One Sunday morning, a mother went in to wake her son and tell him it was time to get ready for church, to which he replied, “I’m not going.” “Why not?” she asked. “I’ll give you two good reasons,” he said. “One, they don’t like me, and two, I don’t like them.” His mother replied, “I’ll give you two good reasons why you should go to church. One, you’re 54 years old, and two, you’re the priest!”

Yes, even clergy have those moments when it seems more appealing to pull the covers up and steal a few more precious moments of sleep than to “go to church.”

And yet, that familiar phrase, “going to church,” may point to part of a deeper problem.

For many, church has come to feel like one activity among many, one destination among others: we go to the bank, go to the store, go to a game… and, if it suits us, we go to church. But from the beginning of the Christian faith, “Church” has meant something far more.

In the New Testament, Church is not primarily a place we go, but a people who are gathered. More to the point, it is a people gathered by God. The initiative does not rest with us. God is the one who calls, who draws, who brings people together so that, together, they may become something in and for the world.

The apostle Paul gives this vision its most powerful expression in the image of the Church as the Body of Christ. Across the centuries, Christians have returned to that image again and again, along with others like it: a family, a community, a spiritual house built of “living stones.” (1 Peter 2:5) Each points to the same truth: the Church is not a static institution or a weekly appointment, but a living, breathing reality, an organic gathering that owes its existence to the One who gathers.

This is why the absence of gathering in our time matters more than we might think. When gathering becomes occasional or optional, something essential is diminished, not only in our own lives, but in the life we share with one another.

Some of these thoughts found their way into my annual message to the congregations in the Parish of Salvage, where I currently serve. Here is a brief excerpt:

“…gathering for worship has always been more than attending an event. It is an act of care for one another. The Letter to the Hebrews urges Christians to meet together so that they may ‘encourage one another.’ Often, we do not know who needed to see us that day – or whom we needed to see—until we arrive.”

You may be reading this on a weekday. But even now, God is at work, drawing you and others together for that shared encounter with the risen Christ. And when Sunday comes, we do not simply go. We are gathered.

Someone may be waiting for your presence… though neither of you knows it yet.

The post Called and Gathered appeared first on Anglican Life.

One particular gathering stands out in my memory. The topic that day was poetry, specifically the form known as Haiku. This Japanese art form follows a simple structure: three lines of verse arranged in a pattern of 5-7-5 syllables. After introducing Haiku to the group, I offered them a gentle challenge. They were invited to try writing their own Haiku poem and, if they wished, to share it with the group the following week.

I remember leaving that session unsure whether anyone would take up the invitation. But my prayers were met—and surpassed—the next time we gathered. Several residents had written poems and were eager to share them. The experience was rich in every sense. I could see that those who had participated glowed with a deep sense of accomplishment. In that moment, it felt as though God had opened a door that many had not known was still there. I was reminded that creativity does not diminish with age, and that the Spirit continues to stir gifts within us long after the world assumes they have faded.

This brief reflection may inspire you to try your own hand at writing Haiku poetry. I encourage you to do so. You may wish to focus on a particular theme: hope, grace, struggle, love, or simply on the small details of a single day. You might also incorporate prayer into your writing. For example:

“God of the ages, open the eyes of my heart, I pray. Help me to recognize your goodness in the world this day, and by your Spirit, guide my writing as I give you glory.”

In small, quiet acts of creativity, we may discover that God is still speaking… and that we are still being invited to listen.

The post On Poetry appeared first on Anglican Life.

While the liturgy itself was beautiful, what moved me most happened outside the cathedral doors. The congregation was filing out of the service to the strains of glorious organ music. Seeing the Primate standing near the front steps of the cathedral, I approached him and offered my best wishes. “May I have a blessing?” I asked. He reached forward, traced the sign of the cross on my forehead, and spoke just four words. Such a brief moment might seem forgettable, yet it lingers in my mind, returning at unexpected times. These reminders have led me to reflect on the ancient practice of making the sign of the cross.

Anglicans approach devotional practices in different ways, as they do with many theological topics. Some will appeal to the Reformation-era principle of sola scriptura (only those practices that are mentioned in the Bible are to be adopted).

Interestingly, Martin Luther – a Reformer himself – instructed his followers with these words: “In the morning, when you rise from bed, sign yourself with the holy cross and say, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’…At night, when you go to bed, sign yourself with the holy cross and say, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’”

Luther was affirming a basic devotional act that can be traced back to earliest Christian times. A number of theologians from that era encouraged making the sign of the cross, including Cyril of Jerusalem in the 4th century, who wrote: “Let us not be ashamed to confess the Crucified. Let the cross, as our seal, be boldly made with our fingers upon our brow and on all occasions over the bread we eat, over the cups we drink, in our comings and in our goings, before sleep, on lying down and rising up, when we are on the way and when we are still.”

The medieval church carried this practice forward, and the 1552 edition of the Book of Common Prayer features this note: “As touching, kneeling, crossing, holding up of hands, and other gestures; they may be used or left as every man’s devotion serveth, without blame.”

Signing oneself with the cross can signify many things, including that through the physical gesture the believer recalls – and proclaims – the source of salvation. It can provide a way of entering a state of worship which includes not only heart and mind, but also the body. In this way, it becomes an affirmation of the Incarnation. And it links us to a vast family of Christians – Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox – scattered across the world, most of whom we will never meet. Yet we are united with them by this shared, sacred gesture.

The post A Sacred Gesture appeared first on Anglican Life.

Whenever food is involved, there’s usually an expectation that “the minister” will offer the blessing. I’m always happy to do so. Still, I’ve sometimes wondered: what would happen if I tapped a random person on the shoulder and ushered them toward the microphone instead? (Did your blood pressure spike just a little?) It’s a lighthearted thought, but also a reminder that every Christian—lay or ordained—should be ready to offer a word of thanks, whatever the setting.

Our Anglican tradition gives us a deep appreciation for the formal prayers of the Book of Common Prayer—and rightly so. But Jesus often spoke about the value of simple, heartfelt prayer. He praised humility and warned against showy, performative religiosity (see Matthew 6:5). “Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,” he taught (Matthew 18:4).

So perhaps a table grace doesn’t need to be complex. Something as honest and simple as, “God, thank you for your goodness, and thank you for this food,” might be just what’s needed.

In the Ash Wednesday Litany of Penitence, we ask forgiveness for “our failure to commend the faith that is in us.” Could a simple, sincere table grace—spoken aloud, in public—be one small way to answer that prayer? Maybe even a way to encourage others to do the same?

Anne Lamott, in her delightful little book Help, Thanks, Wow, offers a guide to this kind of simple prayer. It’s a great read for anyone exploring a more candid, approachable way to speak with God—and a great pick for a church book group.

So, next time someone taps you on the shoulder, what will your table grace be?

Andreas Thiel+

Rector, Parish of Salvage

The post Reflections From The Table appeared first on Anglican Life.

Speaking of gifts… in a recent pre-baptism session with a young couple, we discussed the Rite of Holy Baptism, as it’s set out in the Book of Alternative Services. I hadn’t met the couple before, so I didn’t want to make any assumptions concerning their church background or their understanding of the sacrament of baptism. These conversations can at times be awkward, and so I was more than a little relieved that they were receptive to having these preparatory conversations. Turning to the service itself, we spoke about the questions that are addressed to parents and sponsors, including references to “Satan” and the “evil powers of this world.” We arrived at the penultimate question, concerning a desire to turn to Christ as Saviour: “Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?” There was a pause, which was broken by my question: “What is grace, anyway?” At this point, there was an even longer pause.

How would you answer that question? In our churches, we sing about grace regularly. We pray for it just as regularly. But when it comes to actually explaining what we mean when we say the word, it seems that the words don’t come so easily. How can one put one’s whole trust in Christ’s grace if the meaning and significance of that grace remain vague?

In our halting conversation, we eventually agreed that the word “gift” was a good place to begin thinking about grace. God’s gift is what we were preparing to celebrate, and that gift certainly included the gift that they held in their arms at that moment: the gift of their beloved child.

The late Christian writer, Frederick Buechner, devoted a great deal of time to setting down theological definitions as he understood them. Many of his definitions can be found on the website www.frederickbuechner.com. Here’s what Buechner says about grace: “The grace of God means something like: ‘Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are, because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.’”

Buechner’s definition is a gift in itself. It touches on our existence, inclusion, meaning, relationship, safety, love—a string of precious gifts, really. To which, you and I might wish to add our own.

Andreas Thiel+

Rector, Parish of Salvage

The post Grace appeared first on Anglican Life.