“The Lord be with you,” declaimed the rector of St Alban’s Church as he banged his gavel on the conference room table to call the regular October vestry meeting to order. Those present responded, dutifully if instinctively, “And also with you.” It was a strange juxtaposition of symbols—one physical and secular, the other verbal and ecclesiastical. There is no practical reason why the person chairing the meeting of a deliberative body consisting of only twelve members and virtually never attracting a gallery of observers should require a gavel. True, even such a small group can sometimes get unruly, but there are less ostentatious resources available that a rector can deploy in a manner that is authoritative without being authoritarian. Miles’ gavel had been presented to him as a going-away gag gift by the vestry of St Michael’s, Elm Lawn, the last place he had served as an assisting priest, on the occasion of his departure to become rector of Ascension, Porterville, since he was, for the first time, about to bear the responsibility of chairing vestry meetings. When he got there, he brought it to his first meeting as a sort of sight gag. The group, happily, responded in the spirit in which it was intended, and the item, which became ubiquitous at vestry meetings thereafter, served as an ironical sign of the easy and trusting relationship between priest and people in
Miles had spent a good portion of his day trying to track down the whereabouts of his son, but to no avail. It was the day after Brian’s non-appearance at his preliminary hearing, and prompt issuance of a warrant for his arrest. Miles had the forethought to consider the possibility in advance, and the courtesy to alert Vince Piaseki of his suspicions. Nonetheless, both men made the drive, separately, to
“Let us pray,” the rector of St Alban’s continued. “O God, because without you we are not able to please you, mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts; through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Since it was the same Prayer Book collect with which he began nearly every vestry meeting, everyone was well-cued to record their “Amen” at the proper point. The familiar comfort of a familiar prayer was part of the complex network of routine behavior that enabled Miles to function with a semblance of normalcy, given the circumstances of his life. Beyond the heartache caused by his son’s actions, Miles felt the steadily increasing weight of the imminent report of the Sexual Misconduct Investigation Team. For all he knew, this would be the last meeting of any vestry he would ever be allowed to call to order. Yet, in those few liminal moments during which his lips formed the words of the well-worn prayer, Miles was aware that he was not the only one in the room who might be finding solace and stability in it. Frank Williams, the self-effacing retired professor of American history, took Miles aside before the meeting began and revealed that he had just learned he was slowly losing his eyesight to macular degeneration. Bruce Mueller, no doubt still nursing the wounds received in his narrow defeat by virtue of the rector’s abstention at the August meeting, had cornered Miles during the previous Sunday’s coffee hour and told him he had just begun taking a prescribed anti-depressant, but had not yet gotten through the tortuous trial and error process of settling on the appropriate dosage. Dave Ricker, a rising-star political operative in local races, and father of a ten month old son, had just admitted to his wife that he was having an affair with one of his employees; this Miles had learned when Karen Ricker dropped in tearfully to the Rector’s study unannounced a week earlier. So Miles was not alone in his gratitude for an opportunity to take refuge from realities that were menacing by hiding behind realities that were mundane.
“You have before you a proposed agenda. Are there any additions or changes that need to be made?” An agenda for an event like a vestry meeting always has an illusory quality. It’s like the trailer for a feature-length film, offering a map that may or may not turn out to resemble the actual terrain (just as the eventual minutes, while a formal and official record of the proceedings, may or may not accurately represent what actually transpired). In the case of the regular October meetings of the vestry of St Alban’s Church, for instance, the proposed agenda contained nothing under the standing category of “new business, and, in a rare coincidence, nothing under “old business” either. The vexed question of the facilities use had been put to rest for the program year, not to everyone’s satisfaction, still, but it was no longer a live issue. To an outside observer, tonight’s meeting might look to be a very short and uncomplicated affair. What the agenda did not reveal, however, was that the Treasurer would report that, for the seventh consecutive month, regular giving by parishioners was below budget, and income was below expenses. The parish was in the red for the year by 14%, with a projected year-end deficit of 20%. The anticipated “fall bump” in attendance and giving that many churches count on the way retailers count on “holiday” sales, had not materialized for St Alban’s this year. In a related vein, neither did the agenda reveal that the chair of the Stewardship Committee, Blaine Benson, would be inexplicably absent—in October, no less, one of the more critical months in the annual cycle of church fund-raising—thus leaving the rest of the vestry with no knowledge of how, when, or by whom the Fall campaign would be prosecuted.
Of course, the written agenda is only a partial preview. Members of the group often arrive with their own unwritten agendas, which may not even be consciously known. Miles had a suspicion that Bruce Mueller, especially in view of his liminal psycho-pharmacological state, would be looking to score meaningless rhetorical points against anything Kara Lessard appeared to advocate. Knowing Kara as he did, Miles anticipated that she would be effectively oblivious to Bruce’s feelings and be eager to report, in somewhat more detail than any of the members would have a sustained interest in, on what was going well and what kinks still needed to be worked out in the use of church facilities for the program year. Lance Kemper was usually an emotional chameleon, and likely to get sympathetically agitated in whatever direction he felt the energy of the room was drifting in.
“The chair will entertain a motion to adopt.” Moved, seconded, done.
“We move now to the Rector’s Report.” Typically, this is an item that would have been placed close to the end of the agenda. Moving it up was a technique he had learned from his mentor in his second curacy, Stephen Collins in Elm Lawn. Bodies such as church vestries are invariably tyrannized by what is urgent at the expense of what is important. It is invaluable to a leader to be able to focus the attention of those whom he serves on broader issues than those such as would ordinarily consume them. To yield value, however, such opportunities need to be taken advantage of. In this case, Miles had no such “big picture moment” prepared. It wasn’t the first time he had opted not to do so. On many occasions he had surrendered to the length and complexity of other business on hand. This time, though, he had just not done it. The crises in his personal life were exacting their toll. He was keeping up with the essentials; the general congregation at a Sunday liturgy would not have noticed anything askew, but the elective, proactive elements of ministry and organizational leadership were being left undone. So Miles reported on the Sunday attendance figures (virtually unchanged from the same period a year ago), and briefly mentioned some proposed resolutions for the mid-November annual diocesan convention. He then asked for questions. There were none.
“Next up, the Treasurer’s Report.
“Well, I don’t want to sound like Chicken Little,” she began portentously, “but things aren’t getting any better.” She went on to proffer the grim details. “I wish I could find some sort of silver lining here, something to tell us it’s just a quirk, just a statistical hiccup that we’ll get over next month, but…if it’s there, I can’t find it.”
Silence ensued. Ordinarily, Miles would have been the one to jump-start the discussion—and in a situation like this, probably with some calculated levity to lighten the gloom and enable the group to deal with an unpleasant reality in a relatively dispassionate manner. For that to happen, however, he would have needed to see an advance copy of the Treasurer’s Report, which would not have been inordinately difficult, since
Before long, however, Kara Lessard spoke up. “Obviously, we’ve got to do something. We can’t just keep letting it slide. It’s the vestry’s responsibility to make sure the parish has enough funds to operate. I say we write a joint letter to the parish—nothing bulk mail, send it first class. Enclose return envelopes and ask for some special giving. If people know what’s going on, they’ll come through. Especially with Christmas coming, they’ll be in a generous mood. With any luck, we can be on budget by the end of the year.”
By the time Kara finished her pep talk, Bruce Mueller was cued up and ready to recite. “You know, that may or may not happen. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do it, But we’ve got to be realistic. We’ve got to do something on the expense side, and do it now. I know this may be a small thing, but what do we keep the heat set at in the church? Whatever it is, we can knock it back four or five degrees. So we have to wear more sweaters at Mass. Big deal. At least people will get the message that we’re serious about cutting costs.”
Then it was Dave Ricker’s turn to weigh in. “Yeah, I suppose that would save a few bucks, but it would be awfully short-sighted. ‘Penny-wise and pound-foolish’ is the relevant expression, I think. We’d be biting our nose to spite our face. Trust me, I read public opinion for a living. If you’re a visitor looking for a church, and you come to St Alban’s and freeze your tush off, you’re not coming back. That just creates more of the same sort of problem for us long term. Sunday morning is when we’re on display. That’s when we need to send out the message that everything is OK around here.”
Bruce wasted no time in formulating his retort. “Then what do you suggest? What can we cut back on? People, we can’t just wish this problem away. We’ve got to do something to show the people of St Alban’s that we’re behaving responsibly with their hard-earned money.” Bruce’s anxiety directed Miles’ attention to the fact that the teachers’ union local in which Bruce was an officer had failed to negotiate the sort of pay increase in its recent round of bargaining the with school board that most of the members had been hoping for.
Sandy Beck chose to not to answer Bruce’s question, but to exploit it. “Trust me on this: I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings and I hope nobody chooses to shoot the messenger. It’s no joy to deliver a report like this. I wish I could make up some better numbers. But it is what it is. Look, this is October. It’s pretty late in the year for us to be doing surgery on this year’s budget, am I right? We may just have to…I don’t know… we may just have to be realistic and face the fact that we stand a good chance of finishing this year seriously in the red. It’s not what you want to see happen, but it does happen. At least it’s happening to us. But next year—that’s something we have a little control over. It seems pretty safe to say that we’ll be looking at a really austere budget. I mean, no increases. Not for programs, not for salaries.” Miles didn’t consciously question why it was that his mind suddenly flashed on the fact that
“Speaking of next year’s budget, is anybody else as queasy as I am that it’s October and we haven’t got a clue whether a stewardship program to support that budget is even in the works?” This concern was being voiced by Terry Delgado, a fifty-something civil engineer who commuted by train to the Loop every workday and who, with his wife, had only been confirmed on Bishop Landry’s most recent official visit to St Alban’s; previously they had been Baptist. His allusion to Blaine Benson’s unexpected absence was a necessary discomfort. But for the fact that Miles irrationally blamed himself for not knowing why Blaine wasn’t at the meeting, he would have taken some pride in this evidence that such a relatively new Episcopalian had internalized ecclesiastical culture to the point where he could intuitively articulate the valid concern that the fall stewardship campaign was not up and running by this time.
A chorus of undisciplined agreement with Terry’s expressed anxiety then ensued. Soon it bent in the direction of cacophony. Miles reached for his gavel, but before he had time to grasp it and rap it on the table, order prevailed once again. He was tempted to rush in and rescue to group from the quagmire into which it was sinking. Whether it was out of a sense of healthy leadership or because he didn’t particularly know what to say was not a distinction that vexed him in that moment.
Senior Warden Lance Kemper shifted the focus. “I want to get back to what
Michael McKittrick politely raised his hand and waited to be recognized by the chair. “I have to agree with Lance. We have to look at salaries. Staff salaries are by far the largest portion of our spending. If we’re going to get ourselves out of this mess, we’ve got to reduce our expenses in this area.” Michael and Lance were being verbally deft, but Miles did not for a moment mistake what it was they were dancing around. It was no abstraction for him; it was personal. “Staff salaries” meant, primarily, the Rector’s salary. Secondarily, it meant the Associate Rector’s salary. Justin Hook wasn’t in the room, but his livelihood was on the line. After those two positions, there was the Music Director, then the Office Manager, then the Sexton (a quaint English name for church janitor)—all full-time positions. Then there were the half-time youth director and half-time bookkeeper, followed by childcare workers and section leaders in the choir. It was apparently open season on all of them.
Kara Lessard sensed that it was her turn again, as those members who had not spoken were those who tended not to anyway. “I see Michael’s point, and I see Lance’s point. Aside from salaries, there isn’t a whole lot of wiggle room in the budget. But if we’re hoping to take care of that in next year’s budget, now is when we need to be doing the heavy lifting. If we’re talking about eliminating positions, who’s going to make that kind of decision? Are we just going to leave it to the Budget Committee to figure out? Is that fair to them? Don’t they deserve some direction by the vestry? And isn’t it fair to those whose jobs may be on the chopping block to have some warning that this is in the pipeline?”
“Excuse me!” Dave Ricker wasn’t technically interrupting, but there was very little daylight between Kara’s last word and his exclamation. “This is the same thing I was talking about with respect to keeping the heat in the church turned down low. If word starts to get out that we’re going to be laying people off, we will have shot ourselves in the foot. People catch on to these things. This is exactly what I do for a living, so I guess you could say I’m giving you my professional opinion. The smell of decay will be around this church. People will be leaving it like rats leaving a sinking ship. We’ve got to keep a positive message. We’ve all got to have our public smiley faces on, no matter what we feel like on the inside.” He paused, and then turned and looked directly at Miles. “And Father, I hope you realize that you are the key player in this. This parish looks to you for strong, positive leadership. You’re the main man. If you’re not leading the charge, then nothing any of the rest of us does is going to amount to much. I know this has been a rough year for you, but this is when we need you to step up.”
Miles gulped. Inwardly, he felt as though he were the driver of a team of horses, and the reins had just slipped out of his hands, only he wasn’t sure whether anybody had noticed yet. Dave’s comments came right to the edge of suggesting a lack of confidence in the Rector’s leadership, but never crossed the line. Was he expressing what others were thinking? Was there at that moment a collective inaudible sigh of relief in the room over the fact that somebody had a last mentioned the unmentionable? Would anyone leap to his defense?
No one did.
Miles has no pre-planned strategy for this moment, and there wasn’t time to devise one on the fly. Later, he would compare what happened next to the ecstatic spiritual experience of “speaking in tongues,” because he felt like he was only a conduit, not an originator. In the moment, all he did was open his mouth. “Dave, I can’t argue with you. We’re all in this together. It’s not ‘my’ problem; it’s ‘our’ problem. But you’re right. I’m that captain of this boat, and all hands are looking to the bridge for leadership. And you’re right about not shooting ourselves in the foot with the wrong kind of austerity measures. Kara, Michael, Lance—you raised questions that any prudent person would raise in a situation like we’re in. I know it took a certain amount of courage for you to do so because, yeah, when we start talking salaries and jobs, it does get personal. Behind every line item for staff salaries is a real person—somebody we know, somebody we’ve made a commitment to, somebody who’s doing a job that benefits us, somebody we may even like. Terry, your concern about the stewardship campaign is right on target. I’m concerned about it too, and I think we’re all probably concerned about
He paused here, but more or less to allow himself to get a good breath, and not long enough for anyone to respond. Nobody was inclined to anyway. “I’m not saying we should or shouldn’t do any of the things that have been suggested. We probably need to do some combination of all of them; I don’t know. But this much I do know: None of it will work!” He waited a moment before continuing, for the sake of emphasis. “None of it will solve our problem. It might delay the consequences of our problem. It might buy us some time. But it won’t solve our problem, because our problem isn’t financial. Our problem is spiritual.”
Miles paused once again and looked slowly around the room. He had no idea what he meant by what he had just said. For a moment, he was panicked, worried that he would not be able to complete what he had started. So, once again, he simply opened his mouth. “We’re being near-sighted. We’re not looking at the root causes for why we are where we are. We’ll never be able to move ahead unless we pay attention to those root causes.” He knew he had the rapt attention of everyone in the room, though he could feel that some were skeptical and impatient. “It’s kind of ironic, actually. We’re all responsible. And none of us is responsible. We each have duties in the ministry and work of St Alban’s, but none of us is in charge. I’m tempted to say something like ‘God is in charge,’ and it would be true, of course, but not in the simplistic way I’m afraid we might want to take it. God isn’t pushing buttons and pulling strings to make things happen or not happen here. That isn’t how God operates. But God is certainly with us. And he wants to guide us care for us and provide for our needs. Now, to tell you the truth, I wish he would push a few buttons and pull a few strings—you know what I mean? But like I said, that isn’t how God tends to work. The way God is with us and wants to lead us requires that every one of us is in the game, actively cooperating.”
Miles continued, “Now, I have a few things to say about that in detail.” He was not being entirely truthful here, though prevarication was not his intent. He simply did not know what “few things” he indeed had to say. So he took the risk of yet again opening his mouth and forming whatever first word came to him in the instant. “But first I need to take care of some of my own business with this group. I know that, technically, we’re still at the agenda item called ‘Treasurer’s Report’ but I think you would all agree that we’ve stumbled onto something that’s bigger and more fundamental than any agenda item, am I right?” No one argued. “Before I get into anything else, the first thing I want to do is apologize to this vestry and ask for your forgiveness.”
Where was that coming from? Now Miles was not so much anxious about what he would say next as simply curious. “I’m not going to apologize for the year I’ve had. Some of it you know about and some of it you don’t, but even the part you know makes for a pretty crappy year; that much nobody can deny.” Miraculously, he had managed to keep both his alienation from Rachel and Brian’s legal problems out of the parish rumor mill, to say nothing of the fact that he was the subject of a sexual misconduct investigation, and to say even less about the tryst that had produced both unspeakable ecstasy and the most profound agony. “And I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve handled it. Actually, I think I’ve handled it decently well, no small thanks to many of you and the prayers and support I’ve received from a wide cross-section of this parish. You’ll never know grateful I am.”
“But what I do want to apologize for, and ask for your forgiveness for, is how I have kept what I’ve been going through too private. I don’t mean that I should have been bleeding all over you with my suffering. But what I wish I had done, or done more, is to make my suffering available to you—or, more accurately, available to God, available to him as the raw material not only for his grace toward me but for his grace toward all of us in our life together here. I haven’t been true to my own spiritual convictions. I believe God wants to take even the messes we make in our lives”—it occurred to him that this was not a helpful turn of phrase; though it represented the truth of his experience, as far as his audience was concerned, he was the passive and unwilling victim of his tribulations—“the horrible things that happen to us”—maybe they wouldn’t notice his deft verbal shift—“and make those things the very pathways of his mercy. I have not made my suffering available to God for that purpose, and therefore it has not been available to you. The spiritual energy that might have been available to us together has been stopped at the source, and for that I am very sorry. Please forgive me.” The words of his mouth were as arresting to his own ears as they were to those of his listeners. Miles was in every respect as much a “hearer” of them as were the members of his vestry.
A couple of vestry members shifted their weight and interrupted the rhythm of their breathing in ways that tend to signal an intention to speak, but Miles did not allow their movements to get beyond that stage of intention. “That, as far as I can tell, is my basic contribution to the difficult place we’re in. That’s not all I’m guilty of, I’m sure, but from here on it get’s a little more complicated, because it’s not just about me anymore, it’s about you all”—with these words he swept his right hand from left to right by way of including everyone in the room in his statement—“and me, how we are together, how we have enabled one another to settle for less than the best of what God wants to give us. It’s so obvious to me now I feel like scales have fallen off my eyes. It’s not rocket science, but I was blind. I just couldn’t see it until right now. You and I have become classic enablers for each other. You look at me as a religious professional, right? You pay me to have faith—and now here’s the part that is going to sound a little weird—you pay me to have faith…so you don’t have to! You pay me to be the holy man, the one who prays, the one who really believes in God so much so that he would make actual decisions based on that belief. Imagine! It works for you, right? And here’s the thing—it works for me too! It’s a pretty good gig! I meet your need to be religious and you meet my need to feel important, to feel needed. Now that’s a pretty high payoff on both ends of the deal, so there’s a huge incentive for all of us not to mess with it. We may have a queasy feeling that it’s not quite the way it should be—at least I know I have that feeling pretty regularly—but we leave it alone, because to actually listen to those feelings and find out where they point would be to risk opening up something we’d rather not see.”
Miles was now awash in curiosity as to what might proceed from his mouth next. “So what we’re left with, in a way, is a sort of functional atheism. Of course, none of us would say that we’re an atheist. We would all say that we believe in God, and I think we’d be sincere in that. But in actual practice, in terms of how we live our lives on a day to day basis—yes, even in a church family; can you believe it?—in the way we really do live, it’s as if God’s not even in the picture. You do what you do and I do what I do, and we talk about God, but I wonder: When’s the last time this vestry made a decision different than the decision the board of…the Blood Bank…or the Grove Lake Country Club would have made under the same circumstances? What difference does the fact that we are Christians and this is a church make in the way we conduct our business? Where does the ‘God factor’ come in? How is it that God gets seat, voice, and vote in our vestry meetings? I know, we pray, but—seriously—after that, does God have a say in the decisions we make?”
“And so, since we keep God on the sidelines, we have no sense of mission. Our mission is pretty much to keep the doors open from one Sunday to the next, to remain in existence from one month to the next, from one year to the next, to just…keep on keeping on. OK, I know we do stuff. We do important stuff. We worship, we teach, we do outreach. I’m not saying all this is unimportant; it’s very important. What I’m trying to say is, we’re doing it on auto-pilot. We’re doing it on cruise control. Whatever passion we may once have had—I’m not seeing it. I’m not feeling it.”
Still nobody tried to interrupt him.
“Now, I’m only one guy. So I’m not going to take full responsibility. I’ve had lots of help. But I am going to take a heaping spoonful, more than my share. I’ve been driving the bus, and if the bus is lost, I’m probably more to blame than anybody.” Miles looked down for a moment and drew a determined breath, continuing so quietly that the vestry members had to strain to listen. “So hear me on this. I’m going to keep driving, and with God’s help and guidance, we’re going to find our way out of the woods. I’m tempted to say something like ‘No more Father Nice Guy!’ but I don’t really mean that. Not completely, at any rate. What I mean is that I’m going to get re-acquainted with my own integrity, and that may mean that I’m going to lead a little more from the strength of my convictions, and a little less from a desire to please, a desire to be liked. I know you like me. I know you love me. I’ve experienced that love in a big way since
“I can’t really tell you completely how this is going to look. I’m wondering about that myself. As you can tell, this wasn’t a prepared speech. Yeah, you might say I’ve been making it up as I go along! But I mean every word of it. This is a great parish with great people and great resources. Much has been given us, so much is expected from us. What I’m tempted to say is, ‘I’m going to be here for you.’ But what I need to say is ‘I’m going to be here with you.’ So that’s what I’m saying. I’m going to be here with you. God help us.”
For the first time since he began his soliloquy, Miles aloud his head to bow slightly, and he closed his eyes. He was spent, though he was not quite sure to what end his energy had been consumed. What followed was right out of a B-movie screenplay. One pair of hands started clapping slowly—he didn’t know whose because his eyes were closed, but it was from the section of the table where Lance Kemper and Dave Ricker and Sandy Beck were seated. Then another set joined in, then yet another. Within ten seconds, everyone was applauding wildly in their places.
When the clapping died down, Lance Kemper spoke. “Father, I obviously haven’t had a chance to sit down and talk with any of the other vestry members, but, as Senior Warden, I think, based on what just happened, that I’m safe in saying that we are glad you are at the helm. We’re glad you’re going to be here…with us. I don’t know what to say except, ‘Thanks, we needed that.’”
A cacophony of “Yes” and “Amen” greeted this vicarious response. The Rector than casually inquired, as if nothing had happened, “Is there a motion to accept the Treasurer’s report?”
“So moved,” a male voice rang out, prompting Miles to wonder silently why it was men who are consistently more eager than women to move deliberative processes along by means of such procedural lubrication. The motion was quickly seconded and passed, but before moving on to the routine reports of the standing committees of the Vestry, Miles exercised the privilege of the chair. “My friends, without taking back anything I just said a minute ago—how could I after that response?!—I realize that there are some very pressing and pragmatic questions that can’t wait for answers until our November meeting. So, without any objection, I’m going to convene the Wardens and the Treasurer and, if we can find him, the Stewardship Chair, as an ad hoc committee to process some of the ideas we’ve heard here, and maybe come up with some others. Hopefully, we’ll have some things to talk about by e-mail over the coming month, and be in a position to make decisions in November. Now let’s move on.”
The remainder of the meeting was, by comparison to the Treasurer’s Report, uneventful. What took place after the meeting was brought to a close—once again by a blow of the Rector’s gavel on the conference room table—was, however, extraordinary. Rather than the after-meeting taking place in the parking lot, with groups of two or three, representing predictable factions or parts thereof, carrying on their discourse in hushed tones, everyone stayed in the meeting room and its immediate environs, as if there were a collective will to foster wholeness and resist atomization. They talked about very little of substance that was relevant to why they were all gathered in the same place on this particular October weeknight. Rather, both in their likeness and in their unlikeness, they were simply taking delight in one another’s company. Without physically absenting himself, or even withdrawing his energy, Miles nonetheless stepped back mentally just enough to catch a glimpse of the astonishing holiness of what was going on before his eyes. With the brokenness in each of their individual lives, with the brokenness in their households, with the brokenness in his own life, and with the brokenness in their life together as St Alban’s parish—with none of that brokenness being instantly or magically eliminated—the members of the vestry were participating in the sort of authentic community that is at the same time utterly ordinary and unremarkable and also utterly rare and precious. He did not think about it at the time, but later in his memory, he would always recall a quality of luminosity in that room that was clearly not attributable to the overhead fluorescents.
Finally, it was Sandy Beck, the one whose report had catalyzed the quantum leap that the group had experienced, who gently let the air out of the balloon. “Look, folks, I love you all—I really do! But I actually have a life that I need to get back to. So, as the saying goes, ‘I’ll see you in church!’” With that, the vestry dispersed, and a quietly buoyant Father Miles Coverdale made his way back to the rectory and took Belle for a walk.
The next day, Miles took a mid-range look at his calendar and realized that November 2 was only a couple of weeks away and remembered his commitment to be the guest preacher for the All Souls’ Day liturgy at Nashotah House. At nearly that very moment, an eMail arrived from Leland Rowell informing him that the Sexual Misconduct Investigation Team would have its report completed and ready to pass on to Bishop Landry on—the coincidence seemed surreal—the morning of November 2. If Miles wished to have a preview, they would be available to share it with him orally at an 9:00 meeting that morning in the conference room at diocesan headquarters. He did the mental math: Presuming the meeting would be relatively brief, that should leave him plenty of time for the drive to
Such was the soup that simmered in his mind and heart as he applied his attention to the task of speaking good news—of speaking gospel—to the community of his seminary alma mater. The optional (in the Episcopal Church) commemoration of All Faithful Departed—known popularly since the Middle Ages as All Souls’ Day—is a less glamorous step-sibling to the principal feast (one of only seven occasions so-styled in the Prayer Book calendar) of All Saints, occurring on the day prior. Whereas All Saints’ Day recognizes and honors known heroes of Christian witness, many of whom achieved their star status through the shedding of their own blood, All Souls’ Day is for ordinary Jacks and Jills over the centuries who were born, baptized, lived lives of ubiquitous failure and occasional victory, and then passed on. Saints are those who are presumed to be in a position to pray for their brethren who still feebly struggle in this harsh temporal order. Those commemorated the next day are reckoned to be more in need of the prayers of the faithful on earth than the other way around. Anglican theologues of a Reformed persuasion are apt to minimize the distinction, while those of a Catholic bent are inclined to keep the line sharp. Ordinarily, Miles would pitch his tent in the latter camp, with its tripartite taxonomy of the Communion of Saints, consisting of the Church Militant on earth, the Church Triumphant in heaven, and the Church Expectant in either Purgatory (for glass-half-empty pessimists) or Paradise (for glass-half-full optimists). But as he composed his thoughts and began to jot down a few notes, he was of a mind to follow a path that would be less dogmatic and more mystical. His reflections were nourished by a piercing awareness of the utter ubiquity of divine grace, the omnipresence of God’s mercy. What else could he say, in the light of a vestry meeting that should have been a train wreck, but instead turned into a collective vision of light eclipsing darkness, and through no intention or effort of his own? What else could he say, in the light of Rachel’s stunning reversal of attitude toward her father, and through no intention or effort of his own? What else could he say, in the light of Elmer Johnson’s getting it suddenly, an unexpected epiphany that—yes—one could say flowed from years of faithful pastoral care, but which certainly did not happen according to any master plan or timetable on Miles’ part? What else could he say, in the light of the veritable glimpse of unalloyed glory that he had known in his coupling with Oksanna, sinful though the act itself was? What else could he say, in light of the lack of morbid fear for his future, a future that would be unveiled by Leland Rowell on the morning of All Souls’ Day? He was concerned, but he did not face the prospect with the level of dread for which anyone in the world would have forgiven him. Grace was breaking in all around him, and he could not but somehow bear witness to that experience in his Nashotah homily.
