By Greg Syler

“Are you getting any response to this program?” our parish administrator asked me the other day, referring to an offer we’ve been advertising in the weekly bulletin for weeks. I hadn’t heard a peep. At the same time, I realized, my email inbox is clogged, messages are waiting to be returned, and there are messages for which I’m awaiting a return. The to-do list is long, and calls have been made, and committee meetings have been arranged weeks in advance. But all in all not much is going on. That’s when it hit me: It’s summer.

You would think the blinding heat, or deliciously ripe local produce, or the absence of our Sunday regulars – and their pew replacement, the summer renters – would have tipped me off to the awareness of this seasonal shift earlier than mid-July. Or my own recent trips away to see family and friends or the fact that I’ve already given up the black wool trousers for a light cotton suit should have turned me on to the fact that we’re in a different season. It is summer, and we’re having lemonade on the lawn, not coffee hour inside; still others are out on the water, and at cookouts, and living pretty much in their sailboats or swimming pools. It is summer.

It’s been said that one of the principles of church growth is to not slow down programming during the summer, so as to teach people not to give up church during these glorious months of play. We all know churches who do different things in the summer months – change service times, combine services, suspend Sunday School, or in some cases cease corporate Sunday worship altogether. Whether those ideas are good or bad is, for me, up to someone else and, at the very least, up to that local congregation.

I’m just not sure that people are coming to our churches for our great and notable programs. At the same time I realized that my email inbox was full and that our parish administrator was not hearing a peep from anyone about our next great idea, I remembered how my Senior Warden has been urging me to get on his boat and go fishing, and that another family has invited my daughter and me untold times for dinner and swimming in their pool, and that I still haven’t gone kayaking with that other couple.

I remembered all the times in, say, November or February when so-and-so would ask me to go out to brunch following coffee hour or when I was invited to that family reunion and I wondered why I had turned down so many offers of genuine kindness. True, the job of a parish priest is sometimes ill-defined and the life is altogether busy and demanding – certainly so in the months of the so-called “program year”. But the idea of the Anglican priesthood, at least as I’ve come to understand it, centers on a robust theology of the Incarnation: the parish priest must be accessible, fully human, engaged, yes, embedded in a local community so as to mediate (not represent) Christ, who chose to live among us and, indeed, as one of us.

I’ve been having a wonderful exercise of my life and vocation this summer. I’ve gone swimming, sat on the edges of piers and drank wine, kayaked up an idyllic marsh-land creek to see a heron rookery, gone fishing, sat at dining room tables and on porches, headed over to the local restaurant to celebrate a birthday, and went to brunch at the local marina. All of this, of course, could be called work, but it’s so much more than that cheapened term – it’s a vocation, a lifestyle, an exercise of who we all are called to be. There will be plenty of paperwork and email ahead, and that time will come sooner than even I realize. In all of our lives, whether your vocation is a priest or an educator or a military contractor or a parent, there will be seasons of demands and production. And there will also be times of letting go, of enjoyment and delight. “To everything there is a season,” the wisdom of the scripture teaches.

It’s also more than a seasonal shift, much more. As often as I have expected and, unwittingly, demanded that people show up more regularly to the place where I live and work, I’ve had the opportunity to see the places where they, too, find joy and make meaning in their lives – their kitchens and boats, their decks and piers, their garages and favorite restaurants. We get some awful tunnel vision in the parish, and fret about average Sunday attendance and how many students are enrolled in Sunday School. It’s been healthy, for me, to walk out of the office and leave behind the familiar and comfortable rhythms of the sacristy and chancel. There is a great wealth of meaning beyond the walls we’ve constructed; God’s grandeur is robust in all of His creation.

Even Jesus seemed to recognize the need for this balance. It’s probably true that we most often think of Jesus as being out and about, a nomadic Rabbi who reminded his followers that the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head (Mt.8:20). In recent weeks, the lectionary has led us through Matthew’s thirteenth chapter – the parable chapter – in which Jesus’ notoriety has become so great he has to go and stand on a boat in order for the crowd to amass on the beach and hear him. But Jesus also knew when to step back and recharge. Not as strikingly clear in Matthew 13, we see Jesus going in and out of “the house”(vv.1,36), presumably the place where only he and his select few gathered. Luke, in his gospel, teaches us that Jesus punctuated certain periods of his life and ministry by intentionally going away by himself to pray. Even as popular and public a figure as Jesus still understood the need for balance between programming and solitude, between time spent with the throngs and meaning gained by being with the inner circle.

It does seem to come down to balance. Congregations who are uncertain about their future will sometimes pit one good against another good, say, make outreach ministries the enemy of parish fellowship. Does charity begin at home, as some might argue? Or is there no such thing as charity without social justice? This is a false argument, of course, and it will get a Christian community nowhere but one whopping fight. Instead, balance. If we have stayed in “the house” too long, get out and meet the people where they are. God is there, too. God himself did precisely that, and we name that mystery Incarnation. If we are out of “the house” too often, get back and re-center. Our Creator did that, as well, and we celebrate that and call it Sabbath.

Greg Syler is the rector of St. George's Episcopal Church in Valley Lee, Maryland.

By Martin L. Smith

On July 4th I celebrated the 40th anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. I have a slight claim to regard this as special, because I was ordained under the minimum age laid down in canon law. The Archbishop of Canterbury issued special licenses as I was still 22 when I became a deacon and still in my 23rd year-just-when I was ordained priest. So while I can't be certain that I wasn't beaten to the record somewhere by a few days, there is probably no Anglican of my age ordained longer. I was theologically precocious, and though I did have five intense years of theological education behind me, I certainly looked younger than many members of my parish youth club. On my house visits for funeral and baptism planning, I would have to work to get past the initial reaction of utter incredulity which my appearance often excited. I'm still pondering the significance of being ordained so young.

Back then, we were taught that priests were primarily trained by lay people in parishes-seminary was just groundwork. And we made ourselves living proof of that philosophy. We were ordained as pastoral apprentices, not experts or professionals, and ordained ministry was geared to maximize personal pastoral encounters from which we would learn and grow in the field.

On a ferry crossing from England to Holland I had one of those rare prayer experiences when we hear a distinct voice, a clear word from God. I heard these words clearly and simply: "priesthood is people." This was completely consistent with our culture of spiritual apprenticeship. This culture required maturity and responsibility from lay people to trust the young newly ordained and put them through their pastoral paces. In exchange, people benefited from the vigor, energy and imagination of young pastors. I look back with amazement at the gusto and inventiveness with which my friends and I threw ourselves into parish life in our early and mid 20s.

It's hardly any wonder that I came to feel so many misgivings about very different attitudes that took over in the Episcopal Church in the decades that followed, which caused the average age of the newly ordained to climb well into middle age. There was a phase when men and women in their 20s seemed to be discounted as proper candidates for ordination. Whether people seriously believed the blanket theories about the 'need for life experience,' or whether it was just a cover for ushering into the process a majority of middle aged people, I am not sure. I am certain that these attitudes thwarted the Spirit of God in hundreds of stillborn vocations.

Now, I have been in the business of nurturing and mentoring candidates for ministry for decades, and I know perfectly well that "the Spirit blows where it wants." I have rejoiced in the work of discernment and preparation with dozens and dozens of people in the second half of life. But I didn't rejoice at all in the policies that resulted in a cumulative graying of the clergy. And I believe I have earned my right to be skeptical about the design of most of those bureaucratic contraptions called "our ordination process," whose successive models seem to need constant tinkering, only to replaced altogether as yet another ecclesiastical lemon. In many cases they have proved to be grim deterrents to young people exploring a call to the priesthood.

Forty years on, and I am convinced that the church needs to be much less passive about exciting young women and men with the possibility that God wants to recruit the energy and gifts they have precisely as young people, to re-invigorate the ordained ministry from within. We have superb potential leaders among our college age men and women-and younger! I was actively cultivated in my teens as a potential priest, and my discernment was taken really seriously. Are we singling out young people of every cultural and class background as potential priests? Are we willing to forge very flexible instruments of discernment and preparation that can train them in time to devote energetic and creative years to reshaping the life of our parishes? How will we create the "apprenticeship" situations for the young newly ordained that will stretch and deepen them and give opportunity for their creativity? With financial constraints thinning out assistants' positions, how will we make it a priority to incorporate young women and men into the pastoral life in ways which are healthy and inviting for them and their families?

Martin L. Smith is a well-known spiri- tual writer and priest. He is the senior associate rector at St. Columba's, D.C.

By Adam Thomas

John Lennon popularized the saying that life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. For followers of Jesus Christ, this isn’t entirely accurate. You see: God usually has plans for us that are fairly different from the ones that we have for ourselves. Our joy as followers of Christ happens when we listen for and then respond to God’s call in our lives. And so, to modify Lennon’s quotation: life is what happens to you when you’re busy allowing your plans to resonate with God’s.

Here’s a snapshot of three times over the last decade of my life that shows my movement from my plans to God’s, a movement that I assure you continues today. (And please, don’t misunderstand – just because God’s plan for me has so far been to become a priest, know that God’s call manifests in myriad other ways, as well.)

January 11, 2001
It is ten years ago, and I am really starting to think long and hard about what my life might look like as an adult. My senior year of high school is half over, and my college applications are finished. The days are approaching when I will hourly test the mailbox’s hinges hoping for a fat letter from Sewanee, my first choice college. The days are long gone when I dreamt of being a part-time firefighter and a part-time paleontologist. With my college letters soon to arrive at my house, it is high time to think about the future, the real future apart from the shiny red engines and dinosaurs’ fossils of childhood. And so, right before I turn eighteen, I type a few paragraphs entitled “What Will I Become?”

I believe that when a student enters his or her freshman year of college, he or she should be open to a vast array of new experiences. From my perspective, having my life planned the minute I graduate from high school is unhealthy. I am not saying that a student should not narrow his or her interests at all, but having a rigid path to walk can become detrimental.

As I prepare for my college education I have envisioned no less than four scenarios, one of which has only begun to fester in my brain. I know I would like to continue writing as I grow older, but I am practical and also know that very few writers succeed. Nevertheless, my first scenario is to major in English and hopefully have something published while I am still attending college. The second is to major in journalism and become a reporter; I would love to work for ESPN, but that is more of a dream than a reality. The third scenario is to go pre-law and attend law school. I have always been interested in the judicial process, but I am not sure I want to be a lawyer.

The fourth scenario, the one that is starting to fester in brain, is to double major in English and political science, and then perhaps still go to law school. I do not think I want to be a politician, but I would consider being someone linked to one. I am in the fledgling stages of an AP United States government class, and it absolutely fascinates me. This last scenario is beginning to excite me because it connects the other three. If I became a speechwriter or press secretary then I would have to use skills from all of my other loves. I would need the communication skills of a journalist, the writing skills of an English major, and the thought processes of a lawyer. […] I have narrowed my mindset some, but I will use the next few years to truly decide what I want to do with the rest of my life.

December 28, 2004
The acceptance letter comes and I pack up for Sewanee. Four years later, I am nearly done with the double major, though music composition has replaced English as one of the pair. Halfway through another senior year, I write again about what I will become, this time in response to an essay question on the application for Virginia Theological Seminary.

At the beginning of the second semester of my senior year of high school, I sat down at my computer and wrote out a list of possible career paths in an attempt to bring some focus to the new world that would soon open up to me. I called the list “What Will I Become?” and it included writer, journalist, lawyer, and speechwriter. With this exercise, I was trying to persuade myself that it was perfectly acceptable not to have my future planned out before I went to college. The piece concluded with this sentence, “I have narrowed my mindset some, but I will use the next few years to truly decide what I want to do with the rest of my life.” A year later, my entire perspective changed.

I was taking a humanities class the second semester of my freshman year at Sewanee, and we read the Confessions of Saint Augustine. I was truly struck by Augustine’s attempt to look back over his whole life and search for God’s movement in it; indeed, the text is one long introspective prayer. Heartened by Augustine’s example, I tentatively began to look inside myself. Over the course of the semester, “what do I want to do with the rest of my life” became “what does God want me to do with the rest of my life.” With this new paradigm, my heart and mind became open to new possibilities—or to what I thought were new possibilities. Upon further reflection, I have discovered that this new and exciting avenue, becoming a priest, is actually the earliest path open to me that I had ignored for years.

You see, my father graduated from seminary when I was six years old, and I grew up in the church. I was never the stereotypical rebellious priest’s kid; on the contrary, I always went to services, but for the first seventeen years of my life, the Word and the liturgy failed to move me. I went to church, I was baptized, I was confirmed. I believed in God through the borrowed faith of my parents. But my own faith was still nascent. The church has caused my family intense pain and overwhelming joy, and throughout my early teenage years I was always on guard in church because the painful times were ever so much more vivid in my mind. I would not allow myself to be hurt again, would not allow myself to become vulnerable; therefore, I would not allow myself to love. People would jokingly ask me if I was “going to follow in my father’s footsteps.” Heck no, I always thought, I know what he has to put up with. The pain that kept my faith locked away also kept me from seeing my true calling.

However, on a Sunday morning in October of 2000, something miraculous happened, something that I have been trying to put into words ever since. But mere words are inadequate when the power of the Living God becomes involved. To put it the best I can, I had a moment with God, in which I felt connected to both the enormity of God’s movement in the world and the intimacy of an intense feeling of personal love…. A little over a year later, with Saint Augustine’s example newly in my mind and this transforming experience of God’s love still reforming my heart, I discerned that I was called to the path that has always been only one step away.

December 3, 2007
Another acceptance letter comes, and I attend seminary. Three years later, during my final senior year, I write again about what I will become, this time within a fortnight of the event when “What will I be” will turn into the “What I am.”

A few weeks ago, I decided to try on the outfit I am planning to wear to my ordination. I unzipped the suit bag and laid out the trousers and jacket. I put on my brand new (quite stiff, still) clergy shirt and collar. Then I added the suit, shoes, and belt. As I approached the mirror, I hesitated. I wasn’t sure who I would see looking back at me. A hand, then an arm, then my body appeared in the reflection. I looked me up and down. I folded my hands. I tried to raise one eyebrow and failed. I unbuttoned the jacket and stuck my hands in my pockets. I smiled. There I am, I thought.

As I approached the mirror, I was afraid that I would not see the me I have always been because I was decked out in the attire of the me I am becoming. But as I assumed a stance, a gesture, a facial expression that are uniquely mine, I realized that the mere trappings of the calling to which I have responded will not override the me that continues to respond to the call. When God called me to the ordained life, God called me. God called a person with both gifts and limitations, both experience and baggage. As I looked at my reflection, I did not see a necessarily better me, but the me that shows outwardly my striving to accept God’s call.

As I thought that, I felt my gut twinge with the same feeling I used to have when a fly ball was hit to me in center field. Go and catch it, my gut used to say. Now it says, Look at the way God has moved in your life. Now what are you going to do about it? In many of the places in the bible where our new translations use the word “heart,” the text really says “gut.” In my gut, I know I am called to serve God because I get that same feeling when I contemplate my future. In my gut, I sense the utter enormity of the One I am called to serve. In that deep place, at the very core of my being, I know that the me I am and the me I am becoming are both the me that God has called. Indeed, God’s call created the me I am.

Today
Three more years, the first three of my ordained life come and go. I sit at my computer reading the words I wrote over the past ten years, and I hear echoes of the person I used to be, echoes that somehow became solid, sunk down into my soul, and now fortify the call that God continues to breathe into my life. Another decade spans out ahead of me: marriage in less than two months, a parish in which to serve God, a PhD, followed, perhaps, by a post helping students learn the art of preaching. Some of these surely are part of God’s plan for me, but, even so, I must not allow my plans to become idols that pull me away from God. I must continue to listen and strive to resonate with God’s call. And I must keep myself open to all of God’s glorious possibilities by wondering: what will I become tomorrow?

The Rev. Adam Thomas, one of the first Millennials to be ordained priest, is the assistant to the rector at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church in Cohasset, Mass. He blogs at wherethewind.com. He is the author of the upcoming book Digital Disciple, out this May from Abingdon Press.

Daily Episcopalian will publish every other day this week.

By Ann Fontaine

What purpose can “not forgiving” serve?

Forgiveness is a highly recommended spiritual practice. The benefits of forgiveness are supposedly less stress and better health. Forgiveness is recommended by the church as a way to wholeness.

I wonder, however, if this is always a good idea. In cases of sexual and physical abuse, I believe offering quick forgiveness can continue the wounding rather than offering healing. It encourages people to “be nice” rather than find the wholeness of accepting the depth of one’s rage. When might it be good not to forgive?

I was reading the Daily Office the other day and this line stood out for me:

Indeed, under the law almost everything is purified with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins. Hebrews 9:22

The passage made wonder about the process of forgiveness. This verse says to me that forgiveness does not always help the process of healing or result in restoration and reconciliation. It says something has to happen before sins are forgiven and relationship returned.

Two stories:

1. A man was sexually abused as a child by his priest, with the tacit consent of his mother. Once he was grown enough to resist and speak out they had him committed to an institution for incorrigible teens. He could never get the church to act against the abuser. He was shuffled off from one office to another. The canons of the church designed to prevent this were not in place. By the time they were – the bishop said the statute of limitations had run out. Forgiveness for him would have been the last straw – one that took away his dignity and the rage that kept him alive to battle a cold uncaring institution and help to change things bit by bit.

2. A priest was often observed crossing boundaries with women – touching them in ways that made them uncomfortable. Some said, “Oh he is just friendly and does not mean anything by it.” For many who were the victims of his touching, it evoked memories of rape and powerlessness. One day he was hit by a car and broke both arms. Some victims felt their wounds had been assuaged and they were able to forgive.

In each of these cases there was an offense or offenses. People dealt with the issues of forgiveness in the ways each felt was best for them.

The church’s demand to forgive can make victims feel guilty and blame themselves for what happened to them. Persons unable to offer forgiveness feel shut out and re-victimized.

I believe we should be offering wholeness that comes from acknowledging the wounding and sitting with that woundedness for as long as it takes for the victim to come to the right place. Instead of demanding instant forgiveness of a perpetrator by a victim, offer to listen and find ways to make amends for what has happened. Help the victim become a survivor by discovering what he or she desires for his or her own life.

Listening shows the person that he or she has a right to be heard. I believe no movement to wholeness can occur until the story is told from the point of view of the victim and the victim receives assurance that it was terrible and should not have happened no matter what else was going on. Acceptance of the event and the knowledge that no amount of revisiting it will change the terrible nature of what happened is the first step to choosing the future one desires. It may or may not involve forgiveness but gives power back to the one who has suffered.

A reflection on the reading from the book of Hebrews

withholding forgiveness from those who have offended may be a time of waiting to see the blood

What sort of blood is needed?

As our daughter, a wise woman, says:

The most important thing I've learned about forgiveness is that it can't be forced. It must flow naturally from where the victim is in their healing process and frequently marks the point at which one has decided not to let the event be a distorting effect on one's life. Justice is a part of forgiveness. If someone did something wrong that was under their control and they show no remorse, then it is very difficult to forgive. If remorse is shown (not just said)-- or one feels that 'fate' has provided justice (as in the broken armed abuser story)-- then it is easier to let go of the protective anger and move on. Anger can a protective shield-- perhaps it is like a cold-frame for seedlings -- protecting a vulnerable person until they are strong enough to live on their own, but confining if left in place too long.

Withholding forgiveness may be a way to retain one’s power in a situation of powerlessness. I believe it can be a first step to regaining a sense of self that has been destroyed by abuse and exploitation.

The Rev. Ann Fontaine, Diocese of Wyoming, keeps what the tide brings in. She is the author of Streams of Mercy: a meditative commentary on the Bible.

By Marshall Scott

I’ve been taking some vacation. Well, at least I haven’t been going into the hospital. I haven’t been off doing anything dramatic or exciting. Being relatively new in her current position, my wife has less vacation time than I do, so I’ve been taking some days away while she still has to work. I’m not really good at vacating, and so, having not gone out of town, I’ve found myself as busy as if I’d gone to the office, if not more.

So, I’ve been spending my time at the parish garden - putting up rabbit fence, breaking sod. We’ve expanded this year by 50%. That has meant more fencing and new ground to break. A parishioner donated portable fencing, movable panels, more than enough for the expanded garden. However, it was designed to keep horses. It’s good for keeping the deer out, but not much good against anything smaller. So, I had to cut and fit lengths of garden fence, bent out at the bottom (it discourages critters from burrowing in) and fastened with zip ties. I went after the new ground with a heavy tiller, donated by the same parishioner. The heavy machine did an awful lot of the work, but it still took its toll on me – hard work in the hot sun.

There’s something very diaconal about working in the garden. Things diaconal have been on my mind, because I’m preaching an ordination of deacons soon. It’s a privilege, and I’m honored that the ordinands would request me. And it certainly has my attention.

As I said, there’s something very diaconal about working in the garden, not least the parallel with the first seven appointed by the apostles. This garden is one of a number supporting the feeding ministries in Kansas City, recently reported here at the Café. At its inception, the ministry of those first seven deacons was also a feeding ministry. “Now during those days, when the disciples were increasing in number, the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution of food. And the twelve called together the whole community of the disciples and said, ‘It is not right that we should neglect the word of God in order to wait at tables. Therefore, friends, select from among yourselves seven men of good standing, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we may appoint to this task.…’” (Acts 6:1-3) While the fencing and the tilling weren’t as direct or immediate as serving at the tables, the food we produce will be served in its time.

More broadly, working in the garden also reflects for me something of the deacon’s vocation as described in the Prayer Book. The Outline of the Faith, the Prayer Book catechism, says, “The ministry of a deacon is to represent Christ and his Church, particularly as a servant of those in need….” In the Ordination Rite, the new deacons are told, “You are to interpret to the Church the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world.” (BCP p. 543) I have written before of my own sense that gardening gives me a glimpse into the work that many in the world have to do simply to feed themselves and their families. In this case, the work goes toward feeding the homeless and hungry closer to home.

In another personal reflection, this work is diaconal for me because I’m not in charge. Both the Ordination Rite and the Outline of the Faith emphasize that the deacon’s work is about assisting. I’ve already noted the role in assisting those in need. However, the vocation is also about assisting those in charge – both their bishops, and also the priests to whom the bishops assign them. In this garden, I am not the one in charge. I’m one taking directions. I certainly support the work, not least because the leader in the garden is my wife; but in this work I’m absolutely a dutiful follower.

At the same time, what I’ve been doing really enables what others will do. Paul said, “One plants, another waters, but God gives the growth.” Well and good: but, if the ground is not tilled, the planting cannot happen. If the rabbits aren’t kept out, the harvest will not be what it could be, and some crops won’t come to harvest at all (after all, even rabbits have favorites). As the diaconate has grown over the past generation, deacons have often been asked to enable the work of others, both by leading specific ministries and by educating to help people find their own vocations.

I will admit that I am acutely aware of diaconal themes in ministry. The fact is that as a hospital chaplain most of my work has to do with showing the compassion of the church by assisting those in need, serving in a setting where I’m not in charge. Much of my own chaplaincy involves administrative activities that are intended to guide and enable the ministries of others. It is true that my work also includes celebrating the Eucharist in the hospital chapel and anointing the sick, and that I have the opportunities to help many colleagues by supplying in their parishes. However, when most of the work is considered, I believe (and have shared with bishops) that healthcare chaplaincy can be an appropriate ministry for a deacon.

I’m also clear that many of the activities I’ve cited, and certainly my work in the garden, don’t require ordination at all. I’ve heard over the years the complaints from some priests that the resurgence of the diaconate has simply taken a number of very effective lay ministers and added them to the ranks of the ordained. I would certainly agree that some priests simply don’t take advantage of the deacons who serve with them.

I still think we can call these ministries diaconal, whoever might carry them out; and we can appreciate the vocations of the deacons in our midst. They lead and model these ministries for our edification, and for the edification of the Church – literally, the building up of the Body.

Perhaps we can go a step further. We have long held in the Episcopal Church that we share in the priesthood of all believers. We have also long held that the Christian faith and life is not simply about what we believe, but also about how we demonstrate our belief in service in the world. Certainly, we emphasize in the Baptismal Covenant proclaiming by example, and seeking and serving Christ in all persons. Perhaps we need to think about the diaconal ministries in which we all might serve, and in which ordained deacons can lead us. Perhaps we need to think about “the diaconate of all believers.”

The Rev. Marshall Scott is a chaplain in the Saint Luke’s Health System, a ministry of the Diocese of West Missouri. A past president of the Assembly of Episcopal Healthcare Chaplains, and an associate of the Order of the Holy Cross, he keeps the blog Episcopal Chaplain at the Bedside.

By George Clifford

Conversations I hear about the clergy profiles and search process managed by the Church Deployment Office (CDO) reveal widespread dissatisfaction and make me wonder if a better, lower cost alternative exists. Many clergy, dioceses, and parishes have already informally opted out of the CDO system. Concurrently, The Episcopal Church faces continuing revenue shortfalls forcing program reductions. As difficult as change can be for some people and organizations, now seems a propitious moment to explore options for improving service while saving money.

LinkedIn is not only free but the premier social networking site for professionals seeking employment and organizations seeking to hire executives. What would happen if TEC utilized LinkedIn, instead of the current CDO system, for helping clergy (and lay employees) and employers (parishes, dioceses, etc.) in the call process?

A couple of preliminary disclaimers are important. Although I have a LinkedIn account, I’m far from an experienced LinkedIn user. Nor do I stand to benefit financially if my suggestion is adopted.

A task force of stakeholders and highly proficient Episcopal LinkedIn users can probably develop a workable set of tactics and policies with relative speed and ease. Hundreds of self-identified Episcopalians already use LinkedIn. Some have connected through existing LinkedIn groups that include school alumni, parishes, ministries to help job seekers, and several dioceses.

To stimulate creativity, suggest the viability of relying on LinkedIn, and to initiate a conversation, here are a few, broad-brush ideas on how TEC might employ LinkedIn for its clergy placement system:

First, TEC could organize two or three user groups. The organizer controls membership in the group, offering a means to exclude the “unwashed.” One group would consist of Episcopal clergy (and perhaps those interested in lay positions); this group would be similar to the CDO profile database. Another group would consist of parishes and other organizations wishing to hire a member of the first group. This second group would be analogous to the CDO database of employment opportunities. A third group possible group would consist of diocesan deployment officers, bishops, and other key players in the call process.

Second, each group might have standard forms or information that each group member completes. This would allow for as much flexibility as a resume designed by the person seeking a call and as much structure as the current profile system for both individuals and calling parishes and organizations. This information could easily include links to a priest’s blog, website of parishes previously served, or a recruiting congregation or organization’s website.

Third, many (most?) participants in this plan would probably know one or more current LinkedIn users, Episcopalian or not, who could provide free, local, and timely coaching. This might increase, compared to the CDO, the number of individuals seeking a call and calling organizations who participate, additionally enhancing the value of replacing the CDO system with LinkedIn.

Fourth, LinkedIn provides apparently adequate security for the personal information (name, address, telephone numbers, email, etc.) that the system requires. Otherwise, LinkedIn’s millions of current users would not find the system sufficiently secure. LinkedIn users must establish a free account with password protection, preventing most unauthorized access to data.

Fifth, LinkedIn’s search capabilities probably match or exceed those of the CDO present system. In other words, the change should not degrade but may improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the current system. This also might increase the number of individuals and organizations choosing to rely on the system, again improving effectiveness and efficiency. If LinkedIn did not provide an adequate search capability, neither Fortune 500 companies or professionals seeking positions that pay six figure salaries would bother using LinkedIn. Although the content and tasks of ministry differ greatly from secular positions, the recruiting (or call) processes are very similar.

Sixth, the Episcopal Church would own no infrastructure nor encounter any fees for utilizing LinkedIn. System improvements would be compliments of LinkedIn. CDO personnel could serve as field consultants. Alternatively, TEC might capture some portion, or all, of the CDO budget as cost savings without any program reductions. A free process that works 90-95% as effectively and efficiently as a proprietary system looks like a very good value in today’s austere fiscal environment.

The current CDO system reflects pre-internet thinking, awkwardly updated for the personal computer and then internet eras. Current planning anticipates replacing the printed version of Episcopal Life with an exclusive, online version; the online version already distributes more content in a timelier manner. Prompted by decreasing reliance on newspapers for information, increasing use and availability of the internet, and a continuing need for good stewardship (i.e., to reduce costs), dioceses are replacing legacy communication systems with internet based solutions. Adoption of a clergy placement system based on a free, social networking site for professional placement, such as LinkedIn, will similarly move TEC away from another legacy system with its frustrating limitations and unnecessary costs.

Rumor has it that the CDO is developing a proprietary, interactive system to replace its current system. If so, this probably represents a second-best solution. The Church might exercise better stewardship of its limited funds by not purchasing proprietary computer code, funding beta testing, etc. Instead, using TEC resources to research the most effective search modality and best indicators of a good fit between a priest and parish would probably yield bigger dividends.

For example, which search modality is most likely to produce a rector who stays at least five years: a diocese recommending a single rector time-certain candidate; a targeted search in which the diocese recommends approximately five candidates; or the traditional parish-centered search process? In a minority of instances, an excellent choice as rector may beneficially stay a shorter period of time, e.g., a parish with a recent history of great trauma that needs much healing. Nevertheless, five years is a reasonable proxy for a good fit. Complementing that metric with annual data about number of baptisms, number of confirmations, average Sunday attendance, and operating budget would further refine the accuracy of the assessment. Furthermore, those search modalities require increasing amounts of time, ranging from several months to find a rector time-certain to as much as two years for the traditional search. Vacant cures, even with an excellent interim, generally inflict a toll on parishes. Search processes are also expensive. Yet no research exists about the effectiveness of each of the three search modalities.

God calls us, individually and collectively, to be good stewards of the resources entrusted to us. As much as we, God's frozen chosen, may prefer stolid immobility to change, the business of being the Church is always a means to an end and never an end in itself. Upon what other antiquated modus operandi does TEC rely to its detriment and financial loss? Do other, free alternatives exist that TEC can adapt and adopt to become a more effective, efficient steward of the resources God's people have entrusted to our care?

The Rev. Dr. George Clifford, Diocese of North Carolina, served as a Navy chaplain for twenty-four years He taught philosophy at the U. S. Naval Academy and ethics at the Postgraduate School. He serves as priest in charge at the Church of the Nativity in Raleigh and blogs at Ethical Musings.

By Marshall Scott

“I don’t know how you do this, day after day.”

He was standing in the hall, outside the room. In the room, surrounded by other family members, his mother lay in a hospital bed, dead. He was standing outside, grieving in his own way, but in his own way unable to go to the bedside.

“I don’t know how you do this, day after day.”

This is hardly the first time I’ve heard that statement. Indeed, it is pretty common. Wrapped in, almost overwhelmed by their own sorrow, family members will look at us who walk with them through that sorrow, through the prism of their own fears. The family members don’t want this experience. How, then, can some of us make a career of accompanying them, and so many others, through it?

Several different thoughts go through my head at the question. One is that I’m the wrong person to ask. I grew up with a small town funeral home in the family. To visit my aunt and uncle was also to visit the funeral home, for they lived in a small apartment at the back, so as to be available at all times. Too, since it was a small town, to visit was almost always to walk in on someone else’s funeral, but someone my mother knew from childhood. It was simply a part of being in a large extended family, with roots spread through the community. Death was simply more of a family event for me.

Another is to recognize that it really is harder for the persons actually grieving than it is for us who walk with them. I have been on the other side, too; and I don’t think my grief, my fear, was really that much more controlled. That experience does help me empathize; but as empathetic as I can be, I know it’s harder for them.

I can acknowledge, too, that this isn’t something I do “day after day.” In my suburban, community hospital death really isn’t a daily occurrence. Grief and sorrow certainly are, for there are many losses other than death. At the same time, I still get to see most patients go home, stronger, in less pain, and with more hope.

But the most important answer isn’t about history or distance or balance. The most important answer, and one that I do share, is, “It’s what I’m supposed to do.” You see, the most important answer is about vocation. I can do this day after day – indeed, I have had periods of months when I did do it day after day – because it’s what God has called me to do. More broadly, it’s what God has called us to do, because I believe that vocation is as much a factor for the others I work with, nurses and doctors and social workers and aids, as it is for me. Whether we would use that language or not, whether we are conscious of it or not, underlying all of our work is vocation, a sense that we are called to this work, to this companionship in the face of grief.

Sometimes it’s easier to see this in other professions than in my own. For example, I have often noted that there are some specialties in which a nurse will work for either eighteen months or eighteen years. I have said that at various times about emergency room work, or intensive care, or pediatric nursing, or hospice. It’s not that those practices are all that much alike, except in the sense that each requires a special gift, a special charism, that allows the individual to sustain the particular variety of stress that is characteristic of each setting. Each environment creates a particular kind of emotional and spiritual stress, and finding one’s living in each seems to me to require a particular charism and vocation. Without that charism, that vocation, individuals will eventually leave, sometimes burning out before realizing that they need to leave, for a more amenable practice.

I think the same is true in our ministries, professional and otherwise. I have had colleagues in other ministries make the same comment as the grieving family member: “I don’t know how you do this day after day.” At the same time, I have to appreciate that I don’t know how they do what they do, either. It’s been a long time since God called me to parish ministry, and while God might call me to that yet (as I often remind candidates for ordination and others exploring vocation, the question isn’t just, “What is God calling me to,” but “What is God calling me to now?”), I can’t assume that I know how I would fare. I have been in parish ministry, a long time ago in a setting far, far away. I have clear memories of committee meetings where little seemed to happen, meetings where I found myself silently clawing at the arms of my chair. At the same time, I came to realize that those meetings were important in the life of the parish for the structural maintenance of the community all out of proportion to their “demonstrable outcomes.” For all the fulfillment we specialists find in “serving at the point of need” (not to mention excitement; I have often said that chaplains are the “adrenaline-junkies” of the clergy), the life of the Church, and the heart of the life of the individual Christian, is centered in the parish; and I appreciate my colleagues who have the special gifts to work in parishes well.

The lessons for this week, the Fifth after Epiphany, are about vocation. We hear of Isaiah’s call as “a man of unclean lips, in a people of unclean lips;” of Paul’s call “last of all, as one untimely born;” and of Peter’s call as “a sinful man.” Each of them carried out a special ministry, and carried it out for the remainder of their lives; but none of them could have done so without that call. Because of their vocations, they were able to provide special ministries, calling God’s people to hope in the face of great doubt and great grief. From their own words we hear it: it wasn’t their personal qualities or histories that sustained them. They simply did what they were called to do. They responded in the words Isaiah stated explicitly: “Here I am. Send me.”

There is in this world more than enough challenge and grief to go around. We are called to minister in one way or another in the face of - indeed, in the midst of - all of that challenge and grief. And if each of us sees in the ministries of others aspects that might be difficult, in fact others will see similar difficulties in ours. We are best able to minister day after day when we discover where we are called. Personal qualities and histories may in fact contribute to that discernment. On the other hand, if we pursue lives to which we are not called, we will not last eighteen years, or even eighteen months; and it may be burnout that shows us we are mistaken.

I have heard this in a hospital hall, from someone frightened of his own grief, but each of us in ministry and in service may well hear the same comment: “I don’t know how you do this day after day.” We may think about our gifts and skills, about our histories and our circumstances, for all of those may make their contribution. At bottom, though, the most important answer is a matter of vocation. One way or another, each of us experienced a call, a sense of vocation, for this ministry in this circumstance; and the most important reason that each of us can live and serve in this ministry is simply that on one way or another we answered: “Here am I. Send me.”

The Rev. Marshall Scott is a chaplain in the Saint Luke’s Health System, a ministry of the Diocese of West Missouri. A past president of the Assembly of Episcopal Healthcare Chaplains, and an associate of the Order of the Holy Cross, he keeps the blog Episcopal Chaplain at the Bedside.

This is the second of a two-part article. It was originally published in Vol. 31, # 4 of Diakoneo, the journal of the North American Association for the Diaconate (NAAD) and is reprinted with permission.

By Pamela McAbee Nesbit

There is a psychological explanation for why otherwise knowledgeable and sophisticated people become sentimental and careless in their thinking when they talk about the transitional diaconate. The explanation is that they are trying to reduce cognitive dissonance, an experience that comes about when a people behave in ways that do not fit their values or their sense of themselves. The ordination to the transitional diaconate has put every ordinand to the priesthood in exactly that situation. Every priest in the Episcopal Church has stood before a bishop at the examination for diaconal ordination and answered, “I believe I am so called” to the question “My brother or sister, do you believe that you are truly called by God and his church to the life and work of a deacon?” The 1928 Prayer Book used somewhat different language, but included the requirement that the ordinand say that he believes he is “truly called” to the ministry of a deacon. This is a requirement that has been fulfilled by every priest and bishop in the Episcopal Church, despite the fact that our priests are neither called nor trained to be deacons. I have been a member of the Commission on Ministry of the Diocese of Pennsylvania for over 10 years. In my time there, I have never seen any nominee for the priesthood examined for his or her call to the diaconate.

For those who have successfully completed the rigorous and lengthy requirements to become a priest to find themselves standing before a bishop in a solemn ceremony in which they are asked if they are “truly called” to the life and work of a deacon must be disconcerting in the extreme. What are they supposed to say? If they say “No, I’m not called to be a deacon, I’m called to be a priest” they will not be allowed to become a priest. This liturgical requirement of the Church puts ordinands to the priesthood in the position of either saying something they know to be untrue – that they are truly called to be deacon – or of finding a way to make it true. “Yes, I am truly called to be a deacon because I like the thought of being a deacon, or because the diaconate will teach me to be a servant.’ or “Yes, I am truly called to be a deacon because it will give me an understanding of my priestly ministry that I hold precious even as I am seen by the people in the church as what I am – a priest – not a deacon.”

Cognitive dissonance is the uncomfortable feeling that people have when there is an inconsistency between what they believe and how they behave. For persons called to be priests, for whom liturgy is profoundly meaningful, to knowingly speak an untruth in an ordination ceremony creates enormous cognitive dissonance. Social psychological theory and research predicts that in the face of cognitive dissonance people will unconsciously change their beliefs in order to make the dissonance disappear. They will rationalize – which means they will construct a logical justification for their belief. But, because they are motivated by the desire to believe what reduces the dissonance, the quality of their thinking will be reduced. They are less likely to take all the facts into account. And they will not be willing to engage in real and thorough discussion of the issue about which they are rationalizing.

What I am suggesting is that the reason we continue to have a transitional diaconate, long after it makes any sense to do so, is because every new priest is forced to deal with the cognitive dissonance created by their diaconal ordination and particularly by that part of the examination that requires them to state that they are “truly called” to be deacons. The transitional diaconate is sustaining itself through its own liturgy and especially by the discomfort it creates in the hearts of ordinands required to affirm a call that is not theirs. I believe that if we had a generation of priests who were not required to be ordained as deacons, the arguments for the transitional diaconate would melt away very quickly as the rationalizations they are.
It takes courage to overcome cognitive dissonance. People have to learn to tolerate the discomfort so they can think clearly about the issue that is causing it. Cognitive dissonance tends to lead people to be stuck in patterns of behavior that don’t make much sense. That is how I see the Church at this time about this issue. I believe that part of the call of the deacons of the Episcopal Church is to gently but inexorably challenge the pious fiction of the transitional diaconate and help the church become the whole, organic body of Christ, called in baptism and living out our servant ministry in Jesus’ name.

The Rev. Deacon Pamela McAbee Nesbit, Ph.D. is president-elect of NAAD, organizer of the upcoming Diaconal Assembly and a deacon at Church of the Holy Nativity, Wrightstown, PA.

This is the first of a two-part article. It was originally published in Vol. 31, # 4 of Diakoneo, the journal of the North American Association for the Diaconate (NAAD) and is reprinted with permission.

By Pamela McAbee Nesbit

As a psychologist and a deacon I have long been struck by the poor quality of the explanations offered for the existence of the transitional diaconate in our time. The rationale of the diaconate as presented in the 1928 Prayer Book at least made sense. It was a clear expression of cursus honorum, the vertical, hierarchical model of the church that requires those in holy orders to show fitness in one order before moving up to the next. The prayer at ordination asks that persons being taken into the office of Deacon may “so well behave themselves in this inferior Office, that they may be found worthy to be called unto the higher Ministries in thy Church…” The 1928 Prayer Book is clear. The diaconate is a probationary period in which a man will show himself worthy (or not) to become a priest. This is highly questionable ecclesiology, but at least it makes sense.

In the post war period this kind of thinking began to be challenged. In 1958 a resolution was adopted at Lambeth, which stated that “The office of Deacon shall be restored to its primitive place as a distinct order of the church, instead of being regarded as a probationary period for the priesthood.” This was proposed in response to a report from a committee that had studied the issue and concluded that the Church should either restore the diaconate or give it up. Give it up? The 1958 Lambeth Conference was actually invited to consider jettisoning one of the orders of the Church. However, given that the order of deacons had completely lost its original role, its functions having been taken over by either laypersons or priests, this shocking suggestion also makes sense.

The Anglican Church did not give up the diaconate. The Episcopal Church began to ordain men to the “permanent diaconate”. This experiment was not very successful as these new permanent deacons (ordained using the 1928 Prayer Book liturgy) had no ministry other than to be assistants to priests. Most of them were dissatisfied in their diaconal ministry, such as it was, and many of them became priests. The theology behind the 1979 revision of the prayer book took these mistakes into account. The 1979 Prayer Book intentionally makes the diaconate a full and equal order. Gone is the 1928 Prayer Book rationale for ordination to the diaconate by those called to be priests, although in canon law the transitional diaconate persists. And now, it seems to me, the Episcopal Church is struggling to explain why we continue to require that people called to be priests be ordained first as deacons.

As I have spoken to priests and bishops about the transitional diaconate and have read the rationales for its existence, I’ve been struck by the theological superficiality of the explanations I have encountered. The one I have heard most frequently is that the priest found his or her diaconal year “enjoyable”. I have heard this from many people, but the time I most clearly remember was when a priest said this to me in exactly the same tone of voice she might have used to say that she enjoyed a trip to the shore: “I enjoyed my diaconal year.” I was shocked. Certainly enjoyment is not meant to be the basis of ordination to any order of the Church.

A less offhand, but similar statement was made in a priest’s essay about the diaconate posted on his parish website. He begins by pointing out that some people believe the transitional diaconate is unnecessary and that it reduces the diaconate to an apprenticeship for priests. “However,” he goes on to say, “I rejoice that, even for six months, I served as a deacon. And I also believe that once a deacon, always a deacon – that I am both deacon and priest.”

I don’t question the sincerity of this priest’s rejoicing in his sense of himself as a deacon. However, I don’t see much difference between this and “I enjoyed my diaconal year.” Surely the diaconate is meant to be more than a source of joy to priests.

The other argument frequently put forward for the transitional diaconate was articulated on another parish website. In attempting to answer the question “What is a Deacon” the writer says the following: “There are two types of deacons. There are deacons who feel they are called to be deacons, period - called "Permanent or Vocational Deacons"; and there are deacons who feel they are also called to be priests and they serve as a deacon first, to remind them they are servants - called "Transitional Deacons".

This is an example of the frequently-made argument that, now that transitional deacons are no longer proving their worthiness for higher things, the purpose of the transitional diaconate is for priests to learn that they are servants. Surely it would have been better for them to have learned this as baptized people. The argument that the purpose of the transitional diaconate is to teach future priests to be humble, or to teach them anything at all, continues the questionable idea that the diaconate is a teaching device rather than a full and equal order. And, more disturbing, it continues that unacknowledged narcissism that makes one of the sacred orders of the Church be about what any individual feels or learns rather than about building up the Body of Christ. The question is, what do we ordain people for? So they can feel good? So that they can remember to be humble? I can’t imagine any priest or bishop in the Episcopal Church accepting such a trivialization of his or her order of ministry.

When Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts-Schori came to the assembly of the North American Association for the Diaconate in June 2007, she gave the keynote speech and then stayed for an extensive question and answer time. I am sure that this was the first time that Bishop Jefferts-Schori had been a room with over 200 deacons. She was gracious and encouraging, and had clearly come to both challenge and support us in our ministry. In the question and answer time someone asked about direct ordination. In defending the transitional diaconate, Bishop Katharine said, “Well, there’s something diaconal about the priesthood,” at which point many voices said back, respectfully but loudly, “That comes to you through your baptism!” It was my impression that Bp. Katharine was taken aback. But she stayed and talked to us for a long time. And, I have heard rumors that she is now suggesting that vocational deacons refer to ourselves as “real deacons”.

What struck me at the time was how superficial and inarticulate was the explanation of the normally profound and articulate Presiding Bishop. I am struck repeatedly by the, frankly, sloppy and dismissive arguments that people make when they defend the transitional diaconate now that the 1928 rationale is no longer (overtly) used. In 2003 the Standing Commission on Ministry Development brought a proposal to the General Convention recommending direct ordination. Deacon Ormonde Plater, writing in the Associated Parishes journal describes what happened next:

Faced with a resolution asking convention to approve direct ordination, the bishops chatted at their tables for a few minutes and had a brief, desultory debate in which Jim Kelsey of Northern Michigan stated the main case for direct ordination. The voice vote was overwhelming opposed.

The ministry committee then crafted a revised canon on ordination to the priesthood, requiring the transitional diaconate, and sent the whole bunch of canons to the bishops, who loaded on 12 amendments and passed the canons unanimously. A day later, the last day of Convention, the House of Deputies concurred, despite grumbles about not having had a chance to study the heavily revised text.

The convention refused to really discuss it. Deacon Plater goes on to say:

Proposals for direct ordination will continue to come before Convention, as they have for the last two decades. Recent scholarly studies have removed much of the historical and theological arguments in favor of sequential ordination. John St. H. Gibaut, in two recent books, says the church should adopt either a five-year transitional diaconate or do away with it. What won’t go away so easily is the emotional attachment many priests and bishops have to their brief experience as deacons, and the consequent belief that the diaconate is the fundamental ministry of the church.

I think that the belief is really that the diaconate is the fundamental ministry of the clergy, thus denying that servant ministry belongs to the whole people of God. We are all called to serve, and making the diaconate the personal property of a priest’s sense of his or her ministry turns servant ministry into a lesson for priests and denies it as the basis of the ministry of all the baptized.

Deacon Plater speaks of the “emotional attachment many priests and bishops have their brief experience as deacons”. As a psychologist, this is what is most striking to me about the argument for the transitional diaconate. Normally articulate people are surprisingly inarticulate. Normally clear-thinking people offer surprisingly personal and superficial arguments such as that they enjoyed or rejoice in their diaconal time and value their sense of themselves as deacons. Mostly, my experience of this conversation is that priests and bishops become irritated and say whatever they need to say to stop the conversation. I have no idea if the bishops at the 2003 Convention were irritated by the SCMD’s proposal for direct ordination, however it is clear that they did not really debate and discuss the issues and they shut down any possibility that they might be debated and discussed in the House of Deputies.

The question I want to consider is why the quality of thinking about the transitional diaconate is so poor, while the motivation to keep it in place is so strong. There is no sound theological argument for the transitional diaconate – so why not get rid of it? Why not, at least, make it optional? Clearly, the Church’s inherent conservatism is part of the reason. Cursus honorum has been around for a long time, although it was not part of the Pre-Nicene Church. Anglicans don’t make changes in sacramental ministries easily or lightly, nor should we. It is understandable that there would need to be thorough and thoughtful study and conversation to consider such a fundamental change. But there has been very thorough study. And, as I have tried to show, the arguments against making the transitional diaconate at least optional are notable for not being thoughtful.

So why do people persist in making them?

The Rev. Deacon Pamela McAbee Nesbit, Ph.D. is president-elect of NAAD, organizer of the upcoming Diaconal Assembly and a deacon at Church of the Holy Nativity, Wrightstown, PA.

By Kathleen Staudt

For the past few summers, with funding from Lilly Foundation, Virginia Seminary has hosted a 10-day Summer Collegium in support of pastors of small membership churches and their spouses. These are pastors of churches in mainline denominations with average Sunday attendance under 100. I’ve participated in the program in various leadership and teaching capacities and always come away with a sense that there IS good news about the church, less about numbers than about spirit, commitment and ability to embody the presence of Christ.

The people I meet at these gatherings are good, grounded pastors, many in very challenging practical situations. Some are at multi-point charges, some are bi-vocational; all are in churches with various kinds of financial struggles. But they do not see growth in numbers as a major goal, though they do see the importance of helping people be open to change and growth in spirit and in community life. What I find inspiring when I spend time with these pastoral leaders is their dedication to being with their people and “helping them to ‘be the church’” – I hear that language across denominations, and regardless of the pastoral and personal challenges that small church ministry presents.

Small mainline churches offer the continuing presence of a thoughtful, practical Christian faith in their communities, and the people in them are formed by their lives together. There are churches represented here that are focal points of their local communities, engaging in genuine, effective, heartfelt mission work both locally and nationally. They understand about mission and faithfulness; they have a vision of themselves as the People of God in their contexts. Perhaps most important, they are small communities but they persist, they are still there – and expect to be remaining where they are even as the broader, wider church changes.

Since our job is to support the pastors, we do hear about their pain, their challenges, the splits and controversies that plague our congregations. But running through all of this is a sense that the Church of Christ is still alive, still present in these communities, and seeking ways to be faithful in the face of challenges that have been there, off and on, for generations and sometimes centuries. For these congregations, controversies within and across denominations may affect their histories some, and there are sometimes histories of conflicts and regroupings, but there’s a ground base of continuity that really has nothing to do with the Great Issues of judicatories and church conventions . There’s simplicity of focus: people are involved in their churches as a foundational part of their family and community life. They are worshipping and doing ministry where they are, and their pastors know them, love them, pray with them and walk with them while they are there, recognizing that congregations persist and pastors nurture and lead them for a time. These leaders know that there is something bigger about being the church than the individual pastor, even as they also know how to be “wise as serpents and innocent as lambs where evil is concerned.”

There are many ways to be church, and not all of them are large and well resourced. Indeed, when I look at the way that these gifted, dedicated people are managing, I sometimes wonder if I am looking at least in part at the Church of the Future, where some of the norms of institutional survival that we now hold may just have to change. Small churches (which make up the majority of most mainline denominations) know the truth of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s statement that “the church of God takes up space in the world.” Those we hear about here continue to embody a living faith, expressed in the struggle to be a faithful and loving community even when the struggle is difficult. Spending time with these pastors always leaves me with the feeling that the Church, the body of Christ, is real, carrying out its mission in homely and human ways that are profoundly incarnational, and that whatever challenges we face as big denominations, the lives of congregations find ways to continue, testimony to the presence in the world of persistent, faithful Christian faith and practice.

Dr. Kathleen Henderson Staudt keeps the blog poetproph, works as a teacher, poet, spiritual director and retreat leader in the Washington DC area. She is the author of two books: At the Turn of a Civilisation: David Jones and Modern Poetics and Annunciations: Poems out of Scripture.

By Howard Anderson

It was a bit like the movie “Father of the Bride,” when Steve Martin’s daughter announced that she was getting married. Rather than seeing the lovely, mature woman in front of him, the Daddy in him sees his little girl, in pigtails, saying a ridiculous thing-“I’m getting married.” Our little Pookie getting ordained? How can it be? As Bishop Alan Scarfe, the Bishop of Iowa laid hands on our little girl, making her a transitional deacon, I was seeing something quite different, and someone quite different.

I was seeing, in my mind’s eye, the new born baby girl, who, when I held her the first time, changed my life forever. I was seeing the little blonde Haole girl running naked across the hot sand at Makapu’u beach, her little bottom covered with sand, accompanied by several of her little friends, and the “herd” of them jumping, laughing into the Pacific. I was seeing the little girl standing in front of her stuffed animals, her faithful old dog propped up in a bean bag chair, with glasses on her snout, with thin slices or radish she had picked from the salad, handing each a thin, white slice and saying “take, eat, this is my body.”

I was shaken out of my reverie by a small voice next to me saying, “Papi, Momma is crying, what did Bishop Alan do to her?” Now there’s a question for you! My grandson, Will, watching his Momma kneeling before the Bishop, tears streaming down her face, was concerned. I leaned toward him and said, “Don’t worry Will, those are tears of joy. Your Momma is very happy to be ordained.”

I was moved to be asked to be a presenter. My wife, Linda, and I, just as when we held her at her baptism, at her various graduations, Will’s baptism, stood this day to support her in her decision to answer the call of The Holy One to give her vocational life to serve God’s people as an ordained person. As I listened to Bishop Scarfe preaching to and about Kesha, I could sense how deeply he knew our little girl, now a woman. She had been on his diocesan staff, and all her foibles, gifts, skills and charisms he knew well. And what a window on her soul his words were…and challenging. More tears. The symbol of unity in the Church, the Bishop, was ordaining a person, our little one, with such tenderness and insight. And then I began to remember. My own ordination as a Deacon came back so clearly.

I remembered, years earlier, a bishop I loved and love still, Bob Anderson, laying hands on me. Like my daughter, I, too, had been a lay professional for many years before I was ordained. And like Bishop Scarfe, Bishop Anderson was ordaining someone he knew well. These two men were ordaining someone whom they had loved, challenged, counseled, someone with whom they had laughed and cried in many unguarded moments. Warts and all, fears and gifts, accomplishments all laid humbly before the Holy One…all made holy through Christ’s love and the power of the Spirit.

Feelings washed over me and time slowed, as the ordination proceeded. Kesha had fought the call to ordination almost as long as I had. Proud lay professionals in the Church for over a decade, she and I were alike in this way. I had feared God could not be trusted. I could not get myself to believe what I preached, that The Holy Spirit guided the Councils of the Church and guided God’s people to call some apart for ordination. Kesha and I had always talked “shop.” And we both believed that the primary vocational sacrament was not ordination, but Baptism. And yet, here she was. Now ordained.

Kesha as a 10 year old, watched another family member, her uncle, announce that he was leaving his position as an athletic trainer and physical therapist for a major Division I university athletic department to follow his older brother to seminary. This was just too much of her. Her mother a parish school principal, and her Daddy, two uncles, a great grandfather and four great uncles all ordained. She placed her little hands on her scrawny hips and crossly said, “Now all we’ll ever talk about at family gatherings is God!”

But The Holy One is a patient and persistent suitor. And here we were. Father and daughter…both reluctant, both now ordained. Her collar felt too tight she said. She was not convinced that there was an ontological change. “Will my friends all stop cussing around me and only want to talk about church?”

And then the pictures. The Mom and Dad and ordinand, their baby, newly ordained and chafing already at the collar. The proud husband and even prouder little boy all smiles. More tears. More laughter.

Future and past all collapsed into a wintry Iowa day when a young woman began a new and perilous journey off to fight the good fight armed with only a bit of bread, a little wine, some olive oil and a couple of books. Paltry things in the world’s eyes. Very ordinary. But with the Spirits gifts empowered, just enough. The Rev. Pookie now thank you. The Rev. Pookie.

The Rev. Dr. Howard Anderson is rector of St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Pacific Palisades, California. He was a long time General Convention deputy and most importantly, is grandfather to a six-year-old theologian, Will.

By W. Tay Moss

While drinking cocktails at a retreat for new priests a few years ago my colleagues and I started talking about the things we do in our offices that we don't want parishioners to see. One fellow admitted to spending an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, another, blushing, admitted to hours spent playing "World of Warcraft." My vice, I admitted, was video games, specifically ultra-violent first person shooters like "Counter-Strike."

"Nothing makes me feel better after a long day at the church," I admitted proudly, "than owning some noobs."

They nodded in appreciation and acceptance--we all do what we have to achieve pastoral equilibrium. Where a previous generation of priests resorted to alcohol, many in the ranks now turn on their computers to tune out. While this is probably a healthier form of self-care than a potential chemical dependency, the shame associated with it raises some import questions about the theology of work as applied to ministry.

I first became aware of how video games could make me happier when I was doing a nine-month Clincial and Pastoral Education residency. Working as a chaplain in a busy, urban hospital was extremely stressful. Every other week I would be on-call for a 24-hour period to respond to every death and emergency in the facility. On some days that could mean as many as six or seven deaths. At the hospital I inevitably found myself self-medicating with food (and in my hospital's cafeteria the only options late at night were greasy, fatty, and loaded with guilt).

Once I came home I would be utterly useless. I could manage to sleep, eat, and drink--but what I really wanted to do was go online and kill some people. In the game "Counter-Strike" you play on a team of "Terrorists" or "Counter-Terrorists." The Terrorists have an objective, like holding hostages or planting a bomb, and the Counter-Terrorists attempt to rescue the hostages or protect the bomb target. The combat simulation is relatively bloodless, but since all the characters are avatars for real people, the action is intense and fiercely competitive.

It has taken me years of practise to develop the twitch-like reflexes necessary to keep up. I went from being just another "noob" (new player) to "owning" (being skillful).

Naturally, all this simulated killing caused my conscience to twitch a little, too. I told my therapist about my habit only to see her shrug.

"It makes sense to me," she said. "You spend all day helping people, where does that aggressive energy go? Sometimes you have to get out of your heart and into your balls." Did I mention that my therapist is also one of the coolest priests I know?

I think there is more going on than displaced testosterone. Clearly the need to "escape" or "zone out" has something to do with it. I remember a mentor once telling me that if the signature mental illness of doctors was narcissism and nurses was co-dependence, that of priests was alcoholism. "All that formalism and sensitivity," he suggested, "have a shadow."

This makes sense, too, but while I can certainly understand why a priest who drinks too much would want to hide that from his or her congregation, why all the shame around some harmless computer games? I know priests who have even arranged their offices so that someone coming in won't see the computer screen. Is it because playing video games in your office is unprofessional? Perhaps. But I even feel guilty when I go to the gym during the day! Rather, I think it is a result of the general myth that self-care comes at the expense of "getting things done" at the church. So many ministers I know feel overwhelmed by the amount of work they have taken on in ministry that they feel guilty or ashamed when they do anything else "on church time."

Alas, so much of "getting things done" for pastors is about who they are, not what they do. In that context, being a healthy person is far more important than most of the things that occupy our ministry time. Who cares if we've developed a plan to deal with stewardship development or updated the calendar on the church website if we can't look people in the eye and tell them about the Kingdom of God?

All this leads to renewed understanding of "leisure." In Benedictine circles leisure is about having space in your life for all the things you need to put in it--including time for re-creation and rest.

Forsaking "leisure" for the sake of work is simply bad theology and poor stewardship, no matter what our protestant-work-ethic-soaked culture might tell us. So I'd like to invite my game-playing friends to reflect on that the next time they decide to avoid playing for the sake of work.

The Rev. Tay Moss is an Episcopal priest currently serving the Church of The Messiah, Toronto. Besides enjoying hot-peppers, martinis, and monks (though usually not together), Tay maintains a blog between pastoral duties.

By Kit Carlson

I was on Jeopardy! recently. Maybe you saw it. I was the woman in the middle. The one with the clerical collar on.

It’s strange enough to be a contestant on this 25-year-old, beloved game show (and it’s even older, if you count the original incarnation with host Art Fleming), but stranger still to be a priest playing Jeopardy!

“Wear your collar,” advised a former parishioner, who had won three days in a row a few years ago. “Oh, please, please, please wear your collar,” urged one of my Sunday School teachers. “You’re going to wear your collar, aren’t you?” asked a vestry member. For some reason, it was very important to these people that I be identifiable to the world as a priest playing Jeopardy!

It does seem odd, I guess, to have a cleric up there, zinging one-liners with Alex Trebek and trying to take home cash in Ken Jennings-sized quantities. Not as odd as you may think, however. There has been a little boomlet in clergy contestants on Jeopardy! Yes, usually they get lawyers and librarians and teachers. The show does self-select for geeky types who love to read. But most clergy fit that exact description: geeky types who love to read. At my live audition in Chicago (at which I did wear my collar), there was a UCC pastor in the group as well. In the intervening weeks between the audition and my own taping, I saw at least three other clerics give it a run.

And I have always wanted to go on Jeopardy! My cousin Richard Cordray (now Treasurer of Ohio) went on in the ‘80s and won five days in a row, then went back for Tournament of Champions. My mother always nagged me, “Why don’t you go on that show? You know as much as Richard. Look how well he did. You should go on Jeopardy! too.” And playing from my sofa, I often figured, yes – I could do this. I could be on Jeopardy!

So when I saw last winter that there was an internet audition, I did it. Just for laughs, and for my late mother’s memory, too. Then last spring, they called me to go for a live audition. So I went. Just for a few more laughs, and to silence my mother’s nagging inside my head. And four weeks later, they called and asked me to fly to LA to COMPETE ON JEOPARDY!!!! (Insert high-pitched squeals here …)

But it also messes with your head, to be a priest who plays Jeopardy! First of all, it’s hard to just get into the greedy, greedy, give-me-more game show mentality. Did I want to win five days in a row? Did I want to go on and on and on like Ken Jennings? That would totally mess with vestry meetings and hospital visitations, for sure. And what about that money, if I did win? Yes, I have credit card debt and kids in college and I need every penny of my salary and then some. But it also seemed inappropriate to just take a bunch of winnings and keep them to myself.

W.W.J.D? as the bracelets say. In between learning in April that I had been selected to go for a live audition in Chicago in May, I went on a mission trip to Haiti. This nation, only 500 miles from Miami, is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. The level of poverty is beyond imagining. And the group I traveled with, the Haiti Outreach Mission () (a group of Catholic and Episcopal parishes, mostly from Detroit), has built a clinic and an orphanage and is making some real impact in the town of Mirebalais. So that answered the question for me. Whatever I got, I would give to the Haiti Outreach Mission.

So I went to L.A. I wore my collar. I played the game. I came in second, by just $100 there in Final Jeopardy! But that still meant I would get a $2,000 runner-up prize. And that, at least, could go to Haiti.

The only issue then became dancing this strange dance of publicity and notoriety. Because after all these years of wanting to go on Jeopardy!, I did want people to know that I had finally made it on, and to watch the show. But it’s vaguely embarrassing to be calling attention to myself. Everything I do I want to point not to me, but to the gospel and to the joy of knowing that God loves us, and to the things that are good and strong about the Episcopal Church.

But Lansing is a smallish city, so the newspaper wanted to interview me. And the local affiliate that airs Jeopardy! wanted to interview me. And so I put the collar on again, because this time I also wanted the world to know that I was a priest who plays Jeopardy!

I wanted to see printed very boldly in the paper, and filmed very prominently on TV, the words ALL SAINTS EPISCOPAL CHURCH, so that people in our region would know there was a community that went with the collar, a place they might want to explore on a Sunday morning (if only to see if the sermon is delivered entirely in the form of a question).

But more than that, I hoped that people would stop for one second and think about that disconnect – a priest playing Jeopardy! I hoped they would think about what happens when a person who stands for God also stands in the crack between the church world and the secular world so that each can see the other. So that each might speak to each other. So that each might, a little bit less, stop fearing the other.

Answer: A priest and Jeopardy!

Question: What are two things that maybe do have something to do with each other after all?

The rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in East Lansing, Mich., she blogs at Saints Alive!
Who is the Rev. Kit Carlson?

By Melody Shobe

I recently left a church I love. Not for any sensationalist reason, but for the simple fact that God was calling me elsewhere and it was time for me to go. The fact that I left for the right reason didn’t make it any easier. It was a church that felt like my church, and a group of people who had quickly become my people. Nothing about leaving was easy, and the hardest part of the whole thing was having to say goodbye.

Because goodbyes are uncomfortable. They generally entail a lot of fuss and attention. There are goodbye lunches and final conversations. There is the inevitable “well, I might not see you again, so I just wanted to say…” There are the cards that you receive and the cards that you write. And, for a priest, there is the last Sunday that you stand in a pulpit and address a congregation as your people.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to try to say in one conversation or one card or one newsletter article all the things that you want to say to people who mean a lot to you. And to attempt and say it from a pulpit while holding tears at bay is even worse. It is one of those messy emotional situations where words fail and you walk a fine line between composure and breakdown. There was a big part of me that wanted to skip the goodbye all together. To talk about it as little as possible. To pretend it wasn’t happening. To sneak out the backdoor while no one was looking.

I thought honestly about doing just that. But, first of all, I knew that my church wouldn’t let me get away with it. And secondly, I knew that it was not what God was calling me to do. Because, if you read the gospels, you quickly learn that Jesus thought goodbyes were important. He took a lot of time to say goodbye to the disciples, his dearest friends, in the right way. In fact, Jesus started saying goodbye almost from the beginning. Trying to tell them where he was going, and why he had to go. Trying to make sure that he taught them everything that he could before he left. Trying to be clear so that when he was gone, they would know that he still loved them.

Saying goodbye isn’t easy. It is one of the hardest and messiest parts of being in relationship with other people. It comes with a lot of sadness and pain and uncertainty. But it is also a part of our spiritual journey; a part of the life that God calls us to live. We have to honor the relationships that we have by taking the time to say goodbye well, by making sure that we don’t just sneak out the backdoor to make it easier on ourselves. How you leave a place, how you say goodbye, is sometimes even more important than a first impression. So we have to make sure to say goodbye well, even if it is through tears.

The Rev. Melody Wilson Shobe is Assistant Rector at a church in the Diocese of Texas. She is a graduate of Virginia Theological Seminary and is married to fellow priest The Rev. Casey Shobe.

By Marshall Scott

Well, the summer is over, and with it another summer unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), as well as another year-long CPE residency. One set of students has left, and another is arriving, beginning, in this case, another year-long commitment. (Students with shorter commitments will come in their appropriate times.)

I know my colleagues, the Supervisors (teaching chaplains) of the program, are hopeful that the new students will do well. That means in part providing good care for patients, as well as interacting well with one another. It means being attentive to their learning opportunities, whether through clinical experiences or more academic activities. It also means the Supervisors hope they will have the expected work ethic.

Any of us who has had even the basic experience of chaplaincy provided by that one CPE unit required in seminary will know that chaplaincy isn't a 40-hour job. And any of us with experience in any other professional ministry will know the same thing. The work of ministry doesn't really settle down into five eight-hour days, whether in the parish or in clinical settings. We know that longer days, longer weeks, are just part of the profession; it goes with the territory.

So, I hear periodically from my colleagues, "What are we going to do with these students? They just disappear at 4:30." Granted, in some ways it's easier for our students than, say, for me. The students get most of their experience in a large hospital as part of a large staff. With lots of people around, it's easier to get the work done and to get home. Too, students don't have administrative responsibilities that many staff chaplains have. Some of the things that bring me in early and keep me late just aren't part of their job description. And I've always thought myself we need to keep in mind that they are students, here for their learning and growth, and not just cheap labor.

Still, I hear the question about work ethic, and I hear it from colleagues in both clinical and parochial ministries. "What are we going to do with these young clergy, these interns, these new folks?"

Long ago, in a church far, far away, when I was a seminarian, our faculty spoke to us of balance and managing stress. They spoke to us of setting appropriate limits, both on our time and our energy. They spoke of protecting our family life. They spoke of protecting our emotional and spiritual resources, with good support and a healthy spiritual life. They encouraged us not to work ourselves to burnout, much less to death. And they encouraged us to model such good emotional and spiritual balance for our parishioners.

Not that we took them all that seriously. We knew the score. We knew that it wasn't that simple. We knew, if only we'd been paying attention to our own clergy before we entered seminary, that this, like any other profession, called for long hours and long days. I remember asking my own rector what day of the week he found best to take off. He said, "Well, I don't have one regular day off. Enough happens in the parish that it's hard to take the same day each week. But, I do try to take one whole day each week." I knew then that he didn't get a day off each week, and that if I could manage only that I'd be making progress.

Still, we did hear what our faculty told us, and I think many of us did try to convey that to parishioners. Some of them even heard it, at least for themselves. On the other hand, many of us found that, whatever they might hear from us about their lives, their expectations for our lives were still the same: long hours and constant availability. Getting them to change their expectations of themselves, to allow for more grace in their own lives, was hard enough. Getting them to change their expectations of us--well, some days, some places, that seemed beyond us.

So what, then, can we do with these new residents, these new clergy? They seem to be setting appropriate limits, both on their time and their energy. They seem to be protecting family life, to be protecting emotional and spiritual resources, with good support and a healthy spiritual life. They seem committed to not working themselves to burnout, much less to death. And they seem to be modeling good emotional and spiritual balance.

Maybe we ought to learn from them. Perhaps I'm a bit more conscious of this these days. I'm getting ready to experience Episcopal CREDO, a retreat/renewal/vocational experience for Episcopal clergy offered by the clergy wellness folks at the Church Pension Group. Suddenly, the level of stress that seems normal to me seems a matter of concern to someone else. There are questions about stress in the health screening that's part of the process. I identified my stress level as "Moderate," thinking I was doing pretty well. Thinking I was doing pretty well, when asked whether I had any plans to address my stress, I said, "No." Lo and behold, when the results came back, stress was for me a risk factor!

And I hardly think I'm all that unique. I'm certain I'm not unique among clergy, but in fact I'm not unique among Christians. We have been encouraged to seek "the peace which passes all understanding." We have been called by Christ to "Come, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." And yet, we seem more driven by one old adage or another like, "Jesus is coming. Look busy;" or, "Pray like it all depended on God, but work like it all depended on you." In our desire to control our environment, including to "work out our own salvation," we fall again and again into works righteousness, implicitly denying God's grace and our own limitations.

So, what will we do with these new residents, these new clergy, these new people, when they set good limits, and care for themselves, and trust God to take care of those things they can't? Perhaps we should pay attention. Perhaps, as both Paul and Benedict suggested, they have something to teach, and we have something to learn. If we can learn, even at long last, that balance we in our own time were called to, we will be better persons; and those of us in orders will be better clergy. We will model for our own people and for the world healthier lives. We will lead those we serve toward a healthier community. Most important, we will demonstrate what we have long proclaimed: that all of life is God's, and that in all of life--even in those most pedestrian activities of life--we are saved, not by our own efforts, but by God's grace.

The Rev. Marshall Scott is a chaplain in the Saint Luke’s Health System, a ministry of the Diocese of West Missouri. A past president of the Assembly of Episcopal Healthcare Chaplains, and an associate of the Order of the Holy Cross, he keeps the blog Episcopal Chaplain at the Bedside.

By Adrian Worsfold

Recent ongoing stories about church decline in the United Kingdom have raised questions again about deployment of human resources. Much of this is based around what the clergy is for and what it does, how it fits into society, and what it can do differently from other people.

The status of clergy has risen and fallen over time. At one time many a family of some land would put a son or two into the clergy, rather as others had a career in the military. What the clergyman did not get as a reward, he received in status. This was also a visible connection between class and clergy, and one reason why the Church of England found itself at some distance from the urban poor and indeed even the urban middle class.

One solution to the decline of religion regarding changing society and the decline of the status of the clergyman was to connect the clergyman with professionalism. By calling him a professional, the clergy hitched itself to a method in modern society of raising status.

In general, the professional receives specialist training that follows on from having achieved a necessary level of education. To some extent, the professional possesses a secret knowledge not available to others. That knowledge gives a surplus value that shields the professional from the changeable weather of market and labour economics. In order to enact that knowledge upon others, with either fees or no fees to the public (as in the National Health Service), the professional needs to be trusted. It is a key relationship. Professionals have clients not customers. This means the professional has a code of ethics. So important is trust, that the professional comes under a regime of self-regulation via the special participatory and regulatory group he or she is obliged to join. Indeed, joining such a group and being accepted as a member is a clear piece of evidence that the individual professional is to be trusted. The salary may or may not relate to the work; nevertheless there is a responsibility in the work and a reward that comes from the work in itself. The professional is a specialist, of course, whereas under the watchful eye of the professional association, it is up to managers to run the mundane aspects of the organisation within which the professional works. The professional may work alone or in teams, but they are always separated off.

Sometimes the professional nature of a group is under doubt. Do they really have knowledge that is unavailable elsewhere? Whatever, a profession creates entry-barriers and looks after its status. It creates restricted areas of practice, and seeks support in the wider legal system for such protection. It attempts to maintain at least a pretence that there is a distant connection with market forces, even though in reality such a claim to profession may be an attempt simply to skew a more beneficial market position.

Is today's clergyperson a professional? The connection has always been tenuous. One reason why a clergyperson might be is the relationship of trust and a client basis of an approach to him or her. This is why Roman Catholic Church scandals of clergymen and abuse have been so damaging. Nowadays in the UK clergypeople and churchpeople as much as anyone else need to be checked through the Criminal Records Bureau (CRB) before coming near children. It is no longer so unusual to see a clergyperson end up on the sex offenders' register.

The next question is whether they have specialist knowledge. What is it that they have? Well it used to be theological training, as comparatively few laypeople had the university education and then years in a theological college for both specialist knowledge and practice. Nowadays many go to university, and quite a number will do some or even all the topics an ordinand might cover. On top of this, theological training and education is being given more to lay people as lay people simply do more of the work.

Some activities are reserved for clergy. Anglicans have rules and licences about who can do what in church, and the clergyperson is the one who does the Eucharistic service. There may be theological reasons for this, but from the point of view of professionalism it looks like protection for the sake of it. I come via a tradition where the layperson could do anything that the clergyperson did, and indeed they stopped ordaining clerics as a matter of course. I continue to see no reason why lay people properly prepared cannot do all the functions of a clergyperson. This might join my radical liberalism with Sydney fundamentalism, but there we are. Report after report about clergy and laypeople in the Church of England have envisaged more and more lay involvement with some radical solutions; in terms of money, it seems that the radical solution is to make people clerics but not to pay them. They may or may not have been to university; they may have a secular job or even profession, but they do some reduced training (more and more is distant training, not formation in a college) and then they are ordained and can do what other paid clerics do. They join the profession.

I take the view that this professionalism-chasing is all a red herring. A clerical person surely needs to act according to trust, but there is no profession in terms of a speciality. He or she is a generality, a viewpoint over all specialities, a worker among workers, and yet hopefully one who can find time (less so if unpaid) for the other. Such is a person for others.

However, increasingly such a person, not a professional, is a manager. This person does have to be the key paid person, even among the unpaid clerics. There is a special responsibility to carry the plant, equipment and people into some co-ordinated whole in any locality. This person should be the communicator and information conduit above and yet among all others (as well as the person who, pastorally, knows when to shut up and keep confidences - the two actually go hand in hand).

The reason for this is decline. I have noticed, since being in the Church of England again, just how often things that could be managed and co-ordinated are left to drift. Parishes that get joined together are often done so in order that some will close, by some sort of Darwinian process of the death of the weakest.

One may say, "What about bishops?" Of course, these too must be managers. But they are a supervisory management. They should indeed initiate and enact overall purposes and goals. However, increasingly in the UK we have "Minster Church" models of a central church where the staff congregate with oversight for other churches of an area, and here is where "management" must take place. Here is where the education and skills training can take place of local people, of setting up systems of qualitative evaluation, and of having the formal and informal meetings that set up those all important loops of planning and information.

The idea of the cleric as a professional, as a somewhat even lonely practitioner in one place and separated off, should be killed off. In a situation where five per cent of people attend church with any regularity, the team that does attend should be empowered, communicating and sharing. Whatever the diversity of personnel, and whatever variable theologies they have, when it comes to co-ordinated and practical output, good management should be able to produce a situation where, as the saying goes, they are all 'singing from the same hymn sheet'.

Adrian Worsfold (Pluralist), has a doctorate in sociology and a masters degree in contemporary theology. He lives near Hull, in northeast England and keeps the blog Pluralist Speaks.