By Heidi Shott

Maybe most long-term relationships develop similar weirdnesses, I don’t know. But I do know that every few years my husband Scott latches onto a phase that he repeats several times a day for no discernable reason. In the late 1980s, when we first moved to Maine, he started waking me up by saying, “These are the things we’ve come to expect from you. These are the sorts of things.”

Throughout the middle years of the last decade, whenever he entered a room, I’d hear, “You don’t care. You don’t care. I know you don’t care.”

“You got that right, bud,” I’d say without looking up from my book.

A few months ago he invented a new line that I find entertaining.

Out of the blue he’ll catch my eye and say, “I know the truth about you.”

Now this is someone I met when I was a 17 year-old college freshman. He knows a lot about me, but despite all we’ve shared – twin sons, several house renovations, his middle-aged scooter obsession, those few bad months when he was senior warden and the person renting the rectory was keeping a secret flock of chickens, all this day-to-day life for more than two decades – he can’t begin to know the truth about me and he knows it. That’s why it’s funny. That and because we both know that the truth about me, known and unknown, is not outrageously exciting.

Last June at the Episcopal Church’s General Convention I found myself alone in a hotel elevator with Martyn Minns, the newest Virginia-based bishop in the Anglican Church of Nigeria. I could have asked him anything in this intimate space, (I am, after all, supposed to be a church journalist,) but what I heard my idiot-self say was, “I have a son named Martin.” Now this is indeed true, but who the hell cares? After a second, I caught myself and added wryly, “but we spell it the traditional way.”

So for a few moments before the elevator stopped for more passengers, we spoke about the return to old-fashioned names. He told me his children were naming his grandchildren names like, (let’s say, for example, because it’s slipped my mind,) Celia and Walter. He seemed bemused and slightly perplexed at this return to the old ways. Here was a man I’d read a lot about over the past few years standing right before me, but it occurred to me that there was no truth about him that I knew with any certainty. Nor did he know anything about me. The video piece I’d done the night before for the General Convention Nightly News about the newest split in the Episcopal Church – those who like jello dishes at potluck suppers and those who don’t – didn’t tell a fraction of the truth about my history or my life or my faith or what is dear to me. It merely suggested that one opinion I hold is that we Episcopalians take ourselves way too seriously.

I know the truth about you. When you come face-to-face with someone, when you look him in the eye, it is impossible to say with any certainty “I know you.” When we examine our burgeoning on-line culture of chatter with its easy, facile insta-response, we kid ourselves by assuming we can know anyone simply by what he or she writes on a given day in a given mood.

The saddest and most horrific example of this unknowability was made manifest on the Virginia Tech campus this week. Mental illness and a deep detachment may have made knowing the truth about Cho Seung-Hui impossible, but those who knew him as “the question mark kid” didn’t know him at all. And in my deepest heart, though I so wish it were different, I suspect I would have looked over him as well. When people are unappealing or difficult or somehow different, isn’t brushing past them the easiest way?

There is so much to know in this remarkable age. As I sit at my desk each day, my head reels at all the pieces I don’t have time to read thoroughly. Things I want to know as well as topics and ideas that pique the edges of my interest. How quickly my opinions are formed by the fleeting glance of this person’s response on this particular blog. How much I assume I know about people I know virtually nothing about.

As Christians this business of being deeply known and loved by God is at the core of our faith. Being completely known and loved anyway is what allows us to reach to those who may not be loveable or agreeable or fathomable in any way. The truth, Jesus assures us, will set us free. In the swirl of that kind of knowing and love we are free to be vulnerable, free to ask questions, free to place our lives in the hands of people we don’t entirely know…and will never fully know. That kind of vulnerability and self-revelation is hard enough to do with those we draw deeply into our daily lives. How much harder to know and be known by the people at our margins.

“I know the truth about you,” my husband says to me this morning as he knots his tie at the foot of our bed. “You are a slug.” It’s true. It’s school vacation week. I’ll get to work when I get to work. But because he has nailed me, I resent him. From the middle of the bed I grab the big body pillow he sleeps with to keep his shoulder from becoming stiff – the pillow he’s named Evangeline after the actress who plays Kate on the TV show Lost – and chuck her onto the floor.

“Ha,” I say.

He looks aghast, but recovers quickly. “These are the things we’ve come to expect. These are the sorts of things.”

Heidi Shott, press officer for the Diocese of Maine, is communications director of the Genesis Community Loan Fund. She keeps the blog Heidoville.

By Helen Thompson

Isn't it funny the way we connect with our past in our present, sometimes? Randomly? Like running into an old friend after many years, and being able to strike up a conversation as if no time had passed, and yet realizing that the entire context of the conversation has changed.

Around the time I came back to church in 2003, I rediscovered an old Japanese comic an ex-boyfriend had turned me on to. In this comic, you have a dysfunctional superhero, sorta like Batman, except she's a cyborg scraped together from junk and waste that gets cast off a floating utopian city. You get where this is going. She'd been tossed off the floating utopian city to rot in the junk pile, and of course someone comes along and sees her potential and brings her back to life, and off she goes to dispatch all the bad guys.

Psalm 40, made rather famous to my generation by U2 in its 1983 rock ballad "40," also talks about the theme of being lifted up, out of dark pits, to be set fast upon a rock. But for years, I had no idea what the song meant or that it even came from, much less was named for, a piece of scripture. It didn't stop me from joining in the chorus long after the band had left the stage, lighter aloft and shining, and singing the haunting refrain of "How long to sing this song," over and over and over again with hundreds of other people, voices resonating through inchoate chambers and punctuated by whistles and roars in an accidental worship.

Throughout those clueless years, I spent a lot of time in the scrap heap. But don't we all find ourselves there at times? Who is going to come rooting through all the mess to find us, put us back together, bring us back to life and fill us with a sense of new purpose? This was a point that I heard a charismatic preacher trying to make to an audience, to mixed receptivity, at a friend's wedding this weekend. But he was trying to get it across in that brimstone manner that I—and many of my peers—find off-putting.

We 30-somethings don't much grok the whole "getting saved" business, and when our more charismatic brothers and sisters in Christ start to tout its virtues, we tend to think we're getting sold, not saved. It's not until we're practically lifeless and emotionally bankrupt that we even can allow ourselves to be touched in that way, if we can, and then, it's not so much a preacher knocking us upside the head with Revelations as it is God, entering quietly through a side door, and, well, revelatin'.

It can happen at any moment. I sometimes think it tends to happen when we're in crisis mode because that's the only time we can be open enough to hear God tapping discreetly at the window. The charismatic preacher says he's always watching, but I don't know about all that. I think God is just always ready—an old friend, ready to pick up the old conversation in a new context.

Helen Thompson, better known among faith bloggers as Gallycat, has written for the Philadelphia City Paper, RevGalBlogPals, Geez magazine and others. Visit her on the web at Gallycat's Lounge.

Ann Fontaine

“But I feel so betrayed” choked out, as Frank told me of the admiration and faith he had felt for his priest and rector, Jess, and the sense of loss from the current revelations about the priest’s activities. This priest had such a formative role in the man’s spiritual journey. Frank had wandered far from his childhood faith as he left home for college, married, and grew his business. His wife and kids went to church but he thought – that’s just for kids and people who are not able to make it in the “real world.” “ I’d rather play golf.”

One day, sorting through his mail, he saw the flyer from the church about a book study led by the rector. It was a book that had intrigued him. He thought, “What the hell, I’ll make Susan happy by doing something church-y. I want to read that book anyway.” That was the first step into a deep relationship with the study group, the rector and God. His faith and life were changed.

Today, Frank wonders, “Was it all a sham? Was I just conned? Did he use me? Or is it a vendetta by those who don’t like him?” The man, who had such influence in Frank’s life of faith, was being accused of things that seemed very contrary to the preaching and teaching Frank had heard from Jess.

Currently, there are news articles about a rector in Colorado and a Bishop in the UK. Allegedly, each has engaged in conduct that has resulted in heartbreak. There have been vigorous denials from supporters, and calls for prosecution by others. These are just the latest in a long history of what is called in the canons “conduct unbecoming a member of the clergy.” The dynamic is the same whenever this occurs. The cleric is defended or vilified with very little middle ground.

What is it about humans that we cannot accept complexity in our heroes? Does it have to be all good or all bad? Are the ideas and faith gained in relationship to a person all worthless if the person is deeply flawed? Must we have idols that we then destroy when their clay feet are revealed?

I was talking about this with a friend who had been deeply betrayed. I was asking her how she was able to keep the good and let go of the bad in this person. She believed that the bad does not cancel out the good. Though the incident was terrible, it formed her and gave her understanding. The pain is always there in the midst of the good things about the person, but, for her, it is a reminder of the capacity in all of us to do good and to do evil. The choices we make for our futures are based on learning from all of what happens to us, not on forgetting parts of it. Cutting out the bad only results in pushing it down where it can come out in ugly ways. It takes on its own energy, instead of being robbed of its power in our lives. When we incorporate it, it loses its own energy.

I believe it is important to find the facts of the case and to pursue the case. When proven, it is important to restore the victims to fullness of life and important to restore perpetrators to fullness of life through the consequences and making amends. For each of us who have experienced the fall of someone we admired, we can learn more about our own capacity for good and evil, or we can make idols and scapegoats.

We seem to love making our heroes into idols. They fulfill what we perceive as lacking in ourselves. It is difficult to stay in complexity. It is easier to say that someone is all bad or all good. When we put people on pedestals and idolize them, we make them one-dimensional and often the reflection of our own needs. When they fall, we want to smash them and all that their brokenness represents for us. When we refuse to hear the full story, we go into denial and continue to prop up our version of that person.

In the Bible, the heroes are often very fallen. Jacob, the trickster; Rahab, the innkeeper prostitute; and David, the adulterer who has his friend murdered are just a three of these. It seems God is not one to make idols of people, but calls them beloved and uses their gifts for the furthering of God’s kindom.

For Frank, in this story, this can be the beginning of wholeness and healing, (the root meaning of the word salvation) or he can try to return to the Eden of earlier relationship. The angel with the flaming sword stands at that gate. In the story from Genesis – God makes clothing for the exiles and sends them out to journey in the world. It is hard work after the stroll in the Garden, but Jesus promises to walk the path with us, into fullness of life.

The Rev. Ann Fontaine keeps the blogs Green Lent and what the tide brings in. She is the author of Streams of Mercy: a meditative commentary on the Bible.

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By Jennifer McKenize

A number of turtles are basking on a sizable log in the middle of a pond here. But I notice that there are gaps on that log - open spaces - and I see lots of turtles swimming around in the pond, their heads protruding just above the surface of the water. "So," I wonder, "how many of those turtles could fit on that log?"

Well, that depends I suppose. How many turtles can fit on the log depends upon how much room there is on that log. And, it depends upon how many turtles there are swimming around in this pond to populate that log. I wonder, given a large enough log and a great number of willing turtles in the pond, could you conceivably fill a log with turtles even in a small pond? The answer to this question is only marginally complex with just a couple of considerations.

First of all, it depends on the position of the log relative to the water and the attitude of the turtles already there. If the log is big enough and sitting in the water in such a way that there are many spots on the log that are easy for even a smallish turtle to reach directly from the water, then you can fill a log with turtles. This is not just theoretical. I know you can fill a log with turtles because I have seen it done - on more than one occasion. And from where I was sitting, the turtles even all looked happy to be there. Now the part earlier where I said, "...that depends..on the number of turtles there are in the pond..." was a trick. That was a trick, you see, because there are always way more turtles in the pond than could ever fit on even a huge log all at one time. So, in reality, you could fill a single log over and over again, as long as the turtles who found their spot on the log first are willing to move over and occasionally rotate off to share their precious log space.

The second consideration is this: Because turtles tend to move rather slowly and cautiously, moving over proves tricky and probably scary for most turtles. You see, just getting out of the water onto a log can be difficult for them in the first place, especially if the log is narrow-ish and only part of the log is touching the water in such a way that there is an entry point for them to climb on and find a place to sit. And to further complicate matters, I've noticed that very often a turtle will climb onto the end of the log - the only part touching the water and therefore the only easy access point - and then just sit there. That turtle will stop right where it got on and block the path of potential oncoming turtles. Now, I don't think these turtles are being mean. I think they just don't think - they just don't see that they are preventing other turtles from having a place on the log. "I made it on here just fine," they might muse, "so I don't see why others aren't here with me. What's their problem?"

On the other hand, I've noticed that when turtles are in the water, swimming around, they seem to move with great ease and agility, even rapidity, and they tend to congregate naturally. But when they are on that log, these self-same turtles appear to be afraid to move, afraid to renegotiate their initially assumed and secure position on the log even if by doing so they could make room for other turtles to congregate with them on that sunny log. And yet, as treacherous as they seem to find it to renegotiate their initially assumed position on the log, if something frightens them or upsets them, even a curious stranger from a great distance - they will not hesitate to dive right off of the comfort of their log into the water.

So the fear that turtles have isn't fear of falling into the water. Why should they be afraid of the water? After all, turtles live in the water. But it appears that turtles are afraid of two things: First, they are afraid of curious strangers approaching them from a distance; they feel innately threatened. Second, turtles are afraid of having to make room on the log even for their own kind - of having to renegotiate their position on it, even if the only real consequence is that more of their turtle friends could join them in the congregation of the sunny log in the pond. I find this silly and sad because I think all turtles need a spot on the log. They all - ALL turtles - need to have a space made for them so they can enjoy the healthy effects of the warm sun on their hard shells.

So, how many turtles can fit on a log in a pond? Never enough. What can be done about this problem? Well, that depends. It seems to me that far more turtles could fit on the log if the irrational fear and lack of insight of the turtles already there could be overcome. But in the absence of overcoming the inherent fear and lack of insight problem, the practical issue to address is this: Given the current conditions, there aren't enough spots on the logs in the pond - hell, there aren't enough viable logs in the ponds - for all the turtles who want to gather, to bask in the sun with their turtle friends, and even a turtle stranger or two, surrounded by but temporarily removed from their watery home. Why aren't there more logs? I think there used to be more great logs but many of them have rotted and sunk to the bottom because they became water-logged sitting there in the same position day in and day out for months and months and years and years.

I think it is too bad that so many turtles are stuck with having to think that sticking their necks out a little so that their heads are just staying above water is the best they can ever ask for or imagine. This is a problem that could be solved by looking for spots in the sun that are not on traditional logs in the middle of the pond, yet as far as I could tell, nothing is being done to move in this direction. Maybe there are new logs that will emerge after a storm. Maybe some turtles are keeping their eyes open in case one of the old logs rises to the surface again, fully intact with plenty of room for them. Maybe some turtle could take the lead and find a safe spot in the sunny grass on the edge of the pond. Maybe...but so far I've only seen one turtle that has set foot outside of the pond.

And that is why we are like turtles.

The Rev. Jennifer McKenzie, formerly assistant rector at St. David’s Episcopal Church, Washington, D. C., recently accepted a call to Christ Episcopal Church in Alexandria, Va. She keeps the blog “The Reverend Mother.

By Marshall Scott

Two recent coincidences illustrated a concern that I’ve had for some time. It is a concern about how we might support one of the blessings in the spiritual life of the Episcopal Church.

The Assembly of Episcopal Healthcare Chaplains (AEHC) coordinates its annual meeting each year with the Association of Professional Chaplains (APC). Among the participants this year, new to both meetings, was an Episcopal sister in her habit. I asked about her habit, and learned she was a sister in a new Episcopal community, one which would shortly be applying for recognition by the House of Bishops. She had come to the APC conference because she was newly Board Certified as a Chaplain. We were delighted that she could join with us in the Episcopal activities there.

When I arrived home, I found the May issue of Episcopal Life. In it was the article, “Ancient monk, modern call” by Ron Beathard. (I’m haven't found it on line, yet.) Ron writes of an old friend who discovered for himself the power and the joy of a life lived following the Rule of St. Benedict. To express that for himself, this friend became an Oblate, a lay member, of St. Meinrad Archabbey in Indiana. St. Meinrad is one of the more notable Benedictine foundations of the Roman Catholic Church in the United States.

Now, I think these are good things for these individuals. I feel sure each will find life blessed and enriched in the rules of life to which they are committed. I feel sure the life of the Episcopal Church will be blessed and enriched by a new community.

At the same time, I find myself thinking of a corollary to these decisions with some regret. Part of the richness that I cherish in the Episcopal Church is the variety of existing religious orders and communities that are already a part of our life. The monastic tradition is alive and well in our midst. The web site of the Episcopal Church has links to connect to twenty-three religious orders and twelve communities through (respectively) the Conference of Anglican Religious Orders in the Americas (CAROA) ] and the National Association of Episcopal Christian Communities (NAECC). While many base their lives in the Rule of Saint Benedict, not all do; and each is a unique expression of the life of the Spirit in the Church, with a special charism, a spiritual gift to offer.

Within the Episcopal Church, the terms “Religious Order” and “Christian Community” are technical categories, defined in Canons. The essential distinction between a Religious Order and a Christian Community is that members of an Order live a celibate life in community, while members of a Community do not. Otherwise, they have much in common: lives of obedience to a common Rule, accepted in vows made “for life or a term of years.” In addition to professed members, Orders and Communities may have other categories of membership, usually involving a Rule of Life less rigorous than the Rule of the Order or Community, accepted but not vowed by participants and renewed annually. Such categories may be titled Associates, Companions, or Oblates. Their participants make important contributions to the life of the Order or Community, not least with their prayer and financial support. By the same token, the Order or Community offers to each participant spiritual companionship and direction, and opportunities to participate in the shared life and discipline of the professed Brothers and Sisters.

In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that this is a very important aspect of life in my own household. I have been an Associate of the Order of the Holy Cross , a Benedictine order for men in the Episcopal Church, going on thirty years. My wife is a professed Sister of the Worker Sisters of the Holy Spirit. Each of us has found a spiritual community within the life of the Church, and a Rule with which to order our spiritual lives, to find spiritual formation and, as St. Benedict wrote, “a school for prayer.”

And so, perhaps it’s not surprising that I might feel some regret that more people don’t discover the opportunities for a Rule of Life within the existing Orders and Communities of the Episcopal Church. For the individuals whose experiences began this column, I can believe that in fact this is how the Holy Spirit has led them, one to participate in forming a new Community and the other to make Oblation to a Roman Benedictine foundation. May each be blessed. Still, I wonder whether they were even aware of the resources of such lives that already existed within the Episcopal Church.

And many Episcopalians are not aware. One of the comments one hears at each General Convention from those attending for the first time is, “Who are those folks in habits? Are they ours? Are they Episcopalians?” It is true that our Orders and Communities are relatively small, and known better locally than nationally. However, that is to some extent the responsibility of us who are clergy. How well have we educated our people to the breadth of spiritual living within the Episcopal Church, including Orders and Communities? It’s all too easy to get caught up in the day-to-dayness, to become literally parochial in the lives in our parishes. One could, I think, argue that many of our troubles in recent years arose precisely because many folks couldn’t imagine that a church different from their own congregation was really Episcopal – or, in ecumenical efforts, how a church different from their own congregation was even Christian. Think how much there is to be gained when we hold up and celebrate the varieties of spiritual living that are found within the Episcopal Church, and within the Body of Christ as a whole.

I often wonder, too whether there is an opportunity here for bishops and Commissions on Ministry. I have watched as some sought the guidance of a diocesan Commission on Ministry. Both the applicants and the Commissions assumed certain limited possibilities: a call to ordained ministry or to lay; and if to ordained ministry, to the diaconate or the priesthood. For those in whom a Commission cannot confirm a call to ordained ministry I have rarely seen any guidance in ministry in lay life. That is often left, of course, to the local congregation and the local ordained leadership.

What might it mean, on the other hand, if the Commission saw its own vocation, and the opportunities for structured life in faith, more broadly? Could a Commission offer to an Applicant, “We cannot confirm in you a vocation for ordained ministry, and yet we hear your sense of vocation to a faith life with greater structure and discipline. Have you considered exploring membership in a Christian Community, or association with an Order of the Church?”

For some, albeit rarely, they might suggest exploration of vocation to an Order; for, after all, the celibate life is a special vocation of its own. That would require much of Commission members, including their own awareness of the Orders and Communities of the Church, and broader consideration of the ministries of the Church. At the same time, I have sometimes observed applicants exploring the diaconate when a Commission felt clear that the person had some vocation, but did not feel clear what the vocation might be. For lack of a clear call to priesthood, and lack of consideration of alternatives besides the life in the pew that is the call of most Christians, and life in ordained ministry, diaconal ministry is suggested by default. To me, this is not really respectful of the distinct ministry of the diaconate, nor of the real breadth of models for ministry of the laity in the Church. Perhaps for some life in a Community (and perhaps an Order), structured by a Rule and nourished by community life and prayer, would be a more appropriate vocation.

In these times, when some seem to work so hard to question and even deny the healthy spirit of the Episcopal Church, we are all called to awareness of the great varieties of ministries among the laity, the first order of ministry in the Church. Certainly, monastic life isn’t where most will find their vocation. At the same time, the Orders and Communities of the Episcopal Church are a wonderful resource for the Church for prayer and spiritual formation, and, for some, appropriate settings for ministry. We can celebrate and give thanks for our Episcopal Orders and Communities, and the rich spiritual tradition that they incarnate in our midst.

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.