We are shaped by stories. The stories that we hear and the stories that we tell. We are adherents of this faith because each of us has been transformed by the Jesus story -- and we have, at different levels of intensity, committed ourselves to living with that holy story. And committed ourselves to passing that story on. Last night we heard two people from the diocese -- Deacon Diane Riley and Newark ACTS intern Mark Sharrow, share how the Jesus story has shaped and challenged them to step out in audacious faith, which is the theme of Convention and is a metaphor taken from the vision statement. This morning I want to share a bit of my story -- and how my journey has been shaped by the Jesus story; but to do that I first need to tell you the story of Sepphoris.
Sepphoris was the regional Roman capital of northern Israel -- and it was built during the years of Jesus' youth. Sepphoris was one hill over from Nazareth, where Jesus grew up -- about three miles away. Whereas Nazareth was a tiny village literally carved out of the hillside, Sepphoris was wealthy beyond measure, which reflected a power that couldn’t be questioned -- and which was exactly the point Rome wanted to make. I had never heard of Sepphoris until I visited it five summers ago on a side trip from Nazareth. Our small group toured the ruins of this ancient city -- and we could see the remains of cobblestone streets and the elaborate inlaid tiles of the baths nestled in the Roman-like palaces.
Joseph, Jesus' father, was an artisan, and no doubt he earned some of his living as a day laborer at the Sepphoris construction site. When Jesus was old enough to apprentice to his father, Jesus accompanied Joseph down the hill from Nazareth, across the valley and up into Sepphoris -- and back again, for the purpose of learning a trade. Jesus also learned about difference -- radical difference; between the opulent wealth of Sepphoris and the hardscrabble poverty of Nazareth.
Two very different worlds. And two closed systems -- Sepphoris by intention, which it could perpetuate because of privilege and power; and Nazareth by oppression, which lived under the heavy boot of Rome. Nazareth was a jail without walls.
Jesus was imbued by the charism of being the holy one of Israel. He was also, no doubt, shaped by his regular commute between Nazareth and Sepphoris. He was, I believe, radicalized by the economic, racial and political chasm between the two communities. As a result, he spent much of his ministry trying to open up closed systems, which he did by building bridges between communities -- and by building bridges between anyone and his divine father.
I tell this story because I grew up in a modern version of Sepphoris. In Darien, Connecticut, a New York City suburb. In the early 1960s real estate covenants made it impossible for non-whites and non-Christians to live there. The community displayed its enormous financial power in its schools, stores and neighborhoods. Although I didn’t know it at the time, it was a closed system. For me, it was home. It was all I knew. There was -- and is, a strong pull to stay in such a community -- in a closed system, because of its comfort, safety and privilege. But there were people in Darien who journeyed freely and intentionally to modern versions of Nazareth. Not just to bring upper middle class largesse, but to be challenged and changed by difference. The pull to stay in was strong, but the itch to venture forth was real.
From Darien, I went on to Amherst College, which then as now, was a place of comfort and privilege. It prided itself on being an academically elite school -- and its elite status filtered into nearly every aspect of college life. Although a bit more open, it was still a closed system. In many ways, it was an extension of my life in Darien.
After college, I lived in Japan for two years. Nearly everything was marked by difference -- language, culture, food, religion. My horizons were expanded. For the first time in my life, I was really out of Sepphoris. And in many ways all I wanted to do was to get back in to the comfort and privilege of a closed system. But I couldn’t get back into Sepphoris, because Japan is a closed system to foreigners. The Japanese word for foreigner -- gaijin, literally means outsider.
While in Japan I met Jesus -- not for the first time, but in a new way. By exploring another religious tradition, I was brought into a deeper relationship with my own. By experiencing the exile of being an outsider, I experienced a more intense need for Jesus’ prophecy and his bridge building -- and his ability to bring people together. I was introduced to a different kind of comfort -- a more abiding comfort that privilege could not touch. I met more people who lived with this deep spiritual comfort -- and which enabled them to step out in audacious faith. I wanted some of that. My itch was in fact a deepening spiritual desire to be more open -- to receive more authentic spiritual comfort so I too could step out in audacious faith. And better resist the pull from the sirens of Sepphoris.
And I have stepped out -- some; but I have also allowed myself to be pulled back at times. It has been an ongoing dance, if not a struggle, between the promise of freedom in an open system and the false sense of security in a closed one. And over the years I have arrived at some important insights for me -- and I offer them to you:
Privilege is not freedom
Certainty is not faith
Security is not vision
I have also noticed that my struggle is a common one, exacerbated by a dominant secular culture which systematically markets privilege, certainty and security. And much of the religious world today -- which I think is just an extension of the secular world, promotes variations of privilege, certainty and security. The pull to stay in Sepphoris is strong; the desire to get into Sepphoris is also strong.
But Jesus said "No" to any closed system or any entity that tried to truncate freedom, faith and vision by serving up bromides, prejudice or fear. Jesus risked freedom, and he has challenged us to do the same. He has dared us to help him open up closed systems -- and to live into the freedom of his faith and vision -- by which we are fed every time we receive the Eucharist. To live with the Christ in freedom, faith and vision is my deepest desire. It is also my biggest challenge.
One of the blessings about being in the Diocese of Newark is seeing how individuals and congregations have dared to step beyond privilege to freedom, beyond certainty to faith and beyond security to vision. This diocese has a long history of doing that -- and continues to build on that legacy. Some of this has to do with geography -- modern day versions of Nazareth and Sepphoris are hard by one another; and over the years we have learned to be taught and fed by one another, and have worked at creating permeable boundaries between congregations, and between congregations and local communities.
Yet this isn’t always the case. Without mission and vision -- and without the discipline to live into mission and vision, individuals, congregations and dioceses fall back into patterns of closed systems. They seek security and certainty. Especially during periods of cacophony and chaos -- which is what we have now.
I am very grateful for our mission statement, which we have been living into for a year and a half -- and our vision statement, which we have been working with for about six months. The mission statement -- equipping congregations, empowering people and engaging the world -- with the hope and justice of Jesus; has helped us get clear about what we are called to do -- and just as importantly, about what we are not called to do. We have aligned our budget and the senior bodies of the Diocese -- Trustees, Standing Committee and Diocesan Council, with the calling of our mission statement.
The vision statement presents a portrait of what our diocesan life will look like as we live into our mission with discipline and clarity. The vision is filled with prophetic imagery. As such, it is imbued with promise -- God’s promise of abundant blessing. There is no certainty here, no security -- and the vision (along with the mission) calls us to dismantle the privilege or to insist on freedom for everyone in equal measure.
As we live out our mission statement and dare to live into the vision, there are certain parts of our life that I want to highlight; and certain practices that are ripe for “institutional reformation” (as expressed in the vision statement). Discipline is key. Spiritual discipline. Patterns of spiritual practice. One of the wonderful things I have discovered in my time as bishop is the desire that so many people have -- from all across the diocese, to be in relationship with the living Christ. I see it. I hear it. And I devote much of my vocation supporting that holy relationship.
Without spiritual discipline, we become easy pickings for the purveyors of privilege, certainty and security. So I will keep before the diocese the expectation for all of us to live into a pattern of praying, giving, serving and learning. And to create a culture of spiritual discipline. To that end I have pulled together a group of laypeople and clergy to help design spiritual patterns and practices -- and to continue to work with me to keep the issue of spiritual formation and practice before us. Our spiritual disciplines lead us to the heart of God -- and to a place of freedom that empowers “people to become alive and confident in their faith” (another quote from the vision statement).
Story is also key. For those of us who have been Episcopalians for a long time, telling our story has meant that all we had to do is reveal our identity: "I am an Episcopalian." Reciting those words was enough. It placed us on a Christian continuum, accurately or not. Today, most people don’t know how to pronounce the word "Episcopal," much less spell it. People don’t know who we are. So we have to tell them. Not about our identity, but our story. Not just the demographics of who we are, but who we are with Jesus. How our deepest desire is nurtured and where we discover our greatest hope.
This is not easy. The challenge for me -- for all of us -- is to answer the call from the vision statement: to "venture into places where we are not expected -- indeed, where we are not even welcomed, to be seed throwers, fire starters, hope peddlers, risk takers and dreamers on behalf of the Good News of Jesus Christ." Later on today, you will have a chance to tell your story of when you stepped out in audacious faith. Let the audacious among us arise.
Which brings me to youth. They are also key -- not just to our future, but to our life now. We need to support and guide them -- and take the risk of being transformed by their audaciousness. We have a youth movement going on in the diocese, and we need to put more energy and intention into it. Kai Alston, from our staff, doesn't just work with youth. She is about nurturing faith and training leaders. We have invested in Newark ACTS, an incarnation of eight young adults who have been brought into our midst. Each of them, in their own way, has stepped out in audacious faith. What I am learning is that young people want to serve -- and we need to give them the opportunity. They are exposing the illusion of privilege as freedom. Newark ACTS is not just a program of the church; it is the church. And these young people are opening up the church to new models of ministry.
We have an extraordinary group of deacons. I am inspired by their commitment to Christ and their passion for ministry– and the impact they have on the church. We need more deacons. And we need young deacons. Next month I will be meeting with the deacon community to figure out how we can identify young people to become deacons and fashion a creative path to ordination for them. I will also be meeting with our growing cohort of young priests, inviting them to share their perspectives on the church -- and to dream with me about creating a young adult ministry in Harrison.
Social Justice has long been a passion of this diocese. For decades we have been catalysts for change in the national church. It is incumbent upon us in the 21st century to consider anew the wider work in our communities and the world. And so we have created a justice board, comprised of the deputies to General Convention -- and some others. While the justice board will continue to work on various justice issues as identified by General Convention, our focus in the diocese will be on children, those among us who are both the most vulnerable and whom we invest with the greatest hope.
I will continue to challenge congregations to be mission-focused on children and youth -- within the congregation and in the larger community. There are some congregations which have clearly identified ministry with children and young people as part of their mission statement. If kids aren't included in a parish mission statement, they should nevertheless be incorporated into the congregations' life and mission. Clearly and audaciously.
Turning to congregations, from my unique vantage point, the mission of the congregation poses the biggest opportunity and the greatest challenge. So many of us continue to be limiting ourselves to our age-old identity; as if simply putting the “Episcopal Church welcomes you” sign out front and worshiping with the Book of Common Prayer will take care of everything. That model did work -- and work well, up until 40 years ago. I was raised in that church. I miss it. We can mourn that loss, but we need to move on. The issue is not how did we get here, but the question is -- what do we do now? On more than half of my visits to congregations, members of the Vestry say that one of their main goals is to get more people to join the church. A growing minority of congregations are discovering that the question -- how do we get more people into church -- IS THE WRONG QUESTION. The important question that congregations are discovering they need to ask is -- what is God calling us to do? What is our mission? One of the learnings from the listening campaign, carried out this past summer and fall in 61 congregations, is that churches which have a focus in ministry -- and a defined mission, have a stronger sense of purpose and a deeper wellspring of joy.
In the same listening campaign, it was discovered, not surprisingly, that worship is the anchor of a congregation’s life. I see that. I experience that. People come with a spiritual hunger and leave with a souls that have been fed by the transformative and transcendent nature of the liturgy. And people enjoy one another. In every place I visit, the exchange of the Peace is the longest part of the liturgy. It displays a spirit of community.
But -- the warmth and welcome tends to be confined to those who are already known. Week in and week out I see people who are brand new to the congregation being virtually ignored by everyone else. In the worship. In coffee hour. It is not hostility. It’s not even indifference. It is habit. And it is not isolated. It happens everywhere. I see it as a vestige of a closed system -- and as an institutional resistance to becoming more open. These are habits that all of us need to unlearn, which will happen as we develop ministries of radical hospitality. Last year I singled out Christ Church, Budd Lake, for their commitment to radical hospitality, which is reflected in their worship service for children with special needs. It has proven to be a life-giving contagion, not just for the Christ Church congregation -- but its mission has spread to St. Andrew’s, Harrington Park, which has developed its own All God’s Children service. And at least two other congregations are considering implementing worship services with more intentional radical hospitality.
All I have said thus far is part and parcel of our stewardship: how we deploy what God has given us in order to do God’s work in the world. Drawing on a portion of funds from the proceeds of church sales, we will fund a diocesan stewardship officer, whose mission will be to work on stewardship development with congregations, assist congregations with planned giving -- and work with me on developing major gifts for ministry initiatives that are aligned with our mission statement. Good stewardship also requires that we discover and respond to the needs of the local community. Not what we think those needs are, or what we want them to be -- or even what the data says they are. Instead, our stewardship must be informed by what we hear from the stories -- the stories in the community. To listen for hopes and dreams and concerns and patterns -- and how we might best develop a mission that will respond to them.
We need to intentionally connect children and stewardship. Teach them about the freedom which comes by discovering an individual’s need to give rather than the church’s need to receive. To that end, as the Alleluia Fund goes into its second year, we will give our children and youth an opportunity to participate, in part by joining in the Nets for Life campaign sponsored by Episcopal Relief and Development. Twelve dollars buys one net. Nets prevent malaria. The educational and organizing model that Episcopal Relief and Development has created has become the benchmark for best practice among charitable agencies. Over 80,000 lives have been saved in three years. Imagine how many nets we can buy. Because we stepped out in audacious faith last year by creating the Alleluia Fund, our outreach giving in 2010 increased by 33% over the year before. We will raise it by another percentage this year. When we focus on mission, good things happen.
As all this is an issue of our stewardship as individuals and congregations, this also involves my stewardship as bishop. When I was consecrated four years ago, I moved into a Sepphoris-sized office.. I was given a ring and I put on a purple shirt (both of which are adornments of royalty). I carry a big stick, which is a symbol of enormous spiritual authority. I live with more privilege than I have ever known.
But beyond the privilege, I have discovered a new level of freedom. Christ-centered freedom. It pushes me out of the privilege of Sepphoris and into the uncertainty of the future of the church. More and more people are looking to me as bishop for certainty and security. I can’t give it. I can point to Jesus -- and the genius of our tradition, and the new life that is recorded in scripture and which is given in the Eucharist. And I can issue the challenge to be Christ in the world. If you were to ask me what the future of the church looks like, I would say it needs to “repent of the false gods” of privilege, certainty and security and step out audaciously into freedom, faith and vision -- and then maybe we will know.
There are many congregations that are clear about their commitment to mission. Congregations that are dreaming and risking -- and then developing ministry plans in the light of those dreams and that risk. It is exciting. It is inspiring. I, as bishop, and we as diocesan staff, want to invest more time and focus equipping congregations to empower people and engage the world. There are many ways we are doing that, but I want to highlight one. At the close of Convention, the leadership team of staff and I will begin intentional work with two congregations to help them live into their mission. We have set up a process to offer the full services of the leadership team for six months to develop a clear and concise mission plan -- and for the next year to provide the services of a congregational coach to help the congregation live into the mission plan. We have chosen two congregations at the outset partly because that seems manageable. We have chosen St. John’s Boonton and Church of the Incarnation in Jersey City for this pilot partnership because each congregation has literally stepped out in audacious faith, both by the mission they are developing and by the realistic assessment of their assets and their futures. In both congregations, the Vestry is very clear that this is venture capital. Along the way, we will evaluate the partnership, make changes, and identify two more congregations for the next social capital investment. As we get better at this -- and we will get better at it, we can expand the number of congregations -- and develop partnerships that involve me, my staff, and other congregations. The key is the willingness to risk -- that God is God. That risk is perhaps the most important ingredient of what it means to be an open system.
I want to assist with birth -- and rebirth, and congregational development. At the same time I -- and we, need to be pastorally present to congregations that are struggling to maintain their ministry. There are less than a handful. In the last two months, Canon Jacobs and I have put together a Pastoral response team for congregations with serious financial and mission hardship in order to assess their situation and provide support for next steps, which may include closing.
I increasingly see myself as the chief spiritual officer of the diocese, which means that my primary role is to help individuals, congregations, and me -- to be open to the freedom which comes in God. To live with courage, which is given by the living Christ -- and which provides a vision for the future that is not imbued with secular certainty and security.
As chief spiritual officer, I am challenged to call out closed systems. Our faith is held by religious institutions -- but not owned by them. I feel called to call out systems which preach security and certainty -- invariably at the expense of those who are pushed out. This includes our own Episcopal Church and other religious and civic institutions. The world needs for us to be an open system of freedom, faith and vision.
I have learned that my ring, shirt, miter and staff are part of the armor of God. They are visual reminders -- not of the privilege of Sepphoris, but icons of God’s power. We each have been given freedom and faith and vision. It is the armor of God. (Ephesians 6:11) Put it on. We will all need it.
And then together, let us step out in audacious faith.
Amen.
