Assisting at Mass” doesn’t refer merely to those serving at the altar, nor does it apply only to clergy or musicians. Assisting at Mass is the duty of everyone present.

The Anglo-Catholic tradition has been accused at times of clericalism and of promoting an individualistic piety. I’m sure it has been and is true in some (many?) Anglo-Catholic parishes. But if we dig below the surface of dutiful observance and obligation (both of which can be good things), we’ll find that the phrase “assisting at Mass” is anything but clericalist. To assist at Mass isn’t only to show up; it’s to invest oneself in the Mass. Assisting at Mass assumes that a Mass needs more than just a priest. It needs a priest and at least one other person present.

Have you ever noticed the way the Amen following the Canon of the Mass is printed in our prayer book (and leaflet)? It’s in capital letters and italics. This Amen is the assent of the congregation to Christ’s presence in the Sacrament of the Altar. The priest can pray all she or he wants, but the voice of the congregation and their presence—indeed, their assistance—are necessary. Christianity is not an individualistic affair. We probably need this reminder more than ever in the age of livestreaming. Livestreaming is a gift to connect our parish with friends near and far. It’s a gift to those of us who must stay at home due to illness but want to worship online. But livestreaming is no substitute for our fleshly presence at the Mass. It’s no substitute for receiving Christ’s Body and Blood, which restores our bodies and souls.

I frequently reflect on what it means to be Anglo-Catholic in the Episcopal Church in this century, when we have a Catholic prayer book and the Eucharist is now the principal service of worship on the Lord’s Day. Part of what it means, in my humble opinion, is to call the wider Church—specifically the Episcopal Church—to a robust practice of worship, especially an observance of the Church’s great rhythm of prayer and celebrations of the liturgical seasons, feasts, and fasts. Worship is not mere perfunctory observance. Worship is a living encounter with the One in whom we find abundant life and salvation, Jesus Christ. This encounter, which is part of how we are saved, means that we must show up first. We show up sometimes when we aren’t “feeling like it.” When we “aren’t feeling like it” is precisely when we most need it. Worship requires our physical presence, in person, so that our bodies can breathe and sing and kneel and stand in real time with the physical bodies of our friends in Christ.

And so, “assistance at Mass” isn’t specifically an Anglo-Catholic thing, but because Anglo-Catholics famously worship a lot, perhaps it’s our gift to the wider Church to call more people into a hearty liturgical practice. People frequently comment to me on how much worship we have at Good Shepherd, especially considering our size. That’s true. But I hope it’s not a burden to us. I hope it’s life-giving. It’s an integral part of how we can genuinely discern God’s call to us in mission and service. A regular practice of worship is crucial to our salvation, because salvation is not about “me and God.” Salvation is about “us and God” and a shared life where we all exhort and “assist” one another in growing more and more into the likeness of God. After all, Jesus came to draw all people to himself, as St. John tells us (12:32).

During this season of the calendar year, when weather is cold, inconvenient, and downright unpleasant at times, we may need a reminder of “assisting at Mass” more than ever. As the Preface of the Mass reminds us, “[i]t is very meet, right, and our bounden duty, that we should at all times, and in all places, give thanks unto thee, O Lord, holy Father, almighty, everlasting God.” The fruits of our “assistance” might be felt right after Mass, but more likely, they won’t. You may feel those fruits three days later or three years later. The point is that we show up to “assist.” We assist on Sundays, but also on weekdays, on feast days, and on days of fasting. Our presence is necessary. And what a delight and privilege it is that by virtue of the Incarnation we can dare to call God “Abba,” Father. What a joy that our presence at Mass is not optional, our presence is necessary. I will look forward to seeing you on Sunday to assist in the holy mysteries of our living encounter with the One who gives us life.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 3, 2025

Technically speaking, we Christians have already begun a new year. It began on December 1, the First Sunday of Advent. At the beginning of Advent, I wrote about newness. But since we are inevitably tied to secular calendars as well as liturgical calendars, as we begin 2025, we should once again reflect on newness. If you’ve watched our parish video, produced in the early summer of 2022, you will have noticed an intentional reference to the apostle Paul’s words: “if any one is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Those words of St. Paul encapsulate the recent history of this parish. Less than ten years ago, it looked as if this parish might close its doors, but God did something new. The newness that God brings is evident almost every day I spend here, and the parish video is itself proof of this ongoing newness. It’s already woefully out of date! So many new faces have arrived at Good Shepherd since that video was made, and sadly, some are no longer with us. So much new ministry has been birthed since the video was filmed. Good Shepherd, Rosemont, is a shining, visible example of God’s new creation among us. We who have experienced directly God’s power to make things new in this parish can and should give witness to this.

But we inhabit a world that is tired and worn down. It’s a world that primarily functions as if everything is old, and we don’t know how to cope with that reality. We rehash old grievances. We neglect the elderly among us, assuming that nothing new could occur in their lives. We hearken back to how things used to be, as if nothing good could come out of the future. We even think that some are worthy of death because they are defined by their former, corrupt past. We judge people by their worst mistakes. We despair of the Church having a glorious future again because she’s in decline. So we say.

And yet. . . and yet, God is always making things new. To be a Christian is to live in the hope that newness is always possible. The heart of our faith lies in the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, where even death itself doesn’t have the final word. Newness proliferates because Jesus still lives among us and the Holy Spirit enlivens our bodies, our hearts, and our imaginations. And God’s revival of this wonderful parish is living proof of that newness.

At this moment in time, the Church has a privilege and a duty to proclaim to a tired, worn, skeptical world that in Christ, a new creation is always possible. Can we live as if this is so? I wonder what this will look like at Good Shepherd. I like to imagine a new calendar year as an opportunity to dream about what the coming year will look like in the parish. What new people will God send our way to join us in ministry? What new ministry will take root here? What old ideas can be revived and realized in new ways?

Please mark January 26 on your calendars, which is when we’ll hold our 2025 annual parish meeting after Sung Mass. At this meeting, we’ll reflect on the old year with eyes of hope towards the new one. The visioning of a new future at Good Shepherd is not the sole provision of me your priest, nor is it only the responsibility of the vestry. Dreaming about a future graced by God’s newness is for all of us, which is why your presence at our parish meeting is so essential.

I hope you’ll join us for the Feast of the Epiphany, a Principal Feast of the Church year. If you’re in town, please prioritize this feast. We’ll close out the Christmas season with a Procession and Sung Mass on Monday, January 6, at 7 p.m. At that Mass, we’ll also bless chalk for the chalking of doors at home, an Epiphany tradition. A potluck supper will follow in the retreat house. Until then, savor the final days of Christmas. This is, after all, the season in which the wonder of God’s newness comes to us in the newness of a little Child, our Savior, in whom all things are made new.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 27, 2024

The Hymnal 1982, our authorized Episcopal hymnal, contains thirty-nine Christmas hymns. Most years, I lament the fact that we’ll only have three occasions to sing these hymns during the Christmas season. But this year, because of how Christmas falls within the calendar, we’ll have two Sundays in the Christmas season. This gives us more opportunities to sing from the great treasure of hymnody for the Christmas season.

Many of the hymns are standard favorites, hymns you wouldn’t imagine not singing at Christmas. At this point in the Christmas season, we’ve already sung many of them. But there are some overlooked gems. One of my personal favorites—both tune and text—is #104, “A stable lamp is lighted.” The text is by the late American poet Richard Wilbur. The tune is by the living American church musician David Hurd, currently Director of Music at the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin in New York City, one of our sister Anglo-Catholic parishes. In my opinion, David Hurd’s tunes are some of the best examples of American hymnody in the previous and current centuries.

I adore both the tune and the text of “A stable lamp is lighted.” The tune is poignant, even sad. The text is theological poetry at its finest, redolent with Scriptural allusions and centuries of Christological ponderings. One of the reasons I’m so fond of this hymn is that the text moves to a deeper level than some of our beloved Christmas hymns. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t want Christmas without “O come, all ye faithful” and “Angels we have heard on high.” But “A stable lamp is lighted” reminds us that at Christmas, we celebrate a mystery that transcends a cozy birth story or feelings of constant merriment. Christmas joy is not mere happiness or cheer. Joy assumes a measure of hope, and joy can come to us even in our sorrow. Joy is profound enough to withstand suffering.

In Wilbur’s great hymn, all of creation responds to the birth of the Messiah. “The stars shall bend their voices/And every stone shall cry.” Wilbur references, obliquely, Psalm 19 but also, more directly, Habakkuk 2:11, where in the face of injustice, even the stones themselves will not be able to remain silent. Recall that when Jesus enters Jerusalem in Luke’s Gospel, some Pharisees ask Jesus to rebuke his disciples, who are greeting him with praise. Jesus says, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out” (Luke 19:40). “Every stone shall cry” is a constant refrain in Wilbur’s hymn. This refrain expresses the mystery of Christmas: all of creation cries out at the birth of the Messiah, but the cry is mixed. It’s a cry of both joy and sorrow because the happiness felt at Jesus’s birth is tinged with an unshakeable feeling that a sinful world will not be able to hold the perfect goodness found in Jesus the Christ. In the Christian life, joy and sorrow can’t be easily separated.

Wilbur’s hymn plays with imagery inspired by the Church’s early Fathers, where in the manger, “straw like gold shall shine” and “A barn shall harbor heaven” because a stall will “become a shrine.” The extraordinary meshes with the ordinary. Jesus’s throne is in the manger. From Jesus’s birth, the cross is already in the picture. This Light of the world will be rejected and refused by the world, even though the darkness can’t overcome the Light.

All of this might not immediately seem like good news on Christmas. It might, in fact, seem depressing. But the truth is that this season can be bittersweet—even deeply sad—for many people. It’s mistaken to assume that if we’re good Christians, we’ll be happy and cheery all the time. The real truth of Christmas tells us otherwise. Jesus was born to a wandering family who ultimately made his crib in a barn or a cave, not in a palace. Jesus was born under the boot of Roman oppression. Jesus was born to peasant parents in questionable circumstances, at least from a human point of view. The mystery of Christmas is complicated and messy, and the good news is that in such a manner, our redemption comes to us. As the Church Father Gregory of Nazianzus told us, “that which is not assumed is not saved.” Jesus comes to save it all.

As Wilbur notes in his hymn, the sky whose stars bend their voices at Jesus’s birth will “groan and darken” at his death. When heaven touches earth in the Incarnation, all of creation is affected. The mystery of Jesus’s birth leaves no corner of the earth untouched. And today, for those of us struggling with sadness or illness or despair, the mystery of Christmas assures us that we can be joyful Christians who retain hope even when we can’t facilely dismiss our sadness.

The final verse of Wilbur’s hymn explains the heart of the mystery of Christmas: “But now, as at the ending,/The low is lifted high;/The stars shall bend their voices,/And every stone shall cry./And every stone shall cry,/In praises of the Child/By whose descent among us/The worlds are reconciled.” No darkness can squelch the light of Christ. No sorrow can eliminate the joy. And no matter how many voices are silenced by oppression, the stones themselves will cry out in testament to the One who is our Savior and has redeemed the world.

May God bless you and yours this Christmas. If you’re in town, please come to Mass to sing the wonderful hymns of Christmas and to give thanks in the Eucharistic feast for the birth of our Savior, who continues to reconcile the worlds and whose light always shines in the darkness.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 20, 2024

On Tuesday, at Evening Prayer, we began using the “O Antiphons” with the Magnificat, an ancient tradition in the days leading up to Christmas. These “O Antiphons” are known most familiarly in the hymn “O come, O come, Emmanuel.” The “O” refers to the word that begins the antiphons, which are intended to flank the recitation or singing of the Magnificat, Mary’s great song from Luke 1. Beginning on December 17, each day is assigned a particular antiphon. The antiphon for December 20 is “O Clavis David.”

O Key of David,
and Scepter of the house of Israel,
that openest and no one shutteth,
and shuttest and no one openeth:
Come and bring the prisoner out of the prison-house,
he that sitteth in darkness and the shadow of death.

In the imagery of today’s appointed antiphon, Christ is the Key that unlocks the door to freedom from sin and death. What an incisive and powerful image this is!

On Sunday, after Advent Lessons and Carols, I was putting things away in the sacristy, including the cope that I wore for the service. All our copes reside in a closet just outside the vesting sacristy, and this closet is usually locked. I was hanging the key to the closet on the peg where it usually lives when it fell and disappeared. I heard it hit the ground, and I searched and I searched the sacristy, but to no avail. I couldn’t find the key. And then I noticed a small hole in the floor next to the radiator. Surely, the key, with its attached label, wouldn’t have been small enough to land exactly in that hole, which is no more than an inch and a half in diameter? I shone a flashlight down the hole, but I couldn’t see the key anywhere.

My frantic search, and my obsession with finding that key, persisted. I would need to access the cope closet before Christmas Eve. Where was the key? I felt a bit like the woman in Luke’s parable of the lost coin. She sweeps the floor of her house, yearning to find that one lost coin. Sometimes, the thing for which we search so desperately seems small, and yet the sense of losing something can be overwhelming, no matter how tiny the lost item is.

When something is lost, especially a key needed to unlock a door, we experience a helplessness. Whether it’s a car key that’s locked inside the car, or a house key that’s left hanging in its place while you stand outside in the cold unable to enter, keys are uniquely important. The British priest and poet Malcolm Guite notes the particularity of a key to unlock a door in his poem on today’s “O Antiphon.”

Even in the darkness where I sit
And huddle in the midst of misery
I can remember freedom, but forget
That every lock must answer to a key,
That each dark clasp, sharp and intricate,
Must find a counter-clasp to meet its guard,
Particular, exact and intimate,
The clutch and catch that meshes with its ward.
I cry out for the key I threw away
That turned and over turned with certain touch
And with the lovely lifting of a latch
Opened my darkness to the light of day.
O come again, come quickly, set me free
Cut to the quick to fit, the master key.

(https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2014/12/20/oh-clavis-a-fourth-advent-antiphon-and-sonnet-2/)

Being a part of the human condition is so often like being locked out of a room full of treasures. The room in this analogy is freedom. To be locked out is a horrible feeling of exclusion. There’s a sense that something that could be readily available to us, and which is so near at hand, is being withheld from us. But when we find the balm of freedom—when we finally discover something that is lost, or when a door in life is opened to us—it’s sheer bliss. Do you recall the last time you experienced that?

Sin and evil in our world feel like powers that take the key to the door of freedom and throw it away. Unlike the lost key for which I was searching, when sin and evil are involved, it’s as if the key was deliberately taken and thrown into some bottomless pit. As St. Paul reminds us, sin is really Sin; it seems like a power or force that holds us hostage. it locks us in a prison and then throws away the key.

In these final days leading up to Christmas, there may be no more powerful image to hold onto than that of Christ as the Key of David. He is the Key, as Malcolm Guite reminds us, that in our sinfulness and willfulness we throw away. And yet, he is not lost down a hole or in some dark abyss. He’s right here, reigning in our hearts. He visits us daily. Our Key of David is not far away. He’s not lost. We’re lost, and he has found us.

There’s surely some logic to the fact that some people who usually never go to church nevertheless find their way to churches at Christmas and Easter. They must somehow know that without Christ, they’re lost and need to be found, they’re outside a locked room without a key. This is the deepest meaning of Christmas: our Key is always available to unlock the door and let us into freedom.

If you’re traveling this Christmas, may God give you a safe journey. If you’re in town, I hope to see you at Masses on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, both Sung Masses with choir. Join us, too, for Low Masses on the Major Holy Days following Christmas Day. If you know people who are struggling because they’ve lost the key to joy, would you consider inviting them to church? May God bless you this Christmas as we celebrate the perpetual arrival in our lives of the One who is the Key of David, the Christ, the Messiah, the only One who can set us free.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

P.S. It turns out that the lost key to the cope closet did indeed fall through the hole in a floorboard of our sacristy. But thanks to Kevin Loughery, our wonderful buildings and property manager, it will be recovered in time to open the cope closet for Christmas!

December 13, 2024

There’s a letter that I’ve been waiting for in the mail for a few months now. Every day, I glance in the church mailbox to see if it’s arrived. It will eventually tell me whether a grant that I applied for has been awarded. But the letter hasn’t come yet. Waiting for something can easily become an obsession. I usually don’t like waiting. On many Wednesdays, I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, ready for the 12:05 p.m. Mass, and I’ve waited for people to show up. Usually, after five minutes or so and no one has arrived, I return items to the sacristy and move on with my day—I can’t offer Mass without a congregation. Waiting is never easy. I’ve waited for medical test results before. I’ve waited for academic exam results. I’ve waited for college admission letters. I’ve waited for phone calls from loved ones to assure me that they’ve made it safely on a road trip or that they’re doing okay. Waiting is usually not enjoyable. I’ve waited for the answer to prayer. I’ve waited for some kind of divine affirmation that I’m on the right path. Waiting is, at times, frustrating.

But I wonder if waiting could be more pleasant than it usually is. Does waiting always have to be an anxiety-ridden endeavor? Does everything have to be centered on what’s been waited for? What if waiting were more focused on the present rather than the future? Perhaps that’s really what waiting is from a theological perspective. Spiritual waiting usually involves some measure of hope in the future, but it also doesn’t neglect the present. It may be that the purpose of waiting is to redirect our gaze to the present.

If one waits long enough, one may be conditioned to accept the present, with all its uncertainty. One may cease to idolize the future of knowing something for sure and, instead, embrace the gift of the present moment with whatever it brings, which often surprises. Over the past few years, as we have added liturgical services to our daily round at Good Shepherd, I’ve shown up and waited. I’ve said the Daily Office alone, and I’ve waited for people to show up. And with time, they have. I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, hoping people might show up for Mass, and I’ve waited, and on some days, just when I think no one will, someone does. I’ve waited for the right gifts to come with the right people to address a need in our parish, and I’ve waited, and then they’ve appeared. Waiting can be a rich time because in the act of waiting, we learn to depend solely on God.

One of the reasons I’ve felt more and more drawn to silent, contemplative prayer with time is that it encourages me to be more comfortable with waiting. If I’m not using words to ask God for something, then I’m less likely to be expecting a direct answer. Instead, I sit in silence or even gaze at an icon, and I wait. I wait for the Spirit to show me something in that time of doing very little.

Anyone who preaches or who writes or who creates art knows that waiting is essential. It’s very difficult to sit down and write something that’s inspired. It’s impossible to preach a good sermon without waiting for some word of inspiration from God. A work of art is trite at best unless it springs from a divinely-given creative impulse. It’s all about waiting.

The waiting of this season of Advent is too often focused on the future, on Christmas and then on the Second Coming. Yes, Christmas will come on December 25 (it always does!), and yes, Christ will come again to judge both the living and the dead. Both of those comings can elicit anxiety. Will I be able to deal with the stress of family this year at Christmas? Will I be able to stand before Christ’s judgment throne and not be swallowed up in fiery wrath? So much perceived condemnation accompanies the awaiting of these comings.

But waiting in the present moment is different. It judges us, for sure, but as a gift. It’s not about what could happen or what I will do if something happens in the future. It’s about how I respond to Christ’s glorious coming into the present moment of my life. As I wait for test results or a letter in the mail or people to show up for Mass or for Christ to come again in glory, the present moment happens. And in the present moment, the risen Christ comes to me and to you, in all his glory, to bless us and surprise us. In the present moment, Christ teaches us, and the Holy Spirit reveals new understandings to us. In the present moment, Christ simply is, and we are invited to be with him just as he is, as Mary sat patiently at his feet while Martha busied herself in the kitchen.

Advent is a time of year in which we’re tempted to go the route of Martha—not that it’s bad or wrong. We’re tempted to be always on the go, always shopping, always wrapping gifts, always going to another holiday party, always filling every minute with more and more activity. But what if we embraced this Advent as a season of Mary, who sat at the feet of her friend Jesus’s feet and simply was with him? This is a season of hope. It’s a season of waiting. It’s a time to rejoice that as we await the celebration of the coming of God-with-us, Emmanuel, in this present moment—especially as we wait—God-with-us is already here. We’re waiting with him. And in that present waiting, we are indeed blessed.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 6, 2024

In this past week’s Pilgrims in Christ meeting, someone asked why we genuflect at the mention of the Incarnation in the Nicene Creed at Mass (“was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary, and was made man”). It was a good question. I suggested that one reason was to remind us of the concreteness of the Incarnation. At one particular moment in time, in a specific location in the Middle East, the eternal Word was made flesh in the person of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Christianity is a religion of particularity. It’s nothing short of astounding that an eternal God made himself visible in human flesh in Jesus, the perfect image of God. This eternal God’s image is also localized in our own bodies, which, of course, exist in temporal space. So, when our knees touch the floor as we say some words in the Creed, we remember the doctrine of the Incarnation. We remember that our bodies matter. We remember that our bodies are not “shells” to be discarded at death, for our bodies—loved and redeemed by God—will also be raised one day at the end of time. As words from Sunday’s Gospel tell us, “all flesh shall see the salvation of God” (Luke 3:6).

This particularity of Christianity has manifested itself in the Church through the parish system. Historically, a parish was a geographical area in which one lived. One usually was a member of the church within the bounds of the parish in which one lived. Devotion to one’s geographical parish is rare these days, although we still technically have parish bounds. But the point remains the same: to be a Christian is to be a disciple of Jesus in a specific place and time. As Christians affiliated with Good Shepherd, Rosemont, our parish community grounds us and localizes us in one place of worship, even if we live thirty-five miles from the church.

On this view, then, being a member of a parish is an important part of Christian identity. Membership is a way in which each of us is formed among a unique group of people. We’re called to a parish for a variety of reasons. Perhaps we are fed by the worship there. Maybe we like the people. Or the music stirs us immensely. But I also believe that the Holy Spirit draws people with certain gifts to specific parishes that are in need of such gifts. And people with definable needs are drawn to parishes with resources and people that can minister to those needs. In all this, we see the doctrine of the Incarnation at work. Particularity matters. Time and place matter.

And so, the very practical reality of membership within the Episcopal Church is more than merely practical. It’s more than managing statistics. It’s an accounting of our identity within one parish within the wider Episcopal Church that is part of the larger worldwide Anglican Communion that exists as a Communion of churches within the worldwide Church Catholic.

On Sunday, at Sung Mass, we will officially welcome sixteen new members to Good Shepherd. Some of these new members have been worshipping here for well over a year, but they’ve now indicated that they wish to become members of this local community of disciples. Their names have been inscribed in our parish register in pen, for posterity, giving testimony to the particularity of their membership in this community of faith. With membership comes commitment. These new members are pledging their lives of discipleship to occur in this parish of Good Shepherd, Rosemont. And I’m so glad that they’re here!

I should say a word about membership in the Episcopal Church. Any baptized person may officially become a member. Practically speaking, “adult communicants in good standing” in this parish are those sixteen years of age and older, “who for the previous year have been faithful in corporate worship, unless for good cause prevented, and have been faithful in working, praying, and giving for the spread of the Kingdom of God” (Canon 1.17.3). This means that one’s baptism is recorded in our parish register, one attends church regularly, and one pledges financially to the ministry of the parish. To vote in parish elections at each year’s annual parish meeting (to elect members of the vestry, delegates to diocesan convention, and delegates to deanery meetings), one must be an adult communicant in good standing who has attended Good Shepherd for at least one year previously. I encourage you to read more about membership on our website. If you’re not yet officially a member of Good Shepherd and would like to be, please contact me.

I also recognize that there are many among us who are not officially members but who worship here regularly, pledge to the well-being of the parish, and give sacrificially of their time and talent to Good Shepherd. I’m most grateful to these individuals. Even though they aren’t officially “members” by the canonical definition, they are valued assets to this community of faith and are fully integrated into our parish’s life and witness. Regardless of whether you are a member or not, you are loved and cherished here.

On Sunday, as we celebrate the welcoming of new members, we will appropriately be distributing copies of our new parish directory, which has been printed from information included in our online database, Realm. Now, you’ll be able to remind yourself of the name of that person whom you see regularly but whose name has escaped your mind. (But please remember that you can access all this information right now by logging into Realm!) You may pick up a copy of the directory at Mass on Sunday. I hope that this simple directory will be one more way in which we can grow closer in community, pray for one another, and ensure that all here feel a sense of belonging. Thank you to Lorraine Mahoney for leading the charge on creating this parish directory.

We are people of the Incarnation, of particularity in time and place. And I’m thankful that each of you has chosen to immerse your own life of faith in this parish. I pray that in doing so, you will grow more fully into the likeness of God by virtue of the other faithful disciples here. May you sense a divinely inspired meshing of your own gifts with the gifts of this parish, and may it all be to the flourishing of Christ’s kingdom.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

November 29, 2024

John Keble (1792-1866), initiator of the Oxford Movement, of which Good Shepherd, Rosemont, is a child, penned this remarkable hymn in 1822.

New every morning is the love
our wakening and uprising prove;
through sleep and darkness safely brought,
restored to life and power and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,
hover around us while we pray;
new perils past, new sins forgiven,
new thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

If on our daily course our mind
be set to hallow all we find,
new treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

The trivial round, the common task,
will furnish all we need to ask,
room to deny ourselves, a road
to bring us daily nearer God.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love
fit us for perfect rest above;
and help us, this and every day,
to live more nearly as we pray. (The Hymnal 1982, #10)

Keble’s hymn is not an Advent hymn per se, but it certainly encapsulates a prominent theme of Advent: newness. Advent is the beginning of a new liturgical year. But even more than this, Advent is a season in which to reflect on the newness of God’s mercy that we encounter in the act of repentance.

Advent is famously the season of the Church year in which we hear the incisive call of the prophets to turn from wickedness back to the ways of God. John the Baptist points to Jesus the Christ, who is the newness of God enfleshed. Indeed, the coming of God into our lives, of which we’re reminded during Advent, occurs on three levels: the coming of Christ at Christmas; the coming of Christ at the end of time (the Second Coming); and the coming of Christ every day,—“every morning,” to quote Keble—into our lives. Each of these “comings” is a moment in which the freshness of God—the one who makes all things new—intersects with the oldness and tiredness of our quotidian existence. Advent is itself a relatively short season, but it’s an intense one. Advent is an extended wake-up call, to be alert and energetically aware of God’s challenging call on our lives, to live each second into the newness of God.

There may be no better way to celebrate Advent than to reflect on the theme of God’s newness. A month before people traditionally make New Year’s resolutions, the beginning of Advent is an invitation to press restart on our spiritual lives. Because God makes all things new, there’s no moment in our lives that’s incapable of redemption. Every second is an opportunity to turn in repentance back to God. This is quite unlike what we’re used to, where we’re defined by our worst failures or branded with pejorative labels for life or consigned to inferior status based on one moment. Our world is egregiously unforgiving, a world where we are perpetually “stuck.” The good news that the Church must tell is that the unforgiveness of our world is a lie; it’s wrong.

So, this Advent, will you embrace the newness of our vocation as followers of our Lord? If you’ve fallen away from the Church for whatever reason, you’re not judged by this community. You’re loved, and especially, you are loved by God. Return to the arms of the Church, because every moment is fresh and new. God is always standing with open arms to receive you into his loving embrace.

If you’re tired or lonely or anxious for whatever reason, look for the light of Christ this Advent. As the days grow shorter and get darker earlier, keep your eyes on Christ’s light as a call to newness of life. If you’re rejoicing or happy or content, keep your eye on Christ’s light, too, and remain open to his continual call on your life.

If regularity in prayer and public worship has been difficult for you recently, consider this Advent as a chance to renew your life of prayer. The Mass is the liturgical action in which we encounter Christ’s newness most acutely.

If you are troubled by sin or by conscience, I encourage you to avail yourself of the Sacrament of Reconciliation (private confession/the reconciliation of a penitent). This sacrament is available at any time by appointment with me (or of course, with another priest). This sacrament is a vivid encounter with the newness of God’s mercy.

Advent is a season of intentionality, and this requires prioritizing our daily lives to some extent. I draw your attention to our upcoming Advent Quiet Day, led by Bonnie Hoffman-Adams on “Praying with Icons.” You may register online. And I hope you will attend our annual service of Advent Lessons and Carols on Sunday, December 15 at 3 p.m., sung by our adult choir and children choristers. Advent is a season of marvelous hymns, music, and anthems.

I hope to see you this Sunday, the First Sunday of Advent, as we give thanks for the newness of God’s mercy and love. In Keble’s beautiful words, The trivial round, the common task,/will furnish all we need to ask,/room to deny ourselves, a road/to bring us daily nearer God.”

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

November 22, 2024

St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans is one of my favorite books in the Bible. It has been much maligned and abused, but it’s an extraordinarily beautiful book. When read as a large, extended argument by Paul, we learn a great deal about God’s expansive mercy. Towards the end of the Letter to the Romans, Paul offers some practical advice to the church in Rome, exhorting them to be a community bound together by love for one another, despite their diverse gifts and differing viewpoints and practices.

New Testament scholar Richard Hays sums up St. Paul’s arguments in the Letter to the Romans, chapters 12 and 13, as follows, characterizing Paul’s words as encouragement to be “a community living with minds renewed by God’s mercy” [Christopher B. Hays and Richard B. Hays, The Widening of God’s Mercy: Sexuality within the Biblical Story (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2024), 195].

• “It is a community characterized by humility, recognizing diverse and complementary gifts within the one body.

• It is a community characterized by rejoicing in hope, patient suffering, and hospitality to strangers.

• It is a community that blesses its persecutors, rejoices with those who rejoice, weeps with those who weep, and lives in harmony with one another.

• Above all it is a community that fulfills the law by obeying the commandment, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’” (p. 196)

It’s my deep prayer that Good Shepherd, Rosemont, can be such a community. I think that we are already such a community in so many ways. Paul’s words are crucial for the Church in every time and age. We’re one of the few places that claims to affirm the gifts of all people, not just gifts for scholarly work or athletic prowess or musical genius or business acumen. We believe that God has blessed everyone, and that all our gifts are needed for the flourishing of a community of faith.

I’ve seen so much hope at Good Shepherd in just over four years here. I have seen a great deal of patient bearing with others and with challenging situations. I certainly have witnessed profound hospitality that has exceeded any of my expectations. Daily, I see such love among the people here, that I’m deeply moved and humbled. We weep with those who are weeping—such as when we gather as a parish to bury one of our beloved members—and we rejoice with those who rejoice as we celebrate the happy occasions of marriages and welcoming of new members and the baptisms of children and adults. And I do think that we’re striving as much as we can to love our neighbors as ourselves.

But there’s always more work to be done. I offer these words as encouragement, because I want us to celebrate how much goodness is present in this parish. I hope we’ll also challenge ourselves and stretch our comfort level as we face new challenges in loving our enemies and existing together despite our differences and in offering unyielding hospitality to strangers. And I hope that each of us will go into the world to tell of the work being done in this community. Let me share a few scenes from a community “living with minds renewed by God’s mercy.”

• Our vestry decides not to press charges against someone who vandalized our shadow box sign on Lancaster Avenue. The person was reacting against the sign’s pronouncement that we’re affirming of the LGBTQ+ community. We knew the person had been hurt by the Church in the past. We offered forgiveness instead of punitiveness.

• At Evening Prayer, parishioners go out of their way to help newcomers navigate the complexities of the liturgy, offering such warmth and welcome that newcomers want to return to worship with us.

• One of our youngest parishioners greets another child at formation after they’d been absent for a few weeks with a hug and the words, “I’ve missed you so much.”

• Coffee hours after Sung Mass are more and more crowded. There’s such warmth and welcome. All are fed. Everyone is “seen.” Community is formed. We’re not alike, and some of us see the world quite differently. But we agree to exist together in love and respect for one another.

• Our Pilgrims in Christ group is growing, now at fifteen participants. Each newcomer is welcomed with open arms. Many different backgrounds and religious experiences are represented. All are united in a desire to know Christ more deeply.

• Eleven children darken the doors of the church weekly (and some twice a week) to make music, enjoy each other’s presence, and find a very special kind of community.

• Parishioners are working quietly behind the scenes to help those who are in need so that we can truly be a parish that welcomes the stranger.

These are only a few “scenes” from a parish that I believe is committed to “living with minds renewed by God’s mercy.” In the coming weeks, there will be several opportunities to invite others to experience the beauty of this parish community. Would you consider inviting a friend to come with you to church? Remember that wonderful invitation from John’s Gospel: “Come and see.” This Sunday, our children choristers will sing at Sung Mass. Come and see. On Monday, we will celebrate Thanksgiving as a parish with a Low Mass with hymns at 6 p.m., followed by a potluck. Come and see. On Sunday, December 7, parishioner Bonnie Hoffman-Adams will offer an Advent Quiet Day on “Praying with Icons.” Come and see. On December 8, we will welcome at least fourteen new members to the parish at Sung Mass. Come and see. On December 15, we’ll anticipate the coming of Christmas with a beautiful service of Advent Lessons and Carols at 3 p.m. Come and see. Come, bringing others along as well, to see the Spirit at work in a community “living with minds renewed by God’s mercy.”

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

November 15, 2024

One of the many gifts of praying the Daily Office is being exposed to a lot of Scripture. Praying Morning and Evening Prayer every day, one is forced to reckon with large swathes of Scripture that are never encountered in the Mass readings and that one would probably not seek out for private study or meditation. We hear dry lists of purity codes in Leviticus but also humorous tidbits, like Jehu son of Nimshi, who “drives like a maniac” (RSV translation, 2 Kings 9:20) and Balaam’s talking donkey in Numbers 22.

And we hear things that we might never wish to hear again. We read of God’s people entering the Promised Land after their years of wandering in the wilderness and slaughtering all those in their path because they believed they had an unquestioned right to the land. We read of blatant xenophobia in Ezra and Nehemiah. We recite psalms in which horrible things happen to enemies, and indeed, where we ask God to do horrible things to those who have wronged us. We are confronted with the sometimes-violent language of the Book of Revelation. The list of such difficult passages is quite long.

But I, for one, am glad that we don’t have a Jefferson Bible, where everything we dislike is removed. I’m glad we didn’t go the way of Marcion, whom the early Church deemed a heretic because he excised the entire Old Testament, claiming it told of a vengeful, wrathful God who was different from the God of the New Testament. All this censoring of Scripture impoverishes us. How, you might ask? Why should we be forced to read of brutal genocide and pray psalms that entreat God for vengeance on our enemies? Well, because the omission of those offensive passages is dishonest.

It’s dishonest to pretend as if we’ve never had a wrathful feeling towards someone who has wronged us, and it’s false to pretend as if our ancestors in faith didn’t either. Which of us is immune from the many sinful impulses of which we read in the Bible? The Bible is, above all, an honest document. The formation of the canon of Scripture wasn’t intended to create a pure, logically-consistent document. It was intended to give us a clear-eyed testament, from the perspective of human authors working under divine inspiration, of how God’s people have come to understand his presence in their lives. The errors in judgment of those who committed atrocious acts in the past in the name of God shouldn’t be banished from our memory, even if we rightly abhor their sinful deeds. If we’re honest about our own sinful tendencies, we’ll continue to read the Bible’s uncomfortable passages and learn from them. We’ll see just how far removed human arrogance and violence are from the God who inspired the injunctions in Leviticus to leave the edges of the land unharvested for the neighbor in need. We’ll see how far removed all the nasty parts of the Bible are from the Shema. We’ll see how far they’re removed from the God who is revealed to us in Christ Jesus. And we’ll look inside our own hearts to acknowledge there the same sinful inclinations present also in others, at which we so often point our fingers in judgment.

If anything, holy Scripture keeps the Church honest. In a hierarchical Church such as ours, there’s a great temptation for authority and power to be abused. In an age of growing national exceptionalism in many corners of the world, including our own, it’s not such a large step from Biblical faithfulness (whatever that might mean for some) to secular exclusivity. Many modern-day Christians aren’t so different from our ancestors in faith who believed they had a divine mandate to destroy others. So, if we continue to confront the more horrendous passages from the Bible—corrected by the knowledge of God’s love and compassion revealed in Christ—we should be severely humbled. Scripture holds up a mirror to us in judgment.

I’ve been thinking about this aspect of Scripture over the past week, partly because we’re discussing the Bible in our Pilgrims in Christ formation process, and partly because I’ve recently learned of the horrendous details of the abuse scandal in the Church of England involving John Smyth and his numerous victims. All of this led Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to resign on Tuesday. Welby admits, in a spirit of repentance, to not doing enough to ensure that the concerns of the victims’ families were heeded. He has said that he failed to take necessary action to report the actions of Smyth to the proper authorities, which could have prevented further abuse. Inaction is in the category of “things left undone” that we confess regularly in our general confession at Mass.

For many people who have left the Church, they can no longer tolerate the Church’s longstanding culture of secrecy and hypocrisy. Many can’t see past centuries of abused authority and misused power, which has led to all manner of disastrous consequences. I understand the revulsion towards this tragic history. And yet, I have great faith in the Church. The Church is composed of fallible humans, but she is still God’s Church. Christ is Lord of the Church, not any bishop or priest or lay person. The Holy Spirit has not abandoned the Church either. The Spirit is alive and active, purging the Church of sin, nudging her to reform, and empowering her to mission in the world.

So, how do we remain faithful to the Church despite her past and current sins? This is where Scripture keeps us honest. We need to understand our own history so as not to repeat the same mistakes. We need to learn our own history so as to be humbled by the risks that come with power and privilege. We need to tell the truth about modern-day scandals, not as gossip but as a way of confessing the Church’s weaknesses so that she can live anew in the power of God’s forgiveness. To boldly confront the unsavory dimensions of the Church’s life is rather like bracing ourselves to stomach one of those offensive passages from the Bible. We shouldn’t ignore or cancel them; we should wrestle with them as a way of discerning how God has done something new, time and again, from out of chaos and human failure.

We have no secrets before God. God is calling us to utter honesty with ourselves and each other. The Church offers us ways of becoming more honest and humble, one of which is the Sacrament of Reconciliation (private confession). During times when our faith in the Church and her leaders is tested, God invites us not to give up hope but to remember that Jesus alone is Lord of the Church. Jesus alone is our Savior. And we’re his Body, his Church, called to holiness. Despite her complicated history, the Church is holy because she ultimately belongs to God. The Church is the living Body of Christ on earth and in heaven. Christ is calling us to repentance, forgiveness, and then thanksgiving for God’s abundant mercy.

We should pray for the victims of John Smyth’s heinous abuse, as well as for the victims’ families. We should pray for an increase of spiritual maturity and humility within the Church. We should pray for all who hold authority in the Church. We should pray for Justin Welby. Let us encourage one another to honesty and love, holding one another accountable as we seek to grow into the full stature of Christ.

Gracious Father, we pray for thy holy Catholic Church. Fill it with all truth, in all truth with all peace. Where it is corrupt, purify it; where it is in error, direct it; where in any thing it is amiss, reform it. Where it is right, strengthen it; where it is in want, provide for it; where it is divided, reunite it; for the sake of Jesus Christ thy Son our Savior. Amen. (BCP, p. 816)

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

November 8, 2024

During my last year in seminary, on the day after the 2016 presidential election, my liturgy professor walked into our class. He knew, of course, that there were many complicated emotions swirling around. He asked the class to open the Book of Common Prayer to Psalm 46, and we prayed together:

God is our refuge and strength, *
    a very present help in trouble. 

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be moved, *
    and though the mountains be toppled into the
                             depths of the sea; 

Though its waters rage and foam, *
    and though the mountains tremble at its tumult. 

The LORD of hosts is with us; *
    the God of Jacob is our stronghold.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, *
    the holy habitation of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her;
she shall not be overthrown; *
    God shall help her at the break of day. 

The nations make much ado, and the kingdoms are shaken; *
    God has spoken, and the earth shall melt away. 

The LORD of hosts is with us; *
    the God of Jacob is our stronghold. 

Come now and look upon the works of the LORD, *
    what awesome things he has done on earth. 

It is he who makes war to cease in all the world; *
    he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear,
    and burns the shields with fire.

"Be still, then, and know that I am God; *
    I will be exalted among the nations;
    I will be exalted in the earth." 

The LORD of hosts is with us; *
    the God of Jacob is our stronghold.

Then, we all closed our prayer books, and we had class. It was so simple and yet so profound. What the class needed that day—and there were conflicting political perspectives in that class—was a reminder that God is our rock. No earthly ruler is our rock. No human being is our savior. And even if our world seems to be falling apart, the LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold.

So, now, just a few days after another major presidential election held in the midst of searing divisiveness, the Church must remember her roots. If you’re disappointed or dismayed with the results, please remember that we’re called to hope—not to be unrealistic or naive, but to hope. This doesn’t diminish our very real fear and anxiety, but hope comes to us within such emotions. Be honest about how you’re feeling; God can handle it. But, ultimately, hope means trusting that the Lord of hosts is with us, even in the valley of the shadow of death. If you’re pleased with the election results, please remember that for many, the results have brought great fear and pain. The election results are deeply personal for many vulnerable citizens. So, for you who might be content with the election outcome, remember, too, that God alone is our hope and strength, something no earthly ruler or government can claim to be.

Emotional times are dangerous times because we can lose our moorings. We may say things we regret. We may make drastic decisions. Social media doesn’t help any of this. But be wary, because in these moments we’re vulnerable to the wiles of the great Deceiver, the Devil. He will prey on our disagreements and despair. He will try to turn us against one another. It’s precisely at this moment, as the Church, that we should remember what we hold in common and what we believe. The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold. No mortal being can validly make that claim. As the wonderful hymn tells us, “Mortal pride and earthly glory, sword and crown betray our trust; though with care and toil we build them, tower and temple fall to dust” (#665, “All my hope on God is founded,” Robert Seymour Bridges, in The Hymnal 1982).

Is not this, then, a moment for the Church to rise in strength? Our prayer book catechism says that the mission of the Church is “to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ” (p. 855). No matter how we feel about this past Tuesday, restoration is our calling. Nothing should get in the way of this. There may be moments in the coming years in which the Church will be called to make difficult decisions to remain true to the Gospel. Time will tell. But we don’t know nor can we predict the future. All we can do is embrace our call from God to be people of restoration and reconciliation, of love, hope, and peace.

At Good Shepherd, I believe we will do this. I believe we will seek reconciliation with one another. If we have wronged another, we will ask for God’s forgiveness. If our conscience is troubling us about something, we can avail ourselves of the healing grace found in the Sacrament of Reconciliation (private confession). We will be a place that stands out from “the world/cosmos” in that we will humbly recognize that we are all sinners in need of God’s mercy and forgiveness. This, in fact, binds us together rather than driving us apart. We will find our deepest communion/restoration with God and one another in the Sacrament of the Eucharist. We will proclaim that every human being has dignity in the eyes of God. We will welcome the stranger and those on the margins. We will strive to love as Jesus loved. While we may speak words of disagreement at times, we will always speak them in charity. We will proclaim the Great Commandment and teach it to our children so they can teach it to their children: Love God and love your neighbor as yourself. We will embrace every person who comes here, regardless of their social status, sexual orientation, political views, gender identity, or background, and we will ensure that our speech to one another is honest but charitable. We will be a safe place if other places become dangerous. We will commit ourselves to being united despite our differences rather than divided by them. We’re children of the Gospel, and nothing else can claim our ultimate loyalty. The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold.

As your priest, I will be here for you to talk or listen if you’re in despair. I am your priest regardless of where you are emotionally in the aftermath of Tuesday’s election. Do not hesitate to call me or reach out at anytime. We’re accountable to one another as fellow Christians on the Way. We’re all here together, sinners loved and redeemed by God, working out our salvation with fear and trembling.

Perhaps this Sunday is an especially appropriate time for Commitment Sunday. It is, practically speaking, the day in which we bring our pledge cards to Mass as visible signs of our financial commitment to ministry in this parish. But it’s much more than that. By making a commitment to ministry at Good Shepherd, we’re making a wholistic commitment to the values of the Gospel. We’re committing to be together in love. We’re committing ourselves to love God, self, and neighbor. We’re committing ourselves to reconciliation, not to division. These are all values that we hold dear at Good Shepherd, and it’s what makes this parish such a profoundly beautiful place.

Above all, let us pray for and with one another. If you feel helpless and without answers, extend grace to yourself and ask God for strength and patience. Ask your fellow parishioners or me for support. If you’re feeling content and proud, pray as well; ask for humility and remember those who are in despair right now. We have one Savior, and he is our Lord Jesus Christ. We have one God, and he is to be worshipped and adored with all that we are and have. The Holy Spirit is still moving among us, always calling us to greater unity, to love, and to peace. Remember what Jesus told his followers: in our hour of anguish and need, the Holy Spirit will teach us what to say (Luke 12:12). May that be so. And remember: The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold. He always has been, and he always will be.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

November 1, 2024

Every year at the Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter, we either welcome someone into the Body of Christ at the font, or we renew our own baptismal vows. It happens in the dark after we’ve heard the ancient stories of God’s saving actions among his people, all by the small but piercing light of the Paschal candle. For those of us who know how the liturgy goes, we’re aware that, by the time we’re at the font, we’re quite close to proclaiming the first Alleluias of Easter. The suspense is thick. The water in the font has been blessed, baptism has happened, and then there’s a wonderful procession from the font to the altar, all still in the dark, with hints of candlelight.

As the procession moves to the altar, a litany is sung by the choir. It’s the Litany of the Saints. As the congregation is aspersed with holy water, we call on the prayers of those we believe are in the nearer presence of God. Holy Mary, Holy Peter, Holy James, Holy Joseph, Holy Lancelot Andrewes, Holy Jonathan Myrick Daniels. . . Pray for us! We sing it with great enthusiasm as our hearts beat faster. The effect of this chanting is ethereal, a cascading effect of names of those who have gone before us. Some gave their lives at the stake or at the teeth of lions in Roman arenas, and some died peacefully in their beds. But all believed in Christ. All believed in the resurrection from the dead. All let the light of Christ guide their lives.

In the dark, after a long Lent and a patient waiting for Easter to break, the Litany of the Saints is a powerful reminder that we’re not alone. It’s yet one more affirmation that we can’t be Christians without the help and aid of others. We can’t be Christians without swallowing our pride and asking for the prayers of our friends in Christ. And it’s our job to pray for them as well.

Just seven months after the Easter Vigil, we celebrate All Saints’ Day. Now, unlike spring, the days are getting shorter. We encounter more darkness with each day that grows closer to December 21. But in addition to the physical darkness outside, there’s a metaphorical darkness around us in this nation as we approach the divisive election of a new president. We’re surrounded by bitter rancor, hateful rhetoric, and searing anxiety from all kinds of people. We seem to be in a state of intractable conflict and division. Is it any wonder, then, that many of us might feel alone, beleaguered, hopeless, and anxious? It’s into the midst of this time of political turmoil and national disunity that the Church has a word to say from her ancient tradition. We’re not alone, and there’s a holy alternative to this state of affairs.

All Saints’ Day affirms these things. We’re not alone. If the Church is truly being the Church, we’ll testify to this in word and deed. We need each other, and the world needs us and the Gospel’s beautiful message of peace and love. On All Saints’ Day, when the veil is peeled back for a time between this world and the next, we catch a glimpse of how things should be, a holy alternative to our present lack of peace and unity. It’s found in the worship of heaven, which is wondrous and glorious, full of united song and praise. There’s more to our existence than anxiety, worry, fighting, and hate. There’s the joy of being in communion with one another, just as on All Saints’ Day, we celebrate our deep union with those who are in the nearer presence of God. They pray for us, and we pray for them. They sing with us, and we sing with them.

As we approach Election Day, remember that we’re meant to be working together, not against one another. The Gospel truth is reconciliation not division. If we’re fostering divisiveness in any kind of way, then we’re missing the Gospel truth. We may not always agree (and that’s okay), but we must love sacrificially. We must always look out for those who will be trampled on by this world. This is who we are as the Church. I pray that the Church across the world in this divided age might have the courage to speak this truth. The world needs to hear it. On Tuesday, November 5, the church will be open all day, as usual for prayer. Stop by if you can to pray Morning Prayer at 9 a.m. or Evening Prayer at 5:30 p.m. We will also offer Low Mass at 12:05 p.m. with prayers for the nation and for a peaceful election process.

But before then, and to remember our Gospel call to unity, come and celebrate All Saints’ Day. This evening, come to Mass at 7 p.m. on this Principal Feast to remember your baptism (or look forward to your future baptism!). Come to rejoice in song and glorious worship with those beloved saints who are still alive in Christ and are experiencing the perfect unity that we can only dream about here. Feast with our parish community after Mass in our retreat house as a visible sign of our dear fellowship. And then come to Mass again on All Souls’ Day, November 2, to pray for those beloved of us who are still making their pilgrimage to the throne of God. Finally, come to Mass yet again on Sunday, because it’s the Lord’s Day. There’s no day like it. For over two thousand years, Christians have gotten up on the first day of the week to remember that we’re never alone. We need each other. And nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus, as St. Paul tells us. And this is so because on the first day of the week, Jesus broke the bonds of death and defeated once and for all the evil that still rears its ugly head among us in our own day. But the victory has been won, and in this time of great division, it’s our job—our bounden duty—as Christians, to get up on the first day of the week, every week, to proclaim that what unites us is greater than what divides us. Hope is always present to us if we dare to see it. The Mass is where we find our deepest communion with God and one another.

If you’ve been away from the church for some time, it’s never too late to come back. If you know someone who’s been away from church for a while, bring them to church with you. The Church is our mother, our true home on this side of heaven. In this time of darkening days, physical and metaphorical, let’s celebrate the light that always shines in the darkness. And nothing can put it out.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

October 25, 2024

Read Scripture carefully, and you will notice how non-anxious Jesus usually is. People, whether his opponents or his disciples, try to lure him into their circles of anxiety, and he resists. Jesus had quite a lot to say about avoiding anxiety. Of course, he said nothing about biological and chemical predispositions to anxiety, which are very real and beyond our control in some ways, but Jesus’s words, on a spiritual level, are helpful, nonetheless. “Do not be anxious about your life, what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor about your body, what you shall put on” (Matthew 6:25). And “do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day” (Matthew 6:34).

There are many other examples from Scripture of Jesus refusing to take the bait of anxiety. The problem with anxiety is that it wants to be passed on. It’s like a bad gift that no one wants to keep. We instinctively want others to take on our anxiety, as if that would make us feel better. But Jesus invites us into trust, but more concretely, into proactivity. In the feeding of the 5,000 (if you recall from last week’s message), the disciples are anxious that there’s not enough for the massive crowd to eat. “You give them something to eat,” Jesus says. If only they could trust that there was enough to go around, they would stop fretting and try to do something about it!

This season of stewardship is a summons into a stance of proactivity rather than reactivity. I don’t need to enumerate the ways in which reactivity has been a disastrous part of our own parish’s history. But over the past four years, I believe we’ve moved into a more proactive posture. The parish’s leadership no longer spend much time fretting and worrying about money (even though we have significant financial challenges). Rather, the parish leaders recognize our many challenges and say, what can we do about it? Let’s make a plan. This is the heart of our five-year plan for fiscal sustainability. All our talk about this plan is not an obsession with money. It’s about being honest that it takes money and vision to do the ministry to which God is calling us. We need to talk about money. We have to talk about money. If we’re resistant to talking about it, then there is perhaps a spiritual issue within us that we need to confront.

So, rather than worrying ceaselessly about drawing too much money from our meager investments, our vestry has said, “Okay, let’s look at five years and see how we can get from here to there, from a deficit budget to a balanced budget.” Over the past few weeks, the Advancement Committee has been explaining why we continue to increase our pledge goal each year. What will such an increase support? For one, increased pledged giving supports expanded ministry, like our new, thriving chorister program. It supports fair compensation for our hard-working staff. But it also supports proactive care of our magnificent buildings and property.

There are over 15,440 square feet of property on this campus, all of which we must maintain. Some of it we rent out, but we are still responsible for caring for this property, which ultimately belongs to the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania. By canon law, we are entrusted by the diocese to steward this property. And much of it is well over a hundred years old, some buildings dating from the late 19th century. Needless to say, there is a large amount of deferred maintenance on our campus. We could worry and fret about this space. But the parish’s leaders have decided to say, “what a gift from God! What a gift to the local community! What priceless space to be used for Gospel ministry.” Maintaining 15,440 square feet of property can’t be done by a staff of two part-time employees, a full-time priest, and a part-time financial administrator. The vestry recently agreed to hire Kevin Loughery, a local contractor, to spend up to five hours a week (as an independent contractor) to tend to building and property needs. You may recall that Kevin was responsible for the gorgeous renovations of the retreat house a couple of years ago. Kevin is a wonderful human being and a gifted craftsman. Already, his presence on campus has helped us care more proactively for our buildings.

Speaking of buildings and property, I invite you to join me and others for a workday in our Memorial Garden tomorrow, October 26, from 1 to 3 p.m. The Memorial Garden (on the side of the church near the circle drive) is the resting place of the mortal remains of two parishioners, with room for many more burials. As we approach All Souls’ Day and as a gesture of love for those who have been laid to rest in the garden, we will clean up the garden and begin envisioning a plan for its future. Register in Realm to let us know you’ll be there, or simply show up!

A proactive stance towards our buildings and property requires an increase in our budget in 2025. This is only one way in which pledged giving allows Good Shepherd to thrive and continue to be a stable presence of spiritual depth in the local community and wider Church. This year’s appeal from our Advancement Committee is one that invites us to echo what our vestry has been doing over the past few years—to be risky in generosity. The Gospel demands nothing less than utterly reckless, sacrificial giving of all that we have and all that we are.

If we listened only to the constant voices of anxiety in our culture, we might be incapacitated by fear. But we at Good Shepherd have chosen to listen to our Lord. Why worry about tomorrow’s troubles? Why worry or fret at all? God knows the number of hairs on our heads. God knows our troubles and our challenges. And God also provides. God has given us enough. Now, gracious Lord, give us the eyes to see it.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

October 18, 2024

If we imagine the canon of Scripture as a three-dimensional map, there are certain stories from the Bible that stand out in bold relief, like raised mountains towering above the plain. It’s not so much that these key stories are more important than others; it’s rather that they speak across the ages in powerful, timeless ways. Jesus’s feeding of the 5,000 is one such story. It appears in all four Gospels, signaling that there is something vastly important about it. It was in this story that I heard a clear word from the Lord during Morning Prayer this past week.

Scripture is “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword,” as the Book of Hebrews tells us (4:12). When listening to or reading Scripture, God speaks into our lives from out of the text through the power of the Holy Spirit—at least, if we’re open to it. When I heard a word from the Lord on Wednesday of this week, it was during an ordinary service of Morning Prayer that I was leading. It was just me in the church (and anyone tuning in on the livestream). I had been musing that morning about church finances and thinking about our ongoing pledge campaign. And then, some words lit up for me. It was the story of Jesus’s feeding of the 5,000 in Luke’s Gospel (9:1-17).

A huge crowd was following Jesus, and at the end of a long day, the twelve disciples tell Jesus, “Send the crowd away, to go into the villages and country round about, to lodge and get provisions; for we are here in a lonely place.” And Jesus turns the tables on them. "You give them something to eat,” he says (emphasis added). The disciples don’t think there’s enough to feed the crowd. They want Jesus to do something about it. But Jesus holds them accountable. They may have only five loaves of bread and two fish, but with that, Jesus works a miracle. I don’t buy the reductionist interpretation that Jesus simply inspired everyone’s generosity so that they dug bread and fish out of their pockets, which they’d been hoarding. I believe Jesus worked a miracle. But I also believe that there’s something profound in that miracle beyond simply the multiplication of loaves and fishes. There had been enough all along, even though the disciples doubted. That was the good news that I needed to hear in Morning Prayer. When we think there isn’t enough, God shows us that we already have enough to do what he’s calling us to do because God’s abundance is miraculous. And recognizing that is also its own kind of miracle.

It should come as no surprise that we’re in the midst of our 2025 pledge campaign at Good Shepherd. Every year, this season of stewardship is intended to help us cultivate a spiritual posture to last the entire year—our whole lives, really. The message is this: there’s always enough. God is generous and has been generous with us, and so our only proper response is to be generous in return. There’s a direct correlation between generosity and trust in God’s gracious provision. Those who are grateful to God and believe in God’s goodness tend to be naturally generous with what God has given them. A pledge campaign is asking us to take a chance on generosity in a very practical way: by making a financial commitment to this parish to support its ministry, which is really God’s ministry.

Perhaps I should say a few words about the practice of pledging, as it may be unfamiliar to some of you. If it’s not, it still might be useful to understand why pledging is an essential part of our life in community. Practically speaking, sacrificial giving from all who are active in this parish is necessary to ensure that Good Shepherd can continue to thrive into the future. Other than some financial support from our diocese towards my salary, Good Shepherd is entirely self-sustaining. And each year, we’re weaning ourselves off that diocesan support. Our projected operating budget in 2025 is around $500,000. We may be a small parish (although growing!), but to maintain our substantial buildings and property, ensure that our staff are compensated fairly, and support expanding ministry, our budget can’t remain small. We rely rather heavily on rental income to support our budget, but beyond that, pledging is the primary way in which we can sustain ministry at Good Shepherd. It’s the healthiest way of supporting ministry here.

Our investments are quite limiated, to date around $450,000. But currently, we have to draw too heavily from these investments to support our budget, which is not sustainable. We are passing a deficit budget each year. The vestry and I are fully aware of this, and so, to address this issue in a responsible fashion, our five-year financial plan is intended to get us to a balanced budget by 2028. In 2020, total giving (pledge and other giving) in the parish was $52,000. In 2024, over $185,000 was pledged ($15,000 more than the 2024 goal)! You can see that we’re headed in the right direction! Our vestry has rightly understood that we need to give ourselves time to increase our own parish giving to support our budget and refrain from drawing from the capital of our investments. And at the same time, each year we must revisit our five-year plan and adjust it to account for expanded ministry, a sign that this parish is growing and not declining. A static budget would mean that we’re not growing.

Reaching our goal in 2028 of a fully balanced budget is ambitious but realizable. When I heard God giving me a word in Scripture at Morning Prayer the other day, I was gently reminded that everything we need is right before our eyes. I’m convinced that we have more than enough to reach this year’s pledge goal of $225,000. If we truly believe we’re responding to God’s call faithfully in envisioning ministry, then we must also trust that we have what we need to support it financially. Jesus is saying to us, you give them something to eat. Jesus is inviting us into ministry. Yes, we must get our hands dirty and live out the vision to which we’re called. But we must also support this ministry through our own sacrificial giving. Giving goes along with doing. They work together.

God is asking us to give to further the work of his kingdom not out of fear, but out of trust. Throughout this pledge campaign, I’ve been inviting each of you to join me in giving sacrificially as a spiritual practice of rejecting the ubiquitous narrative of fear. This might mean working towards a tithe on net income or increasing your pledge from last year. Consider prioritizing your giving to God first, and then balance everything else out.

The leadership of this parish has been recklessly generous in its own stewardship of finances over the past several years. When other parishes might have been tempted to slash budgets out of fear, Good Shepherd’s leadership has elected to trust that while we need to draw more from our investments in the short-term to be a vibrant parish, we can have confidence in God’s gracious provision. By asking you to be generous in your pledging this year, we’re asking you to echo what this parish’s leadership has already been doing. And of course, it’s what God always does for us.

Before you make your pledge, pray. Ask for God’s wisdom. A pledge can be any amount of money, $50 or $5,000 or more, so I believe that everyone can pledge. Pledging is about our life in community because we’re all in this ministry endeavor together. We need each other. Our gifts of money and time to this parish are tangible expressions of our commitment to this parish.

You give them something to eat. I believe that Christ is calling us to feed the world (not simply rely on renters or other unexpected financial gifts to enable the feeding to happen). We who are part of this community called the Church of the Good Shepherd are called to feed the world. And I believe, too, that we have what we need to feed the world. We’re already feeding others. But to ensure that Good Shepherd can feed more and more people with the good news of the Gospel, your and my financial support is crucial.

It’s not too early to pledge. In fact, I encourage you to pledge now online if you haven’t already done so. If you have, thank you! You don’t have to wait until Commitment Sunday (November 10). But on Commitment Sunday, bring your completed pledge card to Mass (even if you’ve pledged online) as a visible sign of your commitment to ministry in this parish. Why pledge? One final word: it’s the most reliable and sustainable means of giving to Good Shepherd. We welcome and are grateful for your special gifts, but I ask you, regardless, to make a pledge. It’s a way of trusting this parish’s responsible leadership to decide how your generous gifts will be a part of Good Shepherd’s thriving in the future.

How does the Gospel story end? “All ate and were satisfied. And they took up what was left over, twelve baskets of broken pieces.” There was enough. There was more than enough. That’s always the way it is with God.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

October 11, 2024

Over twenty years ago, I was serving as an organ scholar in an Episcopal parish in northwest Connecticut while in graduate school. My boss and mentor was a magnificent church musician who lived with his wife on a mountaintop in the middle of nowhere. One night, after a choir concert and an ensuing party, I stayed the night with my boss and his wife since there was another concert the following day and it was too far to drive back to my home nearly an hour away. After everyone had turned in for the night, I was preparing to turn in as well and noticed that the front door was unlocked. I spent a good deal of time trying to lock the door, but to no avail. I only fell sleep uneasily, knowing the front door was still unlocked. The next morning, I explained to my boss what had happened, and he laughed. He said the door was never locked; in fact, the door had to be locked with a key, but he had no clue where the key was!

I had never heard of leaving a door unlocked at night, and I suppose it was perfectly safe on a remote mountaintop in northwest Connecticut. It’s not a good idea, of course, in most places. But the sentiment is lovely. The door to that house was always unlocked, suggesting a level of trust regarding the outside world. Without literalizing unlocked doors to our peril, in what way can the Church—indeed, Good Shepherd—be a place with unlocked doors, all the time, for all people? To be such a place, we must be secure in our identity as the Church, formed and sustained by God in Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Church isn’t called to lock our doors against the world as if the world is a threat. If we know who we are and understand our ecclesial vocation, then we can confidently unlock our doors to the world. That is precisely God’s call to the Church.

As a parish with a retreat house ministry based around hospitality, we claim to be a place with open doors. We leave the church doors open during weekdays for people to stop in and pray. We’re responding to St. Benedict’s encouragement to greet all guests as Christ himself. Over the past two years, the Rosemont Community Retreat House has opened its doors to visitors from across the world. Hardly a week goes by when someone or some group is not in the retreat house as a guest. I’ve been moved by the feedback we’ve received from guests. From vestries on day retreats to individuals making their own retreats, many have said how welcomed they felt here. There’s something intangibly warm and inviting about reading in the downstairs library or hearing the church bells ring the Angelus. The atmospheric qualities of being on retreat at Good Shepherd don’t go unnoticed by our guests.

When we started planning our retreat house ministry over two years ago, we took a leap of faith. It was a major undertaking for this small parish to renovate a large house with significant deferred maintenance and to build and sustain a new ministry. But it transpired through hard work and abundant generosity from the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania, the Association of Anglican Musicians, and numerous organizations and people. Because of the incredible labor of Kevin Loughery, our contractor, we were able to renovate the former rectory and turn it into a beautiful place for retreat. The parish’s leadership felt quite strongly that God was calling us to this ministry of hospitality. We looked around at several thousand square feet of largely unused space and were convinced that it could be a resource for the local community and wider Church. Ministry usually begins with a dream. Rooted in prayer, people assess the resources that God has given them and the gifts present in the faithful gathered in a particular place, and then an idea for ministry ensues. It was that way with us.

Many of you have come to Good Shepherd since the Rosemont Community Retreat House opened. But perhaps some of you have not spent much time in the retreat house other than for coffee hour or a parish potluck supper. As we look towards sustaining this ministry for the long-haul, we need and welcome your input, ideas, and help. The retreat house has already touched many lives. I pray that it will continue to touch many more for years to come.

But there’s a dimension to the retreat house that I don’t believe has yet been realized. While the house is a place for prayer and respite for people from across the wider Church, I pray that it will also be used as a vital resource to address needs in our local community. It is, after all, a community retreat house. We’ve not yet fully lived into this part of the vision for our retreat house, but it’s crucial to our identity as followers of Jesus Christ and especially as a parish within the Anglo-Catholic tradition. We may be a parish that draws people from several different states, but we’re rooted in the village of Bryn Mawr in Lower Merion Township in Montgomery County. I’m convinced that God’s vision for us must emerge from our local context as well as through our connections to the wider Church.

Last week, members of the vestry and some other parishioners met with thirteen people from the local community for a Community Conversation guided by Partners for Sacred Places. We gave tours of the retreat house, church, cloister, and parish house. And then we sat down with our neighbors to ask what struck them about our buildings. In what ways could our buildings be used to partner with organizations doing life-changing work in the local community? What unmet needs are there in our community that we can address through the development of our buildings and property? Because we’re still dependent on rental income from our Parish House, perhaps we should start to answer these questions by looking at our retreat house.

We must not forget the poor, whether the materially poor or the spiritually poor. They are and always will be with us in this life, as Jesus has said. Each of us is poor in some way. We move from honoring the Real Presence of Christ in the sacrament of the altar to honoring his Real Presence in the poor. What will that look like for us at Good Shepherd? Answering this question is not the sole responsibility of the vestry. It will start there as we begin to unpack it in next week’s vestry meeting, but it must then spill over into our whole life in community. All of us need to be a part of it. What those conversations with you will look like and when they will occur are yet to be determined, but they will happen.

In the meantime, I ask you to pray for a greater understanding of how we can engage more with our local community as a natural outgrowth of our worship together. Ask God to show us how we can be with the poor more intentionally. Spend a night in our retreat house. We will all be better interpreters of God’s call to us if we can understand the potential of our buildings. As we approach All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, consider spending a night in our retreat house on Friday, November 1 after our parish potluck, and then stay on campus to attend the All Souls’ Requiem Mass on November 2. Book your room here, and if you’d rather not worry about a donation, email us. The retreat house is not just for outside guests; it’s for all of us. In the coming months, you will hear more about parish conversations intended to help us all discern the specifics of the outward-looking posture to which God is calling us. I’ll look forward to seeing you in church on Sunday!

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

October 4, 2024

It’s easy to say things that we don’t mean, or at the very least, say things that we forget we ever said. There are several liturgies in the Book of Common Prayer in which the congregation says two very important words: “we will.” I wholeheartedly believe that the congregation, when they say these words, does mean them. But I also firmly suspect that the people in the congregation soon forget that they ever said them. You will find this congregational promise in the rites for Holy Baptism, Confirmation, Marriage, and the Ordination of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons.

We often treat the words “we will” as if they are “we do.” Everyone gathered on a particular day in a church to witness the marriage of a couple, baptism of an infant, or ordination of a priest is, presumably, there to support the person in question (i.e., we do support this person, now, in this moment in time). But to say “we will” is harder. In the response, “we will” lies the real test of Christian discipleship. Will those present at the wedding in 2024 and who blithely say, “we will,” be just as willing to support Luke and Pamela or Mark and David in 2030 when they are struggling with financial bankruptcy? Will those who smiled as little Margaret was baptized as an infant and confidently said, “we will” be just as willing to help her when she’s dropped out of college and trying to get back on her feet?

All the above-named liturgies are public rites of the Church. They aren’t meant to occur in private; they’re meant to be celebrated by the entire gathered people of God, which promises its support. In truth, nothing of our lives is really private in the Church. Of course, the sins we confess to a priest are protected by the seal of the confessional, but they have been spoken to the Church in the presence of a priest, and in that sense, they aren’t private. The point here is that when we “sign up” to be a disciple of Jesus, we are embraced by a larger family. We’re intended to know the joys and trials that our fellow companions are experiencing. We’re meant to be there in good times and in bad for those who share our life in Christ together. We see this most vividly played out on the parish level.

The parish, for better or worse, is our family, a microcosm of that larger Body of Christ. But as I said in a sermon a couple of weeks ago, although we must live in the world that thinks in lines of greatest to least, we must stand in those lines as if they’re circles, circle that aren’t closed and tribal but open, always containing room for more people. As we at Good Shepherd live out our identity found in our life in community, we say “we will” to everyone in this community, as well as to those who will eventually find their way here. We aren’t, and should never be, a closed circle.

Our promises to support and uphold one another find their roots in the Mass. The Mass isn’t the only way we worship, but Christians since the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus have sought their unity and deepest communion in the sacrament of the Mass. At its heart is a mystery oriented around giving and receiving. Christ gives us himself in the Mass, and we gladly receive his Real Presence, having given “our selves, our souls and bodies,” as well as our money and all the messes and joys of our lives to God to be made holy. To participate in the mystery of the Mass is to learn how to receive well, even as we give imperfectly. And so to be with other followers of Christ in this parish before God’s altar, we learn most fully how to be in loving relationship with one another, where we give of ourselves sacrificially to each other and receive that love in return. There’s no substitute for the Mass and for regular participation in it. For us Christians, it has primacy of place in our lives. Missing Mass then becomes a rare exception due to illness or extraordinary circumstances, because we are most fully human and most completely growing into who God calls us to be when we’re at Mass. If you’re still wondering why the Mass is so important, please attend Sunday’s adult formation after Sung Mass, which I’ll be leading. We’ll talk further about the theology of worship.

When any of us are absent from Sunday Mass at Good Shepherd, we’re missed. Of course, all of us will travel and be sick from time to time, but I hope that as we uphold our promises to each other—to support, love, and care for one another—we will see our faithful participation in the Sunday Mass as the center of those actions. If this is so, then when we’re away from Good Shepherd on a Sunday, we’ll probably feel incomplete in some way. I can certainly say that when any of you are missing from Sunday Mass, I miss you!

I was recently talking with a parishioner, who reminded me that in the Orthodox tradition it’s customary (perhaps more than we reserved Episcopalians care to admit!) to tell the parish priest all manner of things: when you’ll be traveling, when you’re sick, or when you’ll be away caring for an aging parent or sibling. Letting one’s priest and other parishioners know these things means that we share aspects of our lives with the community of the faithful. Importantly, it enables us to pray for one another in particular ways. But it also means that when someone misses a Sunday Mass, we know why they aren’t there. We also know whether we need to be concerned if someone doesn’t show up. So, I’m personally grateful when parishioners tell me why they’ll miss Mass the next week because they’ll be traveling, even if I’m sad that I won’t see them. It tells me that their attendance at Sunday Mass is important to them and to the parish. And on a practical level, I know not to worry when they miss church next week.

I do believe that this rigorous commitment to one another as fellow disciples has been lost in much of western Christianity. We see our attendance in church as an individual choice or decision, as one option among many. But the early Church would have had no such understanding of Christian discipleship. Our decision to be together in community is an intentional one, and we in the Church might see less falling away from the Church, fewer broken marriages, and fewer abuses of clerical power if we remembered the promises we once made in our liturgies. We will support one another. We’re in this journey of Christian discipleship together, not alone.

It’s my prayer that at Good Shepherd, we’ll come to embody this corporate journey more intentionally. I would love to know when you’ll be traveling or away, and I hope you’ll notice who is missing among us, not so we can judge them but so we can be invested in supporting them in their own lives of discipleship. This is what it means to share life in community. I’ll look forward to seeing you at Mass on Sunday.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

September 27, 2024

The documentary Jasper Mall (2020) traces the struggles of a shopping mall in the small town of Jasper, Alabama. The film opens with a mall manager, who also serves as custodian and a security presence, unlocking the mall in the wee hours of the morning. Over the course of the next 90 minutes, the viewer is introduced to a florist, hairdresser, and jeweler who work in the mall, as well as to local townspeople who congregate there on a regular basis. There’s the group of four elderly men who play dominoes and the high school couple who used to frequent the mall on dates and then meet there over coffee after the relationship ended. For the residents of Jasper, Alabama, the mall is a central meeting place, a place where community forms, where retirees get their daily exercise, and where people exchange friendly greetings in true Southern form. One gets the sense that the mall has been a symbol of constancy and stability in this local community since it opened in 1981. Every day, the mall will open, and shops will unlock their gates.

But in reality, all isn’t well at Jasper Mall. Big department stores like JC Penney’s and Kmart have closed. The florist, mentioned above, ends up closing her shop, and other retailers are pulling out as well. The mall has more empty space than rented space. It’s a victim of an unstable economy and of a society that now does most of its shopping online. The ground bass of the movie is a tension between the stability of community found at the mall and the need for business owners to move on to where they can be more successful.

In watching this documentary recently, I was struck by the sense of constancy and stability that a place like Jasper Mall once provided and still provides, to some extent, for the town of Jasper. Constancy, stability, and community are all things we expect from the Church, too. There’s an ordinariness in the Church’s actions that provides some degree of comfort, although it shouldn’t breed complacency. Like the mall manager opening the doors in the wee hours of the morning alone and in the dark, each day someone opens the church doors at Good Shepherd. Usually, it’s just me doing it, and on Mondays, it’s Jim Davis, our parishioner who leads Morning Prayer. We put signs outside the doors announcing that the church is open for prayer, as well as the Daily Office and Mass.

Sometimes, this routine action feels futile. What if no one shows up? Who’s paying attention to the fact that we’re open and have daily services? In Jasper Mall, there’s an underlying anxiety about how and if the mall will survive. To paraphrase one mall frequenter, if Belk leaves the mall, then everyone is in deep trouble. But there’s also a real difference between the anxiety centered on Jasper Mall and the situation of the modern Church. It often appears as if the Church doesn’t matter to many people. We’re told that if more people leave the Church, we’ll be in deep trouble, too. And yet, the Church isn’t vulnerable to the economy or an online culture in the same way as Jasper Mall. The Church, while in the world, is not of the world. Our foundation is not an unstable market economy or the latest trends in how people find community. Our foundation is Jesus Christ, the true cornerstone.

So, in some sense, it doesn’t matter that on many days, we open the church doors and it’s just me or someone else leading Morning Prayer. The point is that prayer happens. The point is that the church is open. We’re always there as a witness to the constancy of the Gospel, to Jesus Christ, “the same, yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). It’s not a failure that only me and another person are present for a Wednesday or Friday daily Mass. The important thing is that the Mass is celebrated and prayer is offered for the sake of the Church and the world. This quiet witness of regularity, dependability, and constancy is the stabilitas of the Church. The Church is always there, and no matter what happens “out there,” the Church will continue to be God’s gift to the world, an abiding presence comprised of the prayerful community of the faithful centered around Christ.

This stability is what St. Benedict valued in his monastic communities. Monks are intended to be a part of one monastic community, together with a particular group of people, and they’re meant to stay in that community for the duration of their monastic lives. They don’t leave when they get bored. They don’t depart the community when someone annoys them. They don’t leave in a huff when something changes. They’re rooted in a particular community, in prayer and in fellowship with one another. As Rowan Williams describes it, the central question for monasticism is, “How good are you at stability?” (The Way of St. Benedict, London: Bloomsbury, 2020, p. 34). This monastic constancy is seen in the liturgy of the hours, the regular rhythm of prayer that simply happens, no matter what else is going on in the world. Our own parish’s rhythm of prayer is modeled on this ancient, constant way of praying.

Stability is countercultural. As the documentary Jasper Mall shows, modern culture can decide it wants to shop online or prefer a different way of doing business, and consequently, once-stable businesses must close up or move elsewhere. It’s true of other forms of community in the world in which people congregate around habits or things that are, in some sense, ephemeral. The yoga studio or the art class could cease to exist one day. But tradition tells us that the Church will endure, no matter how volatile the world is and no matter how many people leave the Church. The Church reflects the stability of Christ.

The theme of this year’s 2025 pledge campaign at Good Shepherd is “Life in Community.” This isn’t some vague notion of celebrating our happy fellowship together. Life in community is about our collective choosing of a life of stability together, with each other. It’s about answering the question, “How good are you at stability?” We live in a day of church-hopping and consumerism, which can make it difficult to settle down in a particular place. But there’s great value to settling down in one place with certain people. Choosing stability is one way in which we are formed by God in relationship with one another.

Happily, Jasper Mall is still open, despite its precarious situation. And although there was a time when it was uncertain as to whether Good Shepherd’s doors would remain open, we’re more than open. I’m so grateful for our few parishioners who stuck with the parish in its most difficult years. They’re witnesses to stabilitas. Now, Good Shepherd is not just open; it’s thriving and growing. I believe this will continue to happen, but regardless of what occurs outside the Church, we at Good Shepherd won’t stop opening our doors each day for prayer. We will show up, even if it’s just a few of us. We’ll do something that has great meaning and value no matter how many people are involved in it: we will pray. Thank you for your commitment to this place of stability, and may you be blessed by the constancy and stability that is found in our life in community.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

September 20, 2024

If you’re like me, you probably have to work hard to prioritize and organize your days. I know that if I want to prepare adequately for Sunday’s sermon, I need to set aside a period of time each morning (when I’m fresh and lively) to read and study. I also know that if I have any hope of exercising on a particular day, I must do that before my workday begins, because I’ll be far too tired late in the day! In order to incorporate intentional prayer into my day, I must schedule specific times to do so, beyond the moments of spontaneous prayer; otherwise, the day will run away from me, and I’ll have prayed very little. Prioritizing is an art in which we can make the most of our time and set aside precious minutes and hours for those activities that are most important to us.

Our life together in community at Good Shepherd is a way of prioritizing our lives so that God is at the center. It’s one thing to say that we believe in God and want to make time for God, but it’s another to put God at the absolute center of our lives so that God can be the very Source and Ground of our being, animating and enlivening all that we are. To do so, we must undertake a radical reprioritization of our lives. Without knowing it, by simply existing in this rapid, technological age of ours, we’re often forced to push God to the side. Extracurricular commitments and jobs make it more and more difficult to preserve the Lord’s Day for worship. Increasing demands on our time present obstacles for volunteering in the church. The pervasive anxiety of our culture feeds us with 24/7 messages of scarcity and fear. It’s the fear that there is never enough—whether of time, love, compassion, or money. But when we put God at the center of our lives, we no longer need to be in competition with our other non-religious commitments (a point helpfully made by Rowan Williams in The Way of St. Benedict, London: Bloomsbury, 2020, p. 81). Putting God at the center ensures that there is a wholesome balance to all our commitments, whether in the Church or outside the Church. Ultimately, this prioritization of our lives moves us from fear to trust.

Perhaps the most visible expression of how fearful or unfearful we are is the way in which we steward our financial resources. While we’re often unnecessarily reluctant to talk about money in church (even though Jesus spoke quite openly about it), our own spiritual practice of giving—in particular, giving to God’s ministry in the Church—is one of the most significant spiritual disciplines we can undertake. The more we develop love for God and trust in God, the less anxious we’ll find ourselves with regard to money (and other things). But this requires work, which is why sacrificial giving is a spiritual practice. Sacrificial giving encourages us to give first to God and then work everything else out. This becomes a way of balancing our lives.

Our perpetually anxious culture, which watches the markets and gas prices with bated breath, will tell us that a sacrificial way of stewarding our finances is a profoundly foolish practice, nothing short of stupidity and naivete. But after all, we’re fools for Christ, and Christ flips all our perceived values on their heads. What’s really foolish, though, is to throw our money at things that promise us life but can’t really give us life. What is wise, life-giving, and faithful is to return to God what is already his. In doing so, our anxiety and fear begin to fade and a generous space is opened up in our hearts so that our perspective towards all of life changes.

My own personal perspective towards sacrificial giving has changed over time. I’ve not always prioritized God in my giving to the Church. At first, I would see what was hanging around after the bills were paid and after I spent money on desirable things, and then I would make my pledge to the church. But, oddly enough, I was frequently still anxious about money. While my anxiety about money is not completely gone now (will it ever be?), I feel that I’m less anxious much of the time since I’ve tried to put God at the center of my financial stewardship. I’ve learned that my life becomes simpler in some ways. I find I don’t need the extra subscription or book or meal out. I’m quite happy without them. I begin to see the marvelous ways in which what can seem impossible becomes possible precisely because putting God at the center has significantly reoriented my financial priorities.

I believe that two of the hardest things for us to let go of are resentments and money. Resentments are perversely satisfying to hold onto because holding onto them gives us a sense of control. When we’re insecure, we’re more likely to buttress our self-esteem with a litany of resentments against others. Holding onto our money is similar. It gives us the illusion of control. If I can save as much money as possible, my future will be secure. But all of this fails to recognize that all we have and are comes from God. And when we fail to remember this, we turn inwards on ourselves. The spiritual practice of giving reverses our innate solipsism by reminding us, rather painfully much of the time, that all we have (yes, even our money) belongs to God. Our returning of that gift from God back to God moves us from fear to gratitude.

The practice of selfless giving to God also has the effect of binding us to one another in community. Our life in community at Good Shepherd is one in which every person matters. Each of us has gifts that God desires for us to use for the sake of his kingdom. Our life together is rather like a Benedictine community of monks. Rowan Williams has noted that the Rule of St. Benedict, which governs monastic life in community, “presupposes that a viable working community does not permanently split into active and passive members” (The Way of St. Benedict, p. 78). It’s the same at Good Shepherd. All our gifts are needed for our corporate flourishing. And these gifts include the financial resources we contribute towards the advancing of God’s mission in this place. Our gifts of money are visible expressions of our investment in Good Shepherd and, most importantly, in the work of the Gospel.

This Sunday after Sung Mass, our Advancement Committee is hosting a lunch as we kick off the 2025 pledge campaign. If you aren’t sure what a pledge is, please come to the lunch! In short, we’re entering the season of the year when we renew our practice of spiritual giving and prayerfully consider a pledged commitment of money to support ministry at Good Shepherd. Giving and stewardship are lifelong practices; they should never stop. But at this time of year, as the vestry prepares to devise a budget for next calendar year, we’re asked to consider how our own spiritual practice of giving aligns with God’s mission on the ground in this parish.

In 1988, the Episcopal Church’s General Convention noted the tithe as the minimum standard of giving for its members. The tithe (which has a Biblical warrant) is 10% of one’s income. The point of a tithe is that it’s specific enough to require a radical reprioritizing of our financial stewardship. It’s hard to tithe without rearranging how one spends one’s money. It also levels the giving field to some extent, ensuring that every member of the community is contributing towards the good of the whole. Tithing encourages each of us to put God at the center of our lives, both in how we manage our finances and in how we see our own lives as gifts from God. As we begin this year’s 2025 pledge campaign, I’m inviting you to join me in tithing on your net income. If this is not yet possible for you, perhaps you can consider working towards a tithe over a period of time.

Be assured: the world in which we live is one of abundance, although, sadly, the resources are hardly distributed equitably and fairly for many people. It’s a broken, sinful world in which the clamoring voice of Sin has inserted a mantra of scarcity into our ears and hearts, and this is so often the root of the evil we see around abuse and misuse of money and resources. But in our own spiritual practice of giving, we have a beautiful opportunity to listen not to Sin’s voice but to God’s voice. And God’s voice tells us that we have no reason to fear because God can work miracles with very little. Five loaves of bread and two fish can feed a crowd of a thousand, and there are still crumbs left over to be gathered up. In God’s kingdom, there’s always enough, and nothing—nothing—is ever wasted. And because of this remarkable good news, there’s nothing to fear.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

September 13, 2024

The rector of the Anglo-Catholic parish that sponsored me for ordination once remarked that the heartbeat of the parish is the daily Mass. When I first heard him say that, I partially understood what he meant. Over a decade later, I understand it more clearly. There’s a shadow side to Anglo-Catholicism when we become so obsessed with the intricacies of a High Mass that we want nothing to do with a Low (Said) Mass. It’s not that smells, bells, and chanting aren’t beautiful or even important. They’re simply overt, external expressions of a quiet, inward devotion to a sacramental piety that is strongly tied to the Incarnation. As Episcopalians worshipping in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, we have a special devotion to the sacramental life of the Church, where we see the hallowing of matter by God. In this sense, ordinary, small things matter. We could say that smells and bells, while apparently unnecessary, are indeed necessary in this reverential attention to detail. And yet, the glory of a High Mass can, if we’re not careful, paradoxically distract us from the quieter, more mundane expressions of our piety. I would suggest that the glory of the High Mass and the quiet dignity of a Low Mass are both necessary to an Anglo-Catholic piety. A healthy life of piety usually has a good degree of balance within it.

So, to say that the heartbeat of an Anglo-Catholic parish is the daily Mass is, oddly enough, to challenge an easy equation of Anglo-Catholicism with the visible symbols of a High Mass. It’s to say that the glory of a High Mass finds its origins in the simple, day-to-day participation in the Eucharistic action. In a time when we are the inheritors of a Catholic-influenced prayer book (the 1979 Book of Common Prayer), we may very well ask what distinguishes us as Anglo-Catholics. There’s no longer anything for Anglo-Catholics to “prove” or “fight” about, and thank goodness! But there’s a lot that we can testify to as a gift to the wider Church. Above all, we aspire to a reverence for all things—for created matter that is made holy through the Church’s sacramental life, for a particular kind of respectful presence before the altar of God, for an insistence on regular, constant public worship, and for keeping the Church’s holy days. Very few parishes mark all Major Holy Days with Masses, even though the prayer book clearly expects this will happen. Our observance of such days is one way in which we can call the wider Church to enter more deeply into God’s time.

By entering into God’s time, ordinary life is sanctified and set apart as belonging to God. You’ll notice a reverential silence before and after Masses at Good Shepherd and in the setting apart of the church interior as a sacred space, a place of reverence in an increasingly irreverent world. I was reminded of all this on Saturday as we held a refresher training for our acolytes. I explained that the attention to detail (in how to hold our hands when serving and how to comport oneself in worship) is not at all about being “fussy” or “stuffy.” Rather, such attention to detail means that we’re setting apart all that we do—our lives and our actions—so that God can make them holy. We should have a sense of humor even as we do that, but ultimately, worship is not about us, it’s about God and what God does with the brokenness of our lives. Details matter. When ordinary life is hallowed, then what the rest of the world deems unnecessary, we categorize as necessary for shaping lives of piety and holiness. As the well-known liturgist and priest Louis Weil once remarked, “God is in the details!”

To say that the heartbeat of an Anglo-Catholic parish is the daily Mass is also to make an implied connection between the seemingly unnecessary details of an acolyte training and the necessary hallowing of the ordinary in our lives. The details of our liturgical practice are not unnecessary afterthoughts; they say a great deal about how much we look upon the quotidian realities of daily life with love and grace. A Wednesday daily Mass at Good Shepherd is not inferior to a High Mass. Indeed, the daily Mass invites us to move to a more contemplative gazing upon the holy mysteries of the Eucharist. Attendance at a daily Mass is a profound statement that on a particular, ordinary day of the week, we still believe that Jesus makes himself known to us in the breaking of bread. The heartbeat of an Anglo-Catholic parish (in fact, any parish) is an ability to pray without ceasing, to mark the changes and chances of this mortal life with prayer and an entrance into God’s kairos time.

Unfortunately, the daily Mass was a casualty of the difficult recent years of Good Shepherd’s history, and I have found that once such a practice disappears, it’s very difficult to recover. But I don’t like the idea of giving up! For some, maintaining a daily Mass might seem unnecessary, but I would argue that it’s necessary to sustaining a pattern of holiness. Not everyone can fit a daily Mass into their schedule, but the point of a daily Mass is not the number of people present. The point is that at least two or three (a faithful remnant) are gathered to give thanks to God and stand in the place that Christ has prepared for us by interceding for the Church and the world. I would personally prefer not to sacrifice our hope that we can recover the tradition of the daily Mass at Good Shepherd on the false altar of a declining Church. To recover such an essential practice of Anglo-Catholicism at Good Shepherd will require a committed effort from all of us. It’s a joint effort, not a sole effort of the parish priest, because the Mass should not happen with only me present! The daily Mass is a powerful reminder of the necessary presence of the laity and is an interesting challenge to clericalism.

I would like us to seriously consider how we can support the revival of the daily Mass at Good Shepherd. We won’t do it overnight. It will take some time. But it starts with one person, and then it grows. At the moment, our Rector’s Warden, Don McCown, faithfully serves the 8 a.m. Friday morning Mass. I’m grateful for Don’s devotion to that Mass. Usually, it’s just me and Don, but it’s a powerful thirty minutes or so of deep prayer, a quiet and wonderful way to begin a new day. We have recently begun offering Mass at 12:05 p.m. on Wednesdays, although we’ve not yet had anyone show up for that Mass! But I’m optimistic, and I believe that Good Shepherd, with time, can move back to recover its Anglo-Catholic heartbeat—its heartbeat of thanksgiving—in the daily Mass.

One way to ensure that we can build a culture of the daily Mass once again in this parish is to recruit servers for the daily Masses. Would you be willing to give an hour of your time in the middle of a Wednesday to be a part of this parish’s magnificent hallowing of ordinary time? Will you consider helping us commit to increasing reverence in our world through the habit of regular prayer? Will you help this parish remain true to its roots in maintaining the venerable and beautiful tradition of the daily Mass? If so, please reach out to me.

In my four years at Good Shepherd, I have felt the power of our regular public prayer. It has helped us discern more clearly God’s call to us. I believe that it’s been essential to our growth and that it’s necessary to our vitality as a parish committed to loving the Lord and our neighbors. The ostensibly unnecessary but necessary rhythm of prayer and our perpetual stream of thanksgiving are what distinguish us Anglo-Catholics today in an Episcopal Church where the Sunday Mass is de rigueur. We are committed to extending the Sunday Mass into every day of the week, because every day is holy, every minute is holy. It’s all a gift from God, and for that, the only response is thanksgiving, which is the heart of the Mass.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

September 6, 2024

In a recent book, former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams notes that there is no stasis in the spiritual life (Passions of the Soul, London: Bloomsbury, 2024, p. xviii). You’re either moving forward (growing) or moving backwards (regressing). This is a longstanding theme within the spiritual tradition. It doesn’t mean that the spiritual life can be measured or quantified in the same way that interest rates or populations rise or fall. It simply means that we are either letting God draw us more deeply into who we’re created to be or we’re resisting God’s invitation to do so. We’re never treading water. If we’re seeking to share a part of the divine life, however much we may rest in God, it is not a static rest.

Stasis in the spiritual life breeds complacency. And complacency is borne out of pride. Complacency idolizes inertia and the status quo. Anytime we imagine we have mastered prayer or that we have it all figured out or that we don’t need to stretch ourselves spiritually, then we have fallen into stasis. And this is very dangerous, because then we begin to equate what’s comfortable with what God desires for us or with our “success” or spiritual accomplishments. Our spiritual forebears were correct: you’re either moving forward or backwards in the spiritual life. As Rowan Williams puts it, we’re either growing or shrinking.

Have you noticed how much our Lord speaks of growth in the Gospels? The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed that “when it is sown. . . grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade” (Mark 4:32). And “[t]he kingdom of heaven is like leaven which a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, till it was all leavened” (Matthew 13:33). The three synoptic Gospels end with exhortations to preach the Gospel to the ends of the earth. This certainly implies a kind of growth. And do you remember the descriptions of the early Church in the Acts of the Apostles? Acts 2:41 tells us that in one day 3,000 souls were baptized, which clearly suggests that this is a mark of the Holy Spirit’s power and the expansion of the Gospel. And recall how the author of the Letter to the Ephesians connects the use of spiritual gifts with bodily growth (4:16). These are only a few examples from Scripture in which growth is viewed favorably.

Spiritual growth and Gospel growth are, of course, far more than numerical growth and the mechanical, utilitarian growth of modern progress. Spiritual and Gospel growth express vitality, creativity, and the outward thrust of mission. Each of us is created to grow more and more into the likeness of God. The Gospel is meant to be shared, not hoarded. If the old maxim is true—that there’s no such thing as stasis in the spiritual life—then we must always be stretching ourselves in some way spiritually. Again, this is quite different from the modern quest to do more and more, where nothing is ever enough. Nor is it some kind of Pelagianism. Growth in the spiritual life means deepening maturity, where our complacency is challenged by the Holy Spirit’s refining fire.

As we begin a new program year this Sunday, it’s as good a time as ever to commit ourselves anew to spiritual growth. I’d like to suggest a few ways in which we might flex our spiritual muscles. A bodily analogy is helpful because, as with exercise, spiritual growth can, at first, feel uncomfortable or painful. Spiritual inertia is rather like lazing around on the couch instead of going for a run. It takes initiative to respond to God’s graceful invitation to grow. What are some ways in which we can submit to God’s call to grow spiritually?

1) We can put God at the center of our lives by prioritizing worship. First and foremost, this means being present for public worship on a regular basis and attending Sunday Mass. The Lord’s Day re-centers our lives. God becomes the North Star to which we are always orienting ourselves. But this focus on worship can extend beyond Sundays to prioritizing Major Holy Days, attending weekday Masses, praying the Daily Office, and saying our prayers. If it feels like a stretch, then it’s probably doing us some good!

2) We can participate in Christian formation. At Good Shepherd, weekly formation is offered for children ages three and up, as well as for adults. Our new chorister program, which begins rehearsals next week, is a robust means of Christian formation in addition to Sunday classes. Pilgrims in Christ, for adults, is a heavy time commitment but also an excellent way to avoid spiritual complacency. Even if you think you know a lot about the Episcopal/Anglican tradition, there’s always more to know. And though you may have been a Christian your entire life, there’s always room for more formation.

3) We can let Christian community shape our lives. By attending Sunday coffee hour, we challenge ourselves by being in relationship with new people, our beloved friends in Christ. By showing up to church, even when we don’t feel like it, we’re molded by God in the presence of our neighbor. Our neighbor’s concerns become our concerns. Our neighbor’s sorrows are ours, too, and vice versa. (We can’t be very good Christians alone!) I believe that churches are some of the only remaining places on earth where we can agree to disagree in love, where we can find true forgiveness, and where we can be loved with no strings attached. Churches should be places of dialogue and conversation, of charitable speech and loving action.

4) We can put our faith into action. The mission field begins at the door of the church. We’re gathered into the church for worship to be sent into the world in mission and loving service. This might take the form of participation in one of our many ministries, or it might mean volunteering at another local organization. We are invited to live every minute of our lives as an extension of the Mass.

I hope that you, like I, can feel the dynamic energy in the air at Good Shepherd. The rising numbers at services reflect growing levels of spiritual commitment. Here are some examples. There are already seven persons signed up for Pilgrims in Christ. Twelve children are signed up for our new chorister program, including all the children currently in formation who are old enough to join the choir. The ranks of those serving at the altar and helping with the sacristans guild, among many ministries, are increasing in number. Financial giving has been steadily increasing, which I take to be a marker of a growing commitment to the spiritual practice of sacrificial giving. Likewise, our budget is increasing each year, reflecting the growth in ministry at Good Shepherd. In a growing church, there are no such things as static budgets either! These are only a few examples of the vitality of our shared life together.

Above all, the growth that is happening in our midst is the work of the Holy Spirit. It’s a sign of belief in the Gospel. If we believe that the Gospel is one of life and that its truth will set us free, then we should never lag in longing to spread this good news to the ends of the earth. We have to believe the good news and experience its claim on our lives before we can effectively share it. Our life together in Christian community is the primary way in which we allow the Gospel to lay claim to our lives.

This Sunday, let’s celebrate. We will start with Mass, our spiritual center, when the full choir will return at Sung Mass. And then, having feasted on the Body and Blood of our Lord, we’ll feast together at our parish picnic. You won’t want to miss it! Please bring a salad, side dish, or dessert to share. But if you can’t, come anyway! Better yet, bring a friend. Now is a time to celebrate the joy of life in community. Now is a time to give thanks and rejoice in the Gospel truth that will set us free.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle