by Maria L. Evans

In the wee hours of May 3, at a time of year we're enjoying the luscious green of the grass, the budding of the wild plums and the redbud trees...it SNOWED.

The latest I have ever remembered it snowing in Northeast Missouri was April, most significantly the Great Easter Blizzard of 1973. Never in May. Allegedly the last time it snowed in Kirksville in May was either 1903 or 1904, I can't remember which. But no matter, you understand the issue here.

I walked outside to take the dogs out, looked at the sky, shook my finger at the clouds, and yelled at the top of my lungs, "NO! Stop it! You put spring back RIGHT NOW!" Yeah, right. Like THAT had an effect.

Sounds a little bit like "How long, O Lord," doesn't it?

If we spent the time to index the Psalter by topic, it doesn't take long to realize impatience with God is one of the major themes in the Psalms. Elements of "How long, O Lord?" can be found in several Psalms, perhaps most notably in Psalm 13. "How long, O Lord?" addresses a tough topic--our impatience with the time frame for God to reveal what God does--both on a personal and societal level.

Perhaps at a personal level, we most acutely feel it in times of transitions that seem to take too long--when we're between jobs, when we're trying to straighten out or finances, or when we're dealing with a chronic issue in our family dynamics. Why is it that, at times, joy seems to be so fleeting, but misery seems to last forever?

Likewise, at a societal level, we probably most acutely feel it in the wake of tragedies. How long, O Lord, will innocent people fall victim to shootings and bombings? How long, O Lord, will women in the developing world die in childbirth? How long, O Lord, will drunk drivers slam into pedestrians? How long, O Lord, will people use the Bible to foster hate and exclusivity?

Nothing ever seems to move fast enough, and some things don't seem to move at all. Yet deep down I realize there really have been changes for the better, both in myself, and in the world.

I suppose a lot of that painful anxiety of a sense of inertia has to do with the personal relativity of time. Think of that four-year-old who's just been put in "time out." How many times have we heard the pitiful voice in the corner wail, "I've been here forever! I'll be good, just let me out!" over a five minute punishment? I used to think that was just pure drama, but one day the thought crossed my mind, "Well, you know, when a person's four, five minutes is a much more significant chunk of that kid's life than it is of mine."

In the same vein, I imagine a God who hears our petitions and understands our pain and angst and fear, and yearns to help us understand that this difficult thing we are going through is not as big a chunk of time as we think it is. Our entire sphere of experience is confined to our lives we've lived up to now.

Take that May snowfall. All day in the office, as people went in and out, the chit-chat was all about the snow. Some were absolutely convinced it's global warming. Others were divulging their apocalyptic Christian beliefs. Still others were denying global warming and saying "it's nothing--it's just the weather."

When I was asked my opinion, I said, "Well, it's hard to say, I think. I really do think there's global warming going on--but I also know that we've only been keeping accurate weather records in this country since about the 1880's. It's kind of like the blind man and the elephant. We have only this 135 year window to try to figure out what "normal" is in something that's been going on for millions of years. Really, we can only get a handle on the little cycles of weather. The big ones, not so much." (I avoided that Apocalypse stuff.)

That's probably true with God's plan, too. We can study the cycles in our own life and see in retrospect how God might have been there all along, even though we didn't see it at the time...and just as we can study the weather records, we can look back at the stories passed on to us through the Bible and see the cycle of Creation, Sin, Judgment, Repentance, and Redemption in the Hebrew people, the people of the early church, and in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We're not the only one on the planet who had trouble seeing God's intent at the time something was happening.

The challenge for us in any of these difficulties, personal or societal, is to not get caught up in the tar pit of our despair. For those of us who regularly do some aspect of the Daily Office, it's a place where the regular reading of the Psalms can help. We cycle through them every seven weeks in the Daily Office, and the mere repetition of that practice offers opportunities for the Psalmist to match our mood more than random chance would seem to suggest. I've always been amazed at how often "How long, O Lord?" pops up at a time I'm thinking "How long, O Lord," myself, or when the "My enemies are ganging up on me," psalms line up with the times I feel surrounded. Likewise, the Daily Office will cycle back around to the ones with the "Praise God for this, that, and the other," theme, and when they match my mood, I can shout them with gusto...or when things are rough, they remind me to find something to praise, despite my difficulties. I admit, I'm biased, but it's why I would recommend doing at least a tiny snippet of the Daily Office every day as a #1 spiritual practice. If it does nothing else, it at least makes me aware of the cycles that make up more cycles that make up the big cycle of a God who both desires justice and gives mercy--and how to discover my role in it.

Ultimately, though, we are back to the blind man and the elephant without the lynchpin of that little thing called faith. Maybe it's a little less about God "doing something" for us or "stopping something" for us than it is about us learning to see the cycles and trust them in the same way we trust the sun will rise in the east and set in the west, or that even when the snow falls in May in Missouri, the sun will come out and melt it--and that God will provide the courage and the grace to live out today whether things happen on our time frame or not.

What were the cycles in the story behind the last time we looked at the clouds and yelled, "How long, O Lord?"

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

by George Clifford

During the course of my internship in a downtown Nashville parish, tasked to expand the congregation's ministry to the needy and the homeless, I met a man baptized four different times, each one in a church of a different Christian denomination. A homeless alcoholic, he kept hoping that baptism would "take," i.e., miraculously free him from his addiction and restore him to pre-addiction health and relationships.

However, sacraments are not magic. Whatever happens in a sure and certain means of grace, it is not a technique for manipulating God and producing guaranteed benefits. Preachers had oversold or misled this man with respect to God's power; he then used God's alleged failure to heal him as an excuse for remaining ill.

Pastoral ministry as selling connotes inviting people to share in opportunities to love their neighbors, care for creation, and encounter the living God. With proper pastoral concern and respect for the dignity and worth of others, we solicit commitments to the Church and to opportunities to serve and to participate in experiences that some people find helpful in experiencing the living God's presence and love.

Integrity requires selling the Church as an imperfect institution, a community of broken, hurting people who join in worship, ministry, and mission. I've learned to suggest approaches, techniques, and perspectives on the spiritual journey, helping persons learn and practice what they deem best suited to their needs and situation. I've discovered that people need, even want, to commit to a community, spiritual practices, and ethical living. But I never promise what God will do in a person's life, constantly surprised at what I discern as the moving of the Spirit. God is management; the rest of us are in marketing and sales.

Over the decades of my ministry, I've read several dozen books on evangelism written by authors, some Anglican and some not, ranging from conservative evangelicals like Paul Little and Michael Green to more liberal like Richard Armstrong and James Adams. I've explored friendship evangelism, the church growth movement, the Alpha course, the effective church, and others. In general, I've found them to be better sources of ideas and encouraging anecdotes than systematic thinking that resonated with me.

Instead, I have found a set of four basic marketing criteria that I learned in my MBA studies far more helpful. Known as the four Ps of marketing, these comprehensive, flexible, and easily remembered criteria are product, price, place, and promotion.

Product connotes the service or product that one offers. For the Church, what is our product? Who wants it? Why do they want it? (NB: The latter two questions demand practical, real life answers.) I find that thinking about product helps, even forces, a shift from vague platitudes (e.g., our product is relationships with God) to the specific (e.g., an opportunity to experience God through participating in a contemplative Holy Communion service or to feed the hungry by packing 10,000 meals for Stop Hunger Now). If an activity, regardless of what it is, is not part of the product we want to offer then it has no place in the institution. Facets of a product important for thinking about what the Church provides include its features, packaging, and branding.

Price connotes the product's cost to the consumer. The cost may be time (time spent in worship represents an opportunity cost because the person could spend the time in alternative ways), money (the cost of getting to the proper location, of food brought, or even of making a pledge), or effort (using one's talents). When I served in Hawaii, the value of Sunday morning worship to various attendees was obvious on Super Bowl Sundays. Attendance annually plummeted at late morning services, regulars opting to make party preparations or to watch pre-game TV instead of attending.

Place connotes how, when, and where the product is available. As a seagoing chaplain, I quickly realized that in port sailors wanted to get off the ship as much as possible. Sailors considered their ship, even for those who had no other place to live, primarily as a workplace. Underway, sailors would attend worship aboard the ship; in port, even the most devout on their duty Sundays, unable to go ashore to worship, would rarely attend a shipboard worship service. Likewise, mid-week noon services in suburbia may not make sense while noon services in downtown parishes may be very popular. Contemporary Ash Wednesday distribution of ashes on street corners is one highly visible attempt to find a better placement for the Church's product.

Promotion connotes communicating information about the product to potential consumers and includes both publicity (free) and advertising (paid). No longer can the Church reasonably expect potential consumers to seek out the nearest parish and automatically become active participants. We need to reach out to our communities in appropriate (Does anyone still consult printed yellow pages? If not, why buy an ad?), multiple media (Twitter, Facebook, Internet, mailings, perhaps radio or TV, etc.) with repeated messages about products they want/need, at an acceptable price, and at an agreeable place.

Many parishes have marketing pros among their active participants. These persons, with their practical knowledge of selling and marketing, are a rich resource for institutional transformation. Building a better mousetrap (or ball field, if you prefer that metaphor) is not enough. People no longer will come just because the Church is there. Instead, we need to develop an intentional ministry that highlights who we are and what we offer, communicating that message to those for whom it is appropriate (aka target marketing).

New York Times columnist David Brooks recently commented on H.A. Dorfman's The Mental ABC's of Pitching, a book on the psychology of pitching:

Others are eloquent about courage and creativity, but Dorfman is fervent about discipline. In the book’s only lyrical passage, he writes: “Self-discipline is a form of freedom. Freedom from laziness and lethargy, freedom from expectations and demands of others, freedom from weakness and fear — and doubt.”

His assumption seems to be that you can’t just urge someone to be disciplined; you have to build a structure of behavior and attitude. Behavior shapes thought. If a player disciplines his behavior, then he will also discipline his mind. …

A baseball game is a spectacle, with a thousand points of interest. But Dorfman reduces it all to a series of simple tasks. The pitcher’s personality isn’t at the center. His talent isn’t at the center. The task is at the center.

By putting the task at the center, Dorfman illuminates the way the body and the mind communicate with each other. Once there were intellectuals who thought the mind existed above the body, but that’s been blown away by evidence. In fact, it’s easiest to change the mind by changing behavior, and that’s probably as true in the office as on the mound.

And by putting the task at the center, Dorfman helps the pitcher quiet the self. He pushes the pitcher’s thoughts away from his own qualities — his expectations, his nerve, his ego — and helps the pitcher lose himself in the job. ("Pitching with Purpose," New York Times, April 1, 2013)

Ultimately, we're in the business of selling God. But in practice, we're in the business of selling a wide array of products to help people grow in love for God and others. Like any large, multi-faceted organization, accomplishing that mission requires people performing a wide variety of tasks that includes leading worship, preaching, teaching, pastoral caregiving, organizing, etc. However, selling is arguably the most essential of those tasks, one that only we can do and one too often undervalued and neglected.

George Clifford is an ethicist and Priest Associate at the Church of the Nativity, Raleigh, NC. He retired from the Navy after serving as a chaplain for twenty-four years, has written Charting a Theological Confluence: Theology and Interfaith Relations and Forging Swords into Plows: A Twenty-First Century Christian Perspective on War, and blogs at Ethical Musings.

by Rosalind Hughes

Gina DeJesus went missing not long after we moved to Ohio, and her name stayed with me. Every so often over I would hear it used as a marker for loss, a symbol of the decline of our neighborhoods, the unravelling of the fabric of fellowship between those living in the same village, the rifts between us that let people fall between the cracks in the sidewalk and disappear.

I came home to Cleveland on Monday night and heard her name again. Amanda Berry had called 911, and with her were Michelle Knight and Gina DeJesus. It was incredible.
It was incredible because no matter what we told ourselves, we had as a city honestly given up hope that they would be found, much less alive, and here they were, astonishing our expectations.

I wrote on Tuesday about the difficulty of this strange good news, coming as it did on a wave of grief for the years lost, a decade of despicable actions; for the lives lost, the innocence destroyed, the pain and heartache suffered, the trust worn away; for the grief for those still waiting to be found.

Those who held on through the decade waiting for this moment of release were not hoping for this: that they had been abused, kept prisoner, that a child had been born and raised in captivity. This was a strange way to fulfill the hope for restoration.
Remember the fairy tales and their happy endings, in which "they all lived happily ever after"? They can only take place on the last page, fixed in place by the hard back cover, because as long as life continues it will continue to be complicated by conflicting joys and sorrows.

“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” goes the saying, paraphrased from the philosophical Ecclesiastes, but hope takes effort and endurance, which is why we so often give it up. Our salvation stories teach us that good news is rarely the same thing as a happy ending; yet where there is life there is hope.

I hope that out of this, a man may recognize the evil in his deeds and repent. I hope that those who turned away will find their eyes opened and their voices raised against cruelty and oppression. I hope that we may find ourselves driven to rebuild our neighborhoods, our communities. I hope that one little girl may grow up stronger than anyone might expect. I hope that where there is life, there is room for healing.

Good news is not the same as a happy ending. While we celebrate what has been found, we cannot restore what was lost. But we can go on living in hope.

Rosalind Hughes is a transatlantic transplant and recently ordained priest serving the Church of the Epiphany, Euclid, Ohio. She blogs at Over the Water.

See Hughes Tuesday reflection below:

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by Linda Ryan

Today being my furlough day from work, I had a little more discretionary time after I got up than I usually do. I found a video I’d been meaning to watch and promptly sat there mesmerized for nearly half an hour. The video featured the Very Rev. Ian Markham, Dean of the Virginia Theological Seminary, speaking to the convention of the Diocese of Delaware on “the Myth of the Decline of the Episcopal Church.” He was articulate, spoke directly and without ducking his head to check his notes, was charismatic, amusing, animated and it didn’t hurt that his English accent was lovely to listen to. Over and above those characteristics however, what he said made me do a lot of thinking on my morning walk after watching the video.

Dean Markham spoke of two bishops who had been visitors to the Seminary, almost polar opposites on a number of topics, the direction in which the Episcopal Church should go at or near the top of the list of differences. As far apart as the bishops’ theological differences are or could be, their common theme seemed to be that the Episcopal Church is dying. They take opposing sides on the same issues, each assuring us that the opponent’s supporters are causing the decline; however, they agree that the Episcopal Church numbers have been going down and they are sounding a death knell. Dean Markham, on the other hand, doesn’t see it that way. As a result of this video, I have begun to think about what that means to me as an Episcopalian. I hear that our numbers are declining and I have something of a sense of acceptance that such pronouncements are gospel, causing me to figuratively wring my hands and think there’s nothing I can do, short of suggesting the church offers bread and circuses and hope people are searching for those same kinds of bread and circuses. I think perhaps we as a church have allowed a lot of what we see in the culture around us to dictate how we see our church in terms of numerical growth, or lack thereof, around us, namely fear, despair, anger and overwhelming helplessness in the face of it all. There’s a lot to fear in this world around us, judging from news reports and commentary on the sad state of things such as the string of disasters and events that seem to be plaguing our world recently: threats, famine, drought, explosions, earthquakes, shootings, and so on. It seems to me that culture and the church are somewhat like the two bishops, very different in outlook but with one single negative vision as an outcome.

Our numbers, whether declining, improving or flat lining, are based on Average Sunday Attendance (ASA) which is calculated based on reporting from each parish in every diocese as to attendance on four key Sundays during the church year. We’re not counting a lot of Episcopal church experiences that don’t happen on the particular Sundays upon which the ASA is calculated. For instance, the Dean pointed out two specific examples of these missing numbers: attendance at worship services held during the week at Episcopal schools and colleges, and those in Episcopal retirement communities. His total came out to something like 16,000 people involved in worship each week that didn’t happen on those four Sundays and therefore weren’t counted in the ASA. That made me stop and think that he’s right and that maybe we need to find a new way to count the number of people who join us not only on Sunday, the most active day of the week for our churches, but also all those services we hold during the week where we may not have a huge attendance but we do have people joining us for worship, whether in a church building or not. What if our churches came up with an average weekly attendance instead of just counting the four particular Sundays? Granted, it would probably involve more math, which a lot of people try to avoid, and it would be a little more inconvenient perhaps, but it would probably give us a more accurate number of those for whom we provide worship services and in which people participate. Also, some people who attend during the week don’t go every Sunday just as some don’t go on the Sundays where the counting is done. I wonder how many people we are discounting

Something else he brought out was the fact that Episcopal churches usually have two services and they often differ in flavor, in a manner of speaking. It isn’t always so, especially in smaller, more rural congregations, but usually if the church has two services, they generally offer one using Rite 1 and another using Rite 2 (or possibly Rite 3 in combination with one of the others), and each have their own communities within the church. There’s the old joke about an 8 o’clock worshiper showing up at a 10 AM service and being greeted as a newcomer even though they’d attended the same church for 30 years and never met anyone from the other service. Churches sometimes offer additional worship opportunities, like Taizé or drumming or meditation, and those services sometimes attract people who don’t come to other services. Shouldn’t their worship experiences count?

As a corollary to that thought, I believe that perhaps if a certain kind of worship is something that nourishes my connection with God, I will attend one that features that particular kind and not some other as a general rule. The church may offer different worship experiences at different times (even sometimes in the time when I am accustomed to a particular style or manner of worship), but that doesn’t mean I have to attend it – or have the right to veto it for others who might find it to be their connection to God. That’s one of the strengths of the Episcopal Church, this variety of worship that is possible. Variety is the spice of life, and the Episcopal Church definitely offers that spice in many different forms and at many different times. It’s almost a trademark of TEC and the “broad umbrella” we like to think of as our particular way of doing church, one which is not always shared by other churches or denominations where there is a “one size fits all” that works for them.

As a personal statement, I love the Episcopal Church. I have flirted with others since my confirmation forty-eight years ago, but I always seem to end up back in the Episcopal pews with the feeling that God is saying, “Sit! Stay!” Even though I’m more cat than dog, I get the message. I’ve listened to the despairing talks about the dying church and after listening to the Dean, I decided I’m not going to listen to them anymore. I refuse to acknowledge the thought that this church might cease to exist due to the perception that my generation and the generation that preceded me are dying and not being replaced in the pews. That refusal fits with what I observed last Sunday when I went to relatively new church that had been planted in 2006 by a priest-friend who had a passion and a mission. I looked around the congregation on Sunday in a well-filled the worship space, and I noted adults of varying ages, singles, couples, children, teens, and even a babe or two in their parents’ arms. It didn’t look like a church in a dying denomination to me, in fact, the energy level was amazing. People were there because they wanted to be there, they belonged there and they seemed to enjoy being there; they were invested in the mission and ministry of that church. I think that when I see or feel despair, I need to think about the Church of the Nativity in Scottsdale. It’s a success story built around contagion – a contagion for the gospel and service. There should be more of that kind of contagion around.

I’m Episcopalian. I’m proud of it and I want people to experience what I have with the Episcopal Church. Most of all, I want this church that I love so much to continue on for many centuries to come. It’s gone through rocky times and it’s gone through relatively tranquil times. The thing is that growth is not a painless process; sometimes something has to hurt in order to grow, like a callous on a guitar-playing hand or new skin and nerve endings over a healing wound. Our church has gone through some painful times over the last few decades, seeing (or not seeing) the need for changes in our liturgy, in our clergy, in the way we see others, and the way we work with others. Some have adapted and some, regrettably, have chosen to leave for places more suited to their beliefs and feelings. We’ve wished them well and moved on in the direction we believe the Spirit has led us. We undoubtedly will have rocky times ahead of us again. In the meantime we have the opportunity to grow simply by refusing to bow to the climate of despair and by seeking to present ourselves to the world as a church that cares about people more than we cares about how much money they have, what their social status is or even whether their beliefs are totally in sync with what some might consider orthodox beliefs.

Another old saying is about giving a man a fish and feeding him for a day while teaching him to fish will feed him for a lifetime. I think the Episcopal Church is in the process of learning how to teach people to fish rather than simply giving them fish. That, I believe is a key to keeping our church alive and growing. I’m betting on it.

Part 1 video

Part 2 video

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

by George Clifford

Roughly four decades ago, I did something that I had never done before or again. I conducted an altar call, i.e., invited members of the congregation to commit their lives to Jesus publicly by stepping to the front of the worship space. It occurred in a Nashville, TN, rescue mission's nightly service.

I was an intern at a downtown parish, tasked to discover ways in which the congregation could expand its ministry to the needy and the homeless. One of the first homeless men with whom I began to develop a relationship had arranged, without consulting me, for the rescue mission's director to invite me to preach there. Everything about the mission – its clientele, its services, its theology, even its very existence – was alien to me.

Not wanting to damage the nascent relationship I was forming with the man who had arranged the invitation, knowing that he had sought the invitation as a way to help me, and having already learned that trustworthiness is a sine qua non in ministering to people living on the streets, I warily accepted the invitation.

All went well until I finished my sermon. Then the mission's director sidled up to me and told me that I had to conduct an altar call. I replied that this was foreign to my religious tradition. He answered that without an altar call, none of the men would eat dinner. His manipulative aggressiveness angered me. Still, I quickly evaluated my options. I could refuse, leaving the premises if necessary to avoid a pointless argument and a no-win confrontation. If so, would the director conduct an altar call himself, perhaps inflicting another sermon on hungry, restless men? Or, would he follow through on his threat and cancel dinner? Alternatively, I could accede to his demand, invite those present to commit their lives to Jesus, and hope that the service ended quickly and with no further harm to anyone present. Apparently, most of the congregation knew that sitting through the service, with an altar call, was the price of dinner, a cot for the night, and breakfast. So I capitulated to the director's coercion.

When I studied marketing as part of an MBA program, I learned that the most common reason a salesperson loses a potential sale is that the salesperson never directly asked the potential buyer to make the purchase. Reflecting on my experiences and observations of ministry, I repeatedly saw opportunities to nurture commitment missed and abused.

On the one hand, I suspect that a key factor in the growth of evangelical churches is their clear and frequent emphasis on giving people an opportunity to make a commitment to Christ and/or a religious institution. Unlike what happened in Nashville's rescue mission and too often occurs elsewhere, I've occasionally witnessed this done in genuine, caring, and non-coercive ways by clergy from other faith traditions with whom I was honored to serve in the Navy Chaplain Corps. This is pastoral ministry as selling.

Similarly, valued chaplain colleagues from faith groups more akin to the Episcopal Church and I regularly afforded people in the military, a secular institution in which the average age is about 21, genuine, caring, and non-coercive but explicit opportunities to commit to Christ and the Church through Holy Baptism, Confirmation, receiving Holy Communion, and volunteering. This, too, is pastoral ministry as selling.

A correspondent sent me the following thought-provoking comment in response to my last contribution to the Daily Episcopalian, "Pastoral leadership as selling:"

Leadership, charisma, etc. are very important, but very difficult to teach. And the church needs to acknowledge that fact, especially in a modern world with so much else to do/choose. But, do you tell people who are looking at ordination they just don't have the right stuff? Or do you send them to training classes for car sales representatives? What's the solution?

Also, is it a lack of leaders capable of selling the product or is it a problem with the "product"? Does TEC know what it sells? Are the "via media," Big Tent, or Anglican Fudge still sellable? After a lifetime of infomercials, how many believe anything that "... Does … It ... All!" really does, or does anything other than empty your wallet.

Visitors whom nobody asks to come again, and, as appropriate, to become part of the community, integrated into its ministries and missions, slip away. I observed many chaplains from a wide spectrum of religious traditions whose ministries were less effective than they might have been because the chaplain failed to ask people – both visitors to religious services and people encountered in other settings – to make appropriate religious commitments in a caring, genuine, and respectful manner.

As Jim and Jennifer Cowart in Reach More Volunteers insightfully remark, "Recruiting sounds like work; inviting is a privilege. People want to be needed. Even more than that, they want to spend their lives doing something significant. So don’t ask people to do a job; instead invite them to join you in changing the world." This is the essence of pastoral ministry as selling.

George Clifford is an ethicist and Priest Associate at the Church of the Nativity, Raleigh, NC. He retired from the Navy after serving as a chaplain for twenty-four years, has written Charting a Theological Confluence: Theology and Interfaith Relations and Forging Swords into Plows: A Twenty-First Century Christian Perspective on War, and blogs at Ethical Musings.

by Eric Bonetti

Stewardship covers a wide range of issues, from mindful use of natural resources, to caring for our churches and other physical assets, to ensuring that we have in place adequate internal controls to prevent theft or malfeasance. But one aspect of stewardship almost inevitably brings sighs, groans, and worried looks, and that is fundraising.

Even the word "fundraising" is often avoided in our parishes and related organizations. Too often, asking for money makes us feel like moneychangers in the temple. As a result, we hid behind phrases like "pledge campaign" or other euphemisms, as if we were talking about something dark, dirty, or mysterious.

But the reality is that our parishes need money to operate, to pay salaries, to keep the lights on, and to serve our communities. These are all good things, so it follows that the fundraising, which makes all of these possible is also a good -- and properly approached -- joyous thing.

What causes this disconnect between how we feel and the need to fundraise? Coming from a nonprofit environment, I have seen that all too often the issue relates to the various myths that surround fundraising. With that in mind, here are nine major myths that all too often trip up even the most faithful and diligent parishes and vestries:

Myth 1: Build it and They Will Come (Otherwise Known as God Will Provide)

This one is bad news. Too often, we look at our parishes and see the love and caring and think, "Of course we will have the resources we will need. How could a place this wonderful not get what it needs?"

The reality, of course, is far different. We have only to look at teachers, firefighters, and law enforcement to see that value does not automatically equal revenue. This is even more the case when we are talking about food pantries, homeless shelters, and other needed community services. And things get still worse when you're talking about something like funding a parish, in which spiritual growth, caring, and compassion often are intangible services that are easy to take for granted.

The reality is that fundraising is an essential part of life for our parishes and dioceses.

Myth 2: Fundraising is all About Asking for Money, and I Hate to Ask

How often have you heard this one? I hear it all the time.

The reality, though, is that "the ask" is the smallest part of fundraising.

Good fundraisers know that it's all about giving, not getting. And while that sounds counter-intuitive, those who give are those who are engaged. They have their needs met, their questions answered, and they understand the issues. They view church as a positive, caring place, worthy of their time and support long before the discussion ever gets to money. In short, the folks who give you money are most likely to do so if they are onboard long before "the ask."

Sadly, all too often our parishes confine fundraising to an annual pledge campaign. As a result, vestry members and others wind up calling on folks out of the blue, who not surprisingly treat the calls just like other telemarketing. Most of us are good at getting rid of this sort of unwanted intrusion, and if this feels awkward to you, it should. The personal connection needs to exist long before you ever touch base to talk about stewardship.

Myth Three: The Internet and Social Media Have Changed Everything

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Social media have an important role, no doubt. As we work to tell a story -- the story of how our parishes serve parishioners, friends, family and community -- which in turn leads to giving, the social media serve as just one of myriad channels through which we tell that story. Indeed, how often do we see clergy or parishes who talk about the importance of outreach, but their last Facebook post was several months ago? Clearly, ignoring the social media or the Internet is a recipe for disaster.

The best fundraisers are out and about in the community. They teach college classes. They speak to countless civic groups and organizations. And they remember that real-life stories and human faces remain the most compelling parts of fundraising. In short, they recognize the value of the human touch.

Another thing that hasn't changed is the level of labor required. Fundraising is hard work, and automation only takes you so far. Building effective relationships requires persistence and hard work, and that is not likely to change any time soon.

One important caveat: The social media and the Internet have led to one big change, and that is in how information is presented. Pictures are in. Words are fewer. Vibrant colors count. If your materials are more than five years old, take the time to ask a variety of folks in your parish what they think of them. The answer may surprise you.

Myth Four: It's All About Who You Know

No, no, no and no.

Connection count, for sure. But it is not who you know. It's who knows you.

What's the difference?

The difference is that people give because they know and trust the person or people involved. So it's not a matter of somehow just magically finding the person with the deep pockets, or the person who knows a couple hundred others with deep pockets. It's about giving people a chance to engage with you and your parish, to learn about you, to like you, and to care about your success. Once that happens, resources will tend to come your way, without even asking.

Myth Five: Times are Tight, so Money Will be Too

Like most myths, there's a certain component of truth here, but it's still a myth.

For years now, giving has no longer been normative. Gone are the cozy days of forty or fifty years ago, when folks automatically joined a church, supported it generously, and served in volunteer roles when asked.

Today, donors want transparency. They want to know that their money will be used wisely. They want accountability, and they want to know that their resources will produce tangible results. In short, donors are more educated consumers, and this is never more the case than in an economic downturn.

Ironically enough, many nonprofits have found that the downturn has resulted in increased giving, particularly for organizations that know how to tell their story and provide needed services. For instance, nonprofits that provide homes to those who are homeless due to job loss or foreclosure have, in a number of areas, experienced record levels of giving in the downturn. Donors recognize the need, they trust these organizations to meet the need, and they are willing to put resources behind these organizations.

Myth Six: Pledges are Down, So My Budget Must Go Down

This one will get you every time.

Of course, this sounds like a sensible thing. Less revenue must mean reduced expenses, or bad things will happen in relatively short order. The problem is that, all too often, it means you've asked for pledges before you've developed a budget.

Think about it. As a parish, you have certain things that are essential. You must provide pastoral care. You must provide opportunities for worship. You must pay your bills.

There also as things that you would like to do, and arguably must do as an ethical matter, such as feeding the sick, caring for the indigent, and working to end injustice.

All of these things cost money, and chances are you can not only predict what these things will cost, but can readily produce a "dream budget." A dream budget is one that essentially says, "If I had all the money I needed, here's what my budget would look like, and here's what I would do with that money."

In short, why are you asking folks to pledge first, and telling them what will happen with the money second? Why don't you develop a target, show people how hitting that target will make a difference, and help them get to that target?

Of course, some parishes, especially in areas of changing demographics, may find that such an approach is not possible. A great many cities have downtown parishes that were located in once affluent residential areas that are now nothing but offices. Or they are in rustbelt areas in which carrying costs may simply be too high given the regional economy. But for suburban parishes in affluent areas, you're making a big mistake if you don't take the time to dream a little.

Myth Seven: If I Screw It Up, Bad Things Will Happen

Not so much.

Every fundraiser -- whether he or she admits it or not -- has backed over a landmine or two over the years. But the reality is that, if the relationship is solid and people know you're trying to do good, most people will give you a pass.

For me, that moment happened a few years ago, when I made an offhand comment to one of my primary funding sources about the importance of another funding source to my organization. Little did I know that the specific issue I mentioned was the source of serious tension between the two donors. But I learned of my mistake quickly when I got back to the office. The phone was ringing as I came through the door, and the decision-maker from my earlier meeting was on the line saying, "We just don't say that, and here's why."

Needless to say, I apologized profusely and was grateful to learn about this issue. I was also very careful never to repeat my error. As for the caller, she treated the situation as a lesson learned and has been gracious about the issue ever since, and there's never been any fallout from my error.

So, don't look for trouble. But if despite your best efforts, it finds you anyway, accept responsibility, learn from your mistake, and move on.

Myth Eight: Good Fundraisers are Those Who are Naturals, and That's Not Me

Okay, so not every painter is going to become Rembrandt. Not every high school quarterback winds up playing in the NFL. And not every fundraiser is going to be world class. That's the reality.

At the same time, there are many introverts who are highly successful as fundraisers. Sometimes, this means that they have to make more of an effort to be outgoing and to build relationships. But introverts often have a depth of perspective and insight that may be lacking in extroverts, giving them unique skills that can be put to good use.

It's also true that there are many fundraisers who think that they are good, but who aren't. For instance, certain hot issues tend to raise money, regardless of the fundraiser's underlying skill set. These include military issues, hunger, and certain specific diseases.

At the same time, there are many fundraisers who are putting tons of energy into campaigns that may be lucky to break even--so much so that they'd be better off just writing a check. Yes, fundraising is labor-intensive, but if you are working so hard at it that writing a check would be more cost-effective, you have issues, either with your cause or with your fundraising skills.

The bottom line is this: Fundraising is a learned skill that can be improved over time, and while there are some traits, including persistence, that correlate with success, there are few true naturals. You can learn how to raise money, and you can learn how to measure results. The latter is particularly important, for if you don't know what success looks like, you will be unlikely to know it when you see it.

Myth Nine: Fundraising is Misery, Pure and Simple

If you've read this far, you probably already know why this one is a myth. You likely are someone who loves The Episcopal Church, has close ties to it, and you care about its success.

You know that fundraising is about far more than sending out pledge envelopes or cold-calling. (In fact, if you are cold-calling for money, stop. Now. Instead, call that person to learn a little bit about them, and go from there.)

Fundraising success requires that you tell a story, and if you're like me, it's a story that you find deeply compelling and easy to tell. It's about being part of the lives of people that you care about. It's about engagement, positive change, transparency and communication. It's about building for the future. Yes, there are times you have to ask for money, but if you're doing it right, this should feel, both to you and the donor, like a very natural, positive thing. So go out there, enjoy the opportunity to support the growth of your parish and diocese, and have fun. It truly can be a joyous thing.

Eric Bonetti is a nonprofit professional in Northern Virginia with experience in change management and strategic planning. He is an active member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria VA.

by Laura Toepfer

“It’s time for you to get married,” my mother said to me one afternoon when I came home from school.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Yes,” Mom continued. “I’ve talked to the priest about it because it’s time for you to get married. I got married at your age and if you don’t get married soon then I’m worried you’ll leave the possibility of having a committed relationship behind you forever.”

This was news to me. Up until five minutes earlier, I had not been told the window of opportunity was closing. I was 14 and had a lot of questions about what my future would hold. I figured marriage would be part of it. After all, I had lots of friends and was learning to tell the difference between the ones I trusted and the ones I didn’t. I was testing things out, making mistakes, sure, and discovering that some playmates from childhood maybe wouldn’t hold up as friends for the rest of my life. Surely all of this was part of deciding – eventually – on the person I would settle with forever.

I didn’t know how to say this, though, so I just said to Mom, “I don’t think I want to get married right now.”

“Oh, there’s so much you need to learn about getting married. The priest has already set up a series of classes and I’ve signed you up to go.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“Don’t argue. Just go to the classes and get married. That’s all I’m asking.”

What could I do? I was 14. I went.

***
“Meet Jordan,” the priest said to me. “Jordan’s the person you’re going to marry.”

I eyed Jordan warily. We’d been in Sunday School together and even had a lot of fun, play dates, that kind of thing. But being forced to marry…that was a whole different story. I wanted to make sure we really knew and loved each other first before that happened. I thought Jordan would feel that way too, but we didn’t actually get a chance to talk.

“Let me tell you all about Jordan,” said the priest who spent the next hour telling me all about Jordan: Jordan’s family background, Jordan’s favorite things, Jordan’s pet peeves. “Now, tell me what I just told you,” the priest said to me. “Actually, why don’t you write an essay about Jordan and bring it to our next session. I’ll see you then.”

I figured the next week would be my turn and I wondered when the priest would ask me all about myself and my family and the things I like and don’t like. Given how much the priest knew about Jordan, I figured I’d be interviewed for hours. But when I showed up for our next session, the priest just took my essay, read it over, and then started talking about Jordan again. Jordan, Jordan, Jordan.

Week after week, I took quizzes and wrote essays all about Jordan. I had questions and the priest answered them, but mostly I would have liked to say something about myself. And I would have liked to talk to Jordan directly. But it never happened.

It made me mad at Jordan, I have to tell you, which wasn’t really fair, since Jordan just sat there quietly and the priest did most of the talking except when I got asked to repeat what I’d been told.

The day of the wedding was coming up and Mom had a party planned. The priest walked me through what I needed to do. But no one ever asked me whether I wanted to get married or not. It was all just assumed. “Uncle Bert and Aunt Mildred are coming,” mom said. “They’re so looking forward to seeing you get married.”

I showed up at the church, but I wasn’t happy about it. I went through the motions and said I do. But no one knew what I really thought, which was, “What does this have to do with me? No one knows anything about me. I’m marrying someone who doesn’t know what I’m like and no one cares.”

But I got married. And after the party, I never saw Jordan again. I didn’t think that’s what getting married was going to be like. I thought it would have something more to do with me too, not just passing quizzes about Jordan and making sure my aunt and uncle were happy. But I guess not, since I got married. I guess that’s all people really wanted.

The Rev. Laura Toepfer is the Managing Director of Confirm not Conform.

by Lisa Fischbeck

The year after I graduated from college, I worked for a marketing research firm in Dallas, Texas, where I befriended Pat, a woman who worked in the firm and whose husband was in the final stages of his life. By the time I knew him, Pat’s husband had already been ailing with emphysema for years, and he was fighting hard to stay alive. As the months passed, it became clear that his body was ready to die, but his spirit was not.

I don’t remember whose idea it was, but somebody had the idea of giving Pat a book that went through the 23rd Psalm – line by line, image by image – to share with her husband. And she did. She read each line, each phrase, and talked with him about it.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters.

Pat said it was amazing to see her husband relax more and more as they went through that Psalm.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me….

She said that reading this Psalm together gave them the opportunity to talk with each other about their faith and their fears in ways they had never talked with each other before. She said that she watched her husband come to a place of sweet acceptance, of comfort, of peace. He died that night. And was received in the arms of the loving shepherd. The Good Shepherd.

I’ve thought of this story through the years, especially on the fourth Sunday of Easter each year when we read the 23rd psalm as part of our Good Shepherd Sunday.
I’ve thought of this story as a priest, too, when I’ve had occasion to be with people as they prepare for death, or as they slip slowly into dementia. I have been repeatedly amazed how the poems and songs of childhood and young adulthood stay with us until the end.

Last year, I visited an elderly member of my congregation, now in a nursing home. For most of the visit, Jane just sat there, staring off into space. And when I offered prayers, her affect did not change. But when I started to say the Lord’s Prayer, she turned and looked straight at me, and started to say the words along with me. Not all of them, but some. Same thing when I sang the doxology.

I thought about these experiences as events unfolded during the week of the Boston Marathon bombing as well. If I, or someone I loved, were injured in a blast, If my house were evacuated while heavily armed police searched for a terrorist, a) would I remember to pray? and b) what would my prayer be?

What would your prayer be?

The prayers we learn in our youth stay with us in our old age. The prayers we learn in our time of comfort stay with us in our time of need. I wonder, then, what are we learning now that will be with us then?

And more…. We say that we are formed by our liturgy. The words we say in our Sunday liturgy are not offered willy nilly. They have been written and vetted and selected with great care, not just the care of our congregation’s liturgy brewers, but with the care of the Anglican Communion from whose prayer books and conventions gathered they come. Anglicans take the words of our prayers very seriously, because we deeply understand that these prayers form our faith and us.

Ideally, too, the words and the phrases and the prayers themselves get so deeply embedded in our memory and our soul, that they pop up in our time of need or celebration and make us mindful of God’s presence with us.

God is with us in our times of sorrow and in our times of joy, at our beginning and at our end. As the psalmist says, The Lord shall watch over your going out and your coming in. How do we prepare ourselves to remind ourselves of this?

One of the downsides of the move toward more contemporary language in the 1979 Book of Common Prayer is that we lost some of the classic and what were then the more familiar translations of these psalms, canticles and prayers. Parents were left to wonder which version of the Lord’s Prayer to teach their children. The Psalter version of Psalm 23 doesn’t ring as poetically as the old King James. Add to that our commitment as a mission church to use different rites from one season of the year to another, which makes it harder to “inwardly digest” the words or phrases of any one rite. They don’t then get into our bones.

Beyond the Creed, the Sanctus and the Lord’s Prayer, probably what we repeat the most are the songs: Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing and What Wondrous Love. Good. We would benefit from more.

So the Advocate is trying something new in our life together. We are identifying some canticles of the church and verses of Scripture to commit to memory. Psalm 23 for starters, then the Phos Hilaron (O Gracious Light). Then maybe Psalm 121: I will lift up mine eyes to the hills… Or Psalms 139 (selected verses). We are going to make a list and focus on one each month. Then gather to recite them together at the end of each month. For our purposes, we are going to use the King James Version of each, finding those words that endeth in “th” to be a bit more poetic and soothing or inspiring, and therefore more suited to our purpose.

This commitment dovetailed nicely with something else we have decided to start.

The Angelus Revisited

It is not uncommon for Episcopal communities to provide a regular gathering for Morning Prayer or Evening Prayer during the week. These peaceful rites are an important and formative part of our Anglican tradition (some would even say central), They provide an anchor in the midst of weekday busyness, a comfort and blessing even for those church members who aren’t able to get there every day. Increasingly, though, especially in urban and suburban churches, membership is scattered far and wide during the week. As a mission without a building, my congregation is further hampered by not having a single identifiable public neighborhood location in which to gather through the week.

Still, we are finding a way to prayer together.

There is an old custom of the Roman Catholic Church of praying the Angelus. This custom is perhaps best known because of the painting of that name by 19th century French painter Jean-François Millet. People scattered hither and yon would hear the church bells toll at particular times of the day -- morning, noon and evening. And they would stop what they were doing and offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the Incarnation and of petition for God’s grace. Very formative!

A modern-day Angelus is made possible by the gadgets we carry. Clocks of smart phones and computers can be set to give an alarm or reminder at different times of the day. The congregation, or at least a group of those willing to try it, are now setting our clocks at 5:30 PM each day. We have agreed that at that time, wherever we are, we will offer a prayer. Not necessarily the entirety of Evening Prayer, but at least a psalm or canticle agreed upon each month. We do so, knowing that others of the congregation are praying at the same time.

Our hope is that by learning these psalms and prayers by heart, by praying them together, we will be further formed in our faith, and further formed in our life together.
Together we pray. Together we are formed.

The Rev. Lisa G. Fischbeck is the Vicar of The Episcopal Church of the Advocate, a 21st century mission in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

by Maria L. Evans

All my hope on God is founded;
he doth still my trust renew,
me through change and chance he guideth,
only good and only true.
God unknown,
he alone
calls my heart to be his own.
--"All my hope on God is founded," #665, The Hymnal, 1982

I'll let you in on a strange little secret. If I could be given free rein and the intelligence to do any mad scientist sort of activity, I'd clone a dodo.

Yeah, I realize all the "Jurassic Park" arguments. I'm pretty sure that cloning a wooly mammoth or a saber tooth tiger or a T. Rex or a velociraptor would be a really bad idea, since the ecosystem has changed so much since the time they were around. But the dodo has only been gone about 350 years, and it's gone because it was easy prey for all the invasive species that sailors brought to their natural habitat, along with the fact humans scavenged and ravaged that same habitat.

You might ask, why a dodo? Why not a Passenger Pigeon, or a Carolina Parakeet, or a Labrador Duck, or for that matter, the Pallid Beach Mouse, or my favorite on name alone, the Syrian Wild Ass?

Well, I think it's because the dodo's so...well...legendary. It would be fun to see how much of the legend was fact, and how much of the legend was legend. Also, if it's true that the dodo only laid a single egg, and put an egg-shaped stone in the nest as a decoy, it seems that it was a wonder a bird that doesn't even recapitulate its own population managed to be around as long as it was. In a roundabout way, the dodo is a story of hope.

Hope is a strange critter. At first glance, it's so delicate and oddly shaped, that one would think tossing it out into the air would simply cause it to plummet to the ground and shatter. Sometimes, that's exactly what happens to hope--it's a flightless as a dodo and appears, at times, to be just as extinct. I think that sometimes, like the dodo, we place a rock next to our eggs of hope as a decoy--because we certainly don't want anyone to think that we really are investing in such a delicate species that is incredibly hard to rear in the hostile, invasive environment of war, poverty, and greed. It is, in some ways, also a wonder that hope has lasted this long.

It's been said that Christianity itself is a dodo--mostly in the light of the statistics of declining enrollments of mainline Christian denominations. Part of the legend of the dodo is that it was a clumsy, awkward, unattractive bird--and honestly, the non-theistic detractors of Christianity have alluded that Christianity is, too. Well, frankly, if we only considered all the evil that has been unleashed on the world in the name of Christianity, its detractors have a point.

Yet, we are still here. Still standing. Maybe, our Christian hope is a little more like the large-billed reed warbler--believed extinct for over 150 years--but as it turns out, there are still communities of them, and the most optimistic folks studying them wonder if some of those colonies are just shy of being stable populations, despite their small numbers.

Interestingly enough, biologists have a name for species once thought extinct that turn out to be very much alive--they call them "Lazarus species."

What part of our faith and hope this Easter season could stand a little cloning?

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

By Luther Zeigler

Harvard seniors Ali Evans and Robert Tamai crossed the finish line of the Boston Marathon just under the four-hour mark at approximately 2:49 p.m. last Monday. A minute later they heard a blast they would never forget. According to a report in the Harvard Gazette, Evans said: “when I saw the smoke rising and heard the initial screams, I turned to Robert and yelled, ‘Run, man, run!’” As the two students sprinted to safety, Evans says she shouted the Lord’s Prayer “at the top of my lungs, repeatedly.” Friends of Evans and Tamai, who were at the finish line to meet them, were ten yards from the first explosion. Amazingly, they were not injured.

The undergraduate President of our Episcopal Chaplaincy at Harvard, senior Graham Simpson, was at mile 25 near Fenway Park when the two bombs exploded. In a homily delivered this past Sunday evening, Graham described his experience of the chaos of that moment: “I had no idea what had happened until I started receiving texts from people asking me if I was okay and what was going on. It seemed impossible to believe at first, but we started walking back towards campus, deciding right away not to take public transportation. I was overwhelmed as I tried to sort out what was going on and what my friends and I should be doing . . . . Even once I crossed the river, the situation continued to overwhelm me. I was safe and so was everybody that I knew. But it was immediately clear that dozens, if not hundreds, were hurt and that at least two people were dead including an eight-year-old boy. My phone continued to buzz with texts asking me if I was all right and if I knew what was going on. I received so many texts that read simply, ‘Love you,’ words that had never felt more heart-felt and sincere. Sadness, relief, anger, sympathy, fear, and love all swept over me, in a cloud of contradictory emotions.”

Yet, as was to become clear the next day, the Harvard community was not spared by the tragedy. One of the victims to die in the blast was Krystle Campbell, a former Harvard Business School employee whose mother and brother still work at the University. On Wednesday afternoon, the business school community gathered to remember Krystle and the other victims. Led in prayer by my fellow Harvard chaplain, Fr. George Salzmann, hundreds were on hand at the Business School to express their support for the Campbell family and to lean on one another.

That same Wednesday, I worked with students and other Harvard chaplains to organize a candlelight vigil in Harvard Yard on the steps of Memorial Church. The Harvard Glee Club opened the service with song as dusk came over the Yard, illuminated only by the candles of the hundreds gathered. Christian, Jewish, Muslim and Humanist chaplains were all there, united in their commitment to peacemaking and in their stand against violence.

Harvard juniors Tara Raghuveer and Anqi Peng both spoke at the vigil. Peng, whose Boston Marathon race stopped just short of the finish line when the explosions hit, said that when she returned to campus all she wanted to do was find – and hug – every one of her friends. But Peng also commented on the incredible outpouring of selfless generosity she witnessed by police, bystanders and local businesspeople in the chaos at the finish line. As Harvard University President Drew Faust put it in her remarks that night, it is precisely these simple acts of human goodness that we should notice. Quoting the words of Toni Morrison, who recently spoke on campus, Faust reminded us: “We tend to overlook goodness, and we must put goodness in the center of our lives.”

Jonathan Walton, the new Pusey Minister of Memorial Church, offered a benediction to close the Wednesday evening vigil, in which he observed: “Anxiety is understandable and anger over senseless acts of terror is appropriate.” But, Walton entreated: “Don’t allow your anxiety or your anger to take your mind to an awful place. Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that.” Looking out at the flickering points of candlelight, Walton sent us out with the words: “As you blow out your candles tonight, let the light of God light you up.”

But then the violence returned the next night, as the two suspects emerged from the darkness in a violent outburst on nearby MIT’s campus, leaving one of its security officers dead and others badly injured. The older of the two brothers suspected of bombing the marathon also ended up dead in the streets. Then came the manhunt for the younger brother in neighboring Watertown, followed by the lockdown that kept us all confined in fear and anxiety until this young, nineteen year old boy was captured on Friday night.

As we learned more about the Tsarnaev brothers throughout the day on Friday, and their deep ties to the Cambridge community, it was no longer possible to dismiss them with mere labels like ‘Chechnyan terrorists’ or ‘radical Muslims’ as some in the media were inclined to do. For, truth be told, they were one of us, American kids from the neighborhood, our neighborhood. Here is how senior Graham Simpson put it in his homily:

“When Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured Friday night, I felt relief. I hoped for some sort of justice. I was satisfied that our law enforcement had successfully pulled off their manhunt. But I felt very uneasy, confused and further saddened. How could a 19-year-old that lived within two blocks of one friend, had worked at a Harvard pool with another friend, and had played one-on-one basketball with a third committed such hateful acts? He seemed like such a normal American citizen. He had wrestled at his high school, won a scholarship, and liked to play FIFA. It doesn’t fit for me. I could feel no joy at Facebook statuses of ‘Got him’ or consider going out to the parties that had been rescheduled in celebration of his capture. I did not – and still do not – know how to react. An unclear muddle of thoughts fills my head.”

Meditating on one of the readings for this past Sunday, Psalm 23, Simpson concluded his homily by wondering aloud whether the Christian life may itself be a paradox that holds together both the inexplicable suffering of this life and the hope of new and fuller human relationship:

“I am trying to accept that it is okay to feel conflicted and confused at times like this. That is part of what makes us human. And it is in these moments that we can reach out to God and feel the Holy Spirit. The Lord is with us in green pastures and he leads us beside still waters. The Lord also walks us through the valley of the shadow of death with his rod and his staff. And sometimes we are not sure whether we are in the green pastures or the valley of death’s shadow. Maybe we can be in both places at the same time. We can experience the suffering of the cross and the hope of the resurrection. . . . The shepherd protects and guides us, but the shepherd also feels our pain and fear. And as Christ is in all of us, we must all feel each other’s pain and also protect one another. We look to the hope of a new day, but that does not mean that we cannot mourn and lament. Perhaps it is in the midst of this contradiction that we are called to live.”

The Reverend Luther Zeigler is the Episcopal Chaplain at Harvard University, Cambridge, MA.