From the Rector
Dear Friends,
In this time we wonder how online formation is "working" and what it means to worship apart together. I wanted to share (with the writer's permission) a note I received that I think sums up in a lovely way so much that we can be learning and taking away from this time in our spiritual lives:
Dear Fr. Robert,
When we baptized Dashiell, we had the good luck of Fr. Peter's time for many weeks. My daughter Greta calls the Crayolas he gave us (in one of many, many efforts to keep her occupied while we waxed theological) "Father Peter's markers" and she panics if they're misplaced. There are many other fixtures in our home evidencing those weeks of growing camaraderie at the church. Douglas and I have always been very involved in our congregation life: soup kitchens, choirs, vestry meetings, conferences, Bible studies. Many factors in the last couple of years led to a shift in our worship life that left us both a little unmoored. We live in Sierra Vista, but as of a couple years ago, the first time we attended together, St. Philip's felt like our fitting place immediately, even though we could only worship there once a month.
I wanted to write just to thank you for what a grand presence the church has been in the weeks of quarantine. I hope my being largely insulated from the negative personal impacts hasn't made me annoyingly Pollyanna-ish, but I thought I'd venture to say that in the midst of so much distancing, we have loved feeling part of St. Philip's over these last many weeks. Worshiping at home has been a kind of wonder and a richness.
We've had church in so many contexts, now. Greta likes to pretend we're sliding into our pew and whispers, "Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me" and shuffles sideways onto our couch. Sometimes we put on our Sunday best and watch on Sunday morning all together. Sometimes I watch it after the kids have gone to bed. Sometimes I sing the hymns and kneel, sometimes I catch it while I'm cleaning up the kitchen. I watched Palm Sunday services the Tuesday after Palm Sunday. Douglas and I have a continuing joke: super holy or sacrilegious? Watching church while washing dishes: super holy or sacrilegious? I have yet to gain any clarity on this matter so I'm just continuing on and worrying a little.
So much of having small kids is about accepting halfway-there victories. Even before the pandemic, we weren't four people quietly worshiping in prayerful devotion. I often had to walk around (bounce around, pace around, gallop around) and point at stained glass or Justin through the entire church service to keep Dashiell from shrieking; super holy or sacrilegious? Worshiping at home is another set of compromises. What I have discovered--to my relief and delight--is that my shabby house with its shabby mess and its shrieking children is also a space of worship. With enough practice, you can silence yourself anywhere. And then there is that eternally surprising truth waiting for you: God abides.
The blurring of boundaries is challenging, even perhaps tempting. I see the slipperiness of my own glib approach; Christ seems often to be asking us to stop our fussing and be still and listen. I'm always kind of rooting for Martha, frankly. The quarantine probably makes it too easy for me to succumb to that weakness. But the other side of this is the marvel of an organ prelude toning out over one's fussing. Feeling the permeability of structures and institutions has made my very self feel more permeable, more poised to understand or accept God's presence. There's no compartmentalizing. All spaces serve God for worship. And how revelatory to feel your soul can be a hymn, even when you've got dish gloves on.
So thank you for being our priest in this strange time. We're so glad to be a part of the church, even if--perhaps always!--distantly.
All best,
Adrienne