April 18, 2025

From this day until tomorrow evening, we wait. It’s the gap in the story, the time of sheer, uncomfortable silence, when we hold our breaths. As we wait, the body of our Lord rests in its tomb. After the turmoil on Calvary, the silence is unnerving, like trying to sleep in the quiet countryside when used to the city’s noise. We wait. And we wait.

Most of life is like this. Most of our lives, we live in the silence between Good Friday and Easter. This is the silence of sitting by the bed of one who is dying, of waiting for the test results, of praying for a new job, or of trying to make it until the next meager paycheck clears the bank. Holy Saturday is the stuff of real life. The liturgy of Holy Saturday (which we will observe tomorrow at 9 a.m. in lieu of Morning Prayer) is perhaps the shortest in the prayer book, and it’s rarely celebrated. We are too quick to move to Easter. If we have been to the Maundy Thursday and Good Friday liturgies, we will most likely relish this time of utter silence as we wait for Easter to spring forth from the darkness, even while the rest of the world wants to rush to Easter.

In his spectacular poem “The Answer,” the late Anglican priest and poet R.S. Thomas beautifully meshes the silence and absence of Holy Saturday with the mystery of our faith at the heart of the empty tomb.

Not darkness but twilight
in which even the best
of minds must make its way
now. And slowly the questions
occur, vague but formidable
for all that. We pass our hands
over their surface like blind
men, feeling for the mechanism
that will swing them aside. They
yield, but only to re-form
as new problems; and one
does not even do that
but towers immovable
before us.

Is there no way
other than thought of answering
its challenge? There is an anticipation
of it to the point of
dying. There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in a place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body. [from Collected Poems, 1945-1990, London: Phoenix, 1993]

In Seeds of Faith [Mark A. McIntosh and Frank T. Griswold, Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2022], Mark McIntosh says that “[t]he resurrection is the Father’s response to the prayer that Jesus had made of our world, the prayer that Jesus had made of his entire life” (86). We could say that the resurrection of Jesus from the dead is God’s answer to a world in need of salvation and of being made whole again, at one with God and one another. And our answer, as R.S. Thomas suggests, to the many questions raised by a faith centered around an empty tomb, which yet demands a response, is to stay on our knees in prayer, sitting with the silence and emptiness of our lives but living in hope. The empty tomb and the historical absence of Jesus’s physical body on the third day are the visible signs of God’s answer to a broken world, but as R.S. Thomas rightly points out, many questions still remain. Sometimes the remnants of those questions lie in the empty tomb, folded up neatly and abandoned. We catch fleeting glimpses of the resurrection’s palpable answer within our lives. But much of our lives we live in the haze of mystery where we still see suffering and violence and unspeakable tragedy. The truth of the resurrection eludes our grasp to control it, just as the risen Christ told Mary Magdalene not to cling to him. We can’t cling to solving this mystery. We can simply sit in the silence of life, rejoicing when the stone occasionally rolls from our mind and our old questions lie neatly folded in the aftermath of resurrection glory.

This Easter is, of course, a moment for us all to rejoice. We can rejoice in the victory of life over death, of forgiveness over sin, of freedom over slavery. We know this is all true. We can dare to hope because Jesus’s body was not in the tomb on the third day. But Easter will not and should not abolish our confusion, our doubts, and our sufferings. It will not prevent the world’s sorrow, but it will transform it. Easter is always a juxtaposition of sorrow and joy, just as in John’s Gospel, Jesus’s moment of glory is the moment in which he breathes his last on the cross.

A dismissal of the complexity of Easter (by skipping over Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the waiting of Holy Saturday) is irresponsible Christianity. If left unchecked, it will give us permission to ignore the plight of the voiceless and lowly who are trampled on in the world’s quest for unlimited physical power and greed. A shallowly triumphalist Easter will lead us to believe that if we’re faithful enough and doing things right, every day will be sheer happiness.

But from the beginning, God’s answer to the world came in the “twilight in which even the best of minds must make its way now.” Even in the aftermath of that divine answer, “the questions occur, vague but formidable for all that.” And still, God comes to us, in our pain, walking beside us as we weep, question, and celebrate the joys of life. For the One who has redeemed us has also wept like us and been in the tomb as we will one day be. And in the startling but marvelous absence of “love’s risen body,” the best news of the resurrection is that the story continues. Love the Good Shepherd still calls our name, leads us to still waters, protects us through danger, and one day, he will bring us home to the green pasture of paradise. May this Easter be a blessing to you, as we revel in its joy, ever sweeter because it holds our pain, too.

I want to thank all who are giving of their time, energy, and gifts to ensure that the liturgies of Holy Week and Easter proceed smoothly and reverently. Thank you! I will look forward to sharing in the holy mysteries of this week with you.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

April 13, 2025

If you were to ask most Christians about salvation, I suspect that few would connect it with the actual liturgies of Holy Week and Easter. For many Christians, salvation is about God and me. Only infrequently do I hear many Christians talking about God and us, of recognizing that our salvation is tied up with the salvation of the entire world and the redemption of all creation. But a careful look at the liturgies of Holy Week and Easter would reveal both the corporate nature of salvation and the essential connection between these particular liturgies and our own participation in the salvation of the world.

It has much more to do than with mere showing up, although showing up is where we start. In the holiest services of the Church year, events of past years are re-presented to us in the present moment. Our memory is deepened. It’s the memory of anamnesis, a very ancient way of remembering seen in the Jewish tradition at the Passover seder meal and carried into the Christian tradition. God’s people gather not simply to recollect events of the past but to participate in them. And so the beautiful spiritual queries, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” And the answer is a resounding YES!

The theological movement from Palm Sunday to Easter Day is profound and absolutely necessary for us to enact each year so as not to lose a corporate memory of our salvation. And yet, by participating in these liturgies, our memories are shaped and formed as they’re brought into conversation with who we are each year as people who have changed since last Holy Week. In the liturgies of Holy Week—all of them, not just Easter Day—God is saving us.

On Palm Sunday, we start with a disconcerting juxtaposition of Jesus’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, greeted with “hosannas” and then a brutal crucifixion on a cross outside the city walls. We in the congregation are the crowd who welcome him with cheap hosannas and then call for his crucifixion in the next breath. Why, many ask, do we start Holy Week with one account of the passion and then hear another one on Good Friday? One answer is that our lives are a constant whiplash between professing faith in Christ and denying him all the same. All of us are as fickle as the crowds in the Gospel Passion accounts. And on Palm Sunday, we’re reminded of the chasm created between us and God by our sins (although God, of course, is never far from us). We begin Holy Week with this uncomfortable tension between wanting to follow Christ, saying we will, and then falling short.

But by Maundy Thursday, we find our Lord commanding us in the great command (mandatum) to follow his example and serve others in his Name, just as he became a servant for our sake. Love one another as I love you, Jesus said. And in that loving of others, in that self-sacrificial service of all humanity, we identify more closely with our Lord. As we receive his Body and Blood at the Eucharist (in commemoration of that first Eucharist in the Upper Room), we receive his inestimable gift, remembering that he gives it freely to us although we constantly deny him.

And so, by Good Friday, at the foot of the cross with Jesus, hearing St. John’s account of Jesus’s Passion, we’re not in the same place as we were on Palm Sunday. We have participated in the washing of feet, in the partaking of the Eucharist, and shortly thereafter witnessed the stripping of the altar, a brutal reminder of how gift and betrayal are closely linked in Jesus’s Passion. As Jesus willingly goes to the cross in John’s Gospel (in utter control of his destiny in obedience to the Father), we find ourselves closer to him than we were on Palm Sunday. So close, in fact, that we step into the intercessory role as a priestly people prepared for us by Jesus the Great High Priest himself. We offer the great Solemn Collects for the salvation of the world, and then we prostrate ourselves before a cross, kissing the feet of Jesus hanging on the wood.

After the emptiness and silence of Holy Saturday, as Jesus’s body lies in the tomb, we gather in the dark, on the eve of the third day, and everything is made new. New light is kindled in a fire, and by the light of the Paschal Candle, kindled from that same fire, we hear the stories of our faith told, as if around a campfire. We journey to the font with four adults who will receive the sacrament of new birth in Holy Baptism. We go with them under the waters, dying to an old way of life and rising to a new one. And then, our family has expanded, it has grown by four. We’re soon at the foot of the altar in the dark, hearing the first proclamation of Easter, and suddenly, all the lights in the church come on, the organ sounds for the first time since Maundy Thursday, and Easter is here once again. Bread and wine are consecrated anew, and we have crossed the Red Sea from slavery into freedom.

I hope you can see the way in which our participation in these liturgies is part of how God saves us. It’s very difficult to get a fulsome sense of this if you only show up on Easter Day. And so, I heartily encourage you to make an effort to attend all the liturgies of Holy Week and Easter. If there’s any week in which you might consider taking a few hours off in the middle of the day, please think about doing so on Good Friday. After a long workday on Maundy Thursday, please make a point of coming to Mass at 7 p.m. If you have children, please give a thought to introducing them to these liturgies. The moving drama and ritual can impress themselves on people of all ages, even without prior knowledge of the complexities of the liturgies.

This is the week of weeks, the holiest time of the Christian year. Wherever you are—with whatever suffering you’re experiencing and with whatever joy you’re living—the liturgies meet you, and God meets you in these liturgies. Sorrow and joy are inseparable in the Easter mystery. Easter Day doesn’t stamp out your pain; it gives new meaning to your pain. The final word is the hope of the resurrection, which comes to us not on the other side of pain but in the midst of it.

I leave you with the opening words from the Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter, the occasion on which Abolfazl Baloochiyan, Hassan Baloochiyan, Melika Balouchiyan, and Emma Simpson will become members of the Church, our brothers and sisters in Christ.

Dear friends in Christ: On this most holy night, in which our Lord Jesus passed over from death to life, the Church invites her members, dispersed throughout the world, to gather in vigil and prayer. For this is the Passover of the Lord, in which, by hearing his Word and celebrating his Sacraments, we share in his victory over death. (BCP, p. 285)

Beloved in Christ, may this week of weeks be a blessing for you, and may you experience something of the mystery of your own salvation as all of us "share in [Christ’s] victory over death.”

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

[My reflections on the liturgies of Holy Week and the soteriology behind them is drawn from James Farwell’s book This Is the Night: Suffering, Salvation, and the Liturgies of Holy Week, New York: T & T Clark, 2005.]

April 4, 2025

This past Sunday at Mass, we sang Frederick William Faber’s beautiful hymn “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy.” But as it occurs in The Hymnal 1982, perhaps the most extraordinary verse is left out.

But we make God’s love too narrow
by false limits of our own,
and we magnify its strictness
with a zeal God will not own.

Is this really what many of us believe? Is this what some Christians believe when they say that God hates certain groups of people or that a natural disaster inflicted on a particular city was the enactment of God’s wrath on that place?

The oft-unheard third verse of Faber’s hymn reminds us of two chilling tendencies within the human condition. We make God smaller than he is (to paraphrase the late Archbishop Michael Ramsey), and we make God into a superhuman (like us but far bigger) who is full of rage. We do this “with a zeal God will not own” because holding onto our anger and resentments is a powerful feeling. And we, unfortunately, wish to attribute such fickleness (interestingly, a fickleness akin to that of the mythological gods and goddesses) to God. But Faber’s hymn reminds us that the wideness of God’s mercy surpasses our limited human understanding. And as the hymn concludes, in The Hymnal 1982’s version:

If our love were but more faithful,
we should take him at his word;
and our life would be thanksgiving
for the goodness of the Lord.

As I see it, the Sacrament of Reconciliation (private confession) is an act of thanksgiving “for the goodness of the Lord.” But far too often, the confessional is seen as a place of anxiety. Is that because we “magnify. . . the “strictness” [of God’s love] with a zeal God will not own”? If we fear the confessional, then could it be that we don’t yet trust enough in the wideness of God’s mercy?

In one sense, it can be extremely difficult to appreciate the wideness of God’s mercy without bringing the concrete specificity of our sins into the loving presence of the Church (represented by the priest confessor) and then receiving the clear and certain assurance that God has indeed forgiven us. Indeed, God has forgiven us before we asked for it, and to recognize this astounding reality, repentance and confession are necessary. There is a palpable sense of release and freedom when the priest utters the words of absolution. In Form Two of the Rite of Reconciliation in the 1979 prayer book, the priest concludes (after the absolution) with these incredible words, drawing on imagery from the Parable of the Prodigal Son in Luke’s Gospel: “Now there is rejoicing in heaven; for you were lost, and are found; you were dead, and are now alive in Christ Jesus our Lord. Abide in peace. The Lord has put away all your sins” (451).

The point of a good confession is not to feel guilty. The point is not that God won’t forgive a sinner unless the sinner confesses to a priest. The point is to be assured, in a way that we humans often need, that God’s mercy is infinitely wide and that we have no need to “magnify its strictness.” The Sacrament of Reconciliation in our prayer book is contained with the “Pastoral Offices” section. It’s telling that not only is the act of confession a sacramental act; it’s also a way of receiving pastoral care. And the rite is also located in the prayer book before the Ministration to the Sick. Just as the priest wears a violet stole for anointing with holy oil in a healing rite, the priest wears a violet stole for confessions. The Sacrament of Reconciliation is a sacrament of healing.

A wise and faithful priest should never, of course, make you feel worse after you’ve confessed. A wise and faithful priest should also be making their own confession regularly! But a wise and faithful priest can also offer words of comfort and offer an objective and gentle assessment of patterns that one confesses. This can help us see our own sinful proclivities, and this knowledge is helpful in praying for special grace to change those distorted tendencies.

In short, the Sacrament of Reconciliation is a gift of Christ to his Church. As we near Holy Week and Easter, I heartily encourage you to consider availing yourself of this gift. I highly recommend Fr. Martin Smith’s book Reconciliation: Preparing for Confession in the Episcopal Church. If you need additional help, please contact me, and you may also contact me (or any other priest) to schedule a confession. It’s my prayer that the gift of confession will enable you to “take [God] at his word,” trusting in his boundless forgiveness. And may all our lives, lived in Christ before a merciful God, be “thanksgiving for the goodness of the Lord.”

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

March 29, 2025

There may be no more mystifying and befuddling aspect of the Christian life than prayer. We may claim to know what prayer is, and yet, many of us struggle to pray. One reason is that our modern propensity to talk without ceasing (whether audibly or through silent text messages or on social media) is, paradoxically, a deterrent to true prayer. If we were to ask many Christians what prayer is, they might say, “talking to God.” And herein lies the problem. We often conceive of prayer as an extraordinary effort on our part, something that we initiate, and this fails to recognize that prayer is already happening in the life of God. Prayer might be better characterized as being in conversation with God, not talking at God.

In 1 Samuel 3:10, Samuel says to God, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” This, I think, captures the posture of prayer. But, as a humorous riff on that verse points out, our unspoken address to God is usually, “Listen, Lord, for your servant is speaking.” Because our lives are full of words, it’s extremely difficult for us to stop talking and listen. It’s harder yet to stop being so action-oriented in prayer and become more passive, not forcing ourselves into conversation with God but allowing our lives to join the constant, eternal flow of prayer between the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve written about two parts of the traditional threefold Anglican rule of life: the Daily Office and the Mass/Eucharist. The third part is “private prayer.” And while no prayer is truly private, we know what private prayer is referring to, which is the prayer that occurs not in public liturgies but in the depths of our hearts, whether when on our knees by the side of our beds, or as we drive to work, or at the hospital bed of a dying loved one, or as we read a collect from the prayer book alone. Private prayer takes many forms, which our prayer book categorizes as adoration, praise, thanksgiving, penitence, oblation, intercession and petition, and corporate worship (p. 857). While these categories might be helpful, hopefully, as our prayer lives deepen, prayer simply becomes who we are and less what we do.

St. Paul’s exhortation to pray without ceasing is less a daunting assignment and more a beautiful invitation to allow God to weave the fabric of our lives into his eternal life of prayer. It’s also St. Paul who reminds us that “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words” (Romans 8:26). What an encouragement this is! When we are too tired to pray, when we lack the words, when we are so broken down and burned out that we don’t even have the energy to formulate a sentence, all that “stuff” that we bring before God is our prayer, and the Spirit is interceding on our behalf. Prayer isn’t really so much about us as it is about the trinitarian life of God drawing us into a dynamic energy of pure love.

Having said all this, prayer can become so esoteric in our minds that we must be disciplined in order to experience the liberty of prayer. This is the benefit of having structured times of prayer such as the Daily Office and the Mass. And when it comes to private prayer, we will need to be intentional in setting aside specific times of the day in which to pray. Whether it’s a moment of thanksgiving early in the morning or a few minutes of self-examination at the end of the day, Lent is the season in which we can give form and shape to our lives by setting aside time for private prayer.

A parishioner recently shared about their Lenten practice of reaching out to someone whose name pops into their head during the day. This is a wonderful way of “praying without ceasing.” I encourage you to listen to the nudges throughout your day. If you think of someone, offer their name up to God or contact them to say you’re thinking of them. You might take our Sunday Mass leaflet home each week to pray each day for the individual or family listed. At the Daily Office, we pray for all who regularly worship at Good Shepherd, as well as for all Friends of the parish. When we engage in this kind of intercessory prayer with intention, we become more aware of “all whose lives are closely linked with ours” (BCP, p. 388). If you notice that someone isn’t at Mass on a Sunday, pray for them and reach out to them; let them know they’re missed.

I’m constantly reminded of how much prayer seems to elude me. But I suspect that it most eludes me when I try to control it. When I think I have to “get it right,” or “succeed” at prayer, then prayer does escape my grasp. It’s meant to do so. But if I can sit for ten to fifteen minutes in silent prayer, with no words and with simply an intentional receptive stance towards God, no matter how much my mind wanders, I can rest assured that, bit by bit, I’m beginning to dip my toe in the eternal stream of ceaseless prayer in the eternal life of God.

Prayer takes time, and we’re an impatient lot. Prayer isn’t about how we feel or about immediate results. Prayer is the long, slow process of relinquishing control so that we can share in the life of God. It was St. John of the Cross who purportedly said that silence is God’s first language. When we learn to listen first, then God’s voice can be more clearly discerned beneath the noise of our world. When we learn to listen first, we remember that God is in charge, not us. When we learn to listen first, we recall that God first loved us, and because God did so, our only task is to love him in return.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

March 21, 2025

In last week’s message, I wrote about the Daily Office, one of three parts of the Christian rule of life, as it has historically manifested itself in the lives of the faithful. The center of that rule, its foundation and source, is the Mass. As an Anglo-Catholic parish, we’re used to talking about “the Mass,” but in most Episcopal parishes, it’s referred to as “the Eucharist.” Both are legitimate ways of naming “the principal act of Christian worship on the Lord's Day and other major Feasts” (Book of Common Prayer, p. 13). If we examine the etymology of these two words—Mass and Eucharist—we learn a great deal about the importance of coming together weekly on the Lord’s Day to share in the breaking of bread and the prayers.

“Eucharist” comes from the Greek word εὐχαριστέω, which means, “I give thanks.” The Eucharist is first and foremost about thanksgiving. It’s no mere “obligation,” although we would do well to drag ourselves to Mass even when the weather is poor and we might prefer to stay at home! The Eucharist starts with our gratefulness to God. Here’s food for thought. When you open your eyes on Sunday, try recalling, first, that you are awake and alive by God’s gracious love. God first loved us, and so, our own love is simply a grateful response to God’s love. Let this love motivate you towards the Mass. This acknowledgment of love is expressed in the first action of the Mass. We bless God. “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” or during Lent, “Bless the Lord who forgiveth all our sins.” We’re gathered on any given Sunday (or weekday) because God’s love animates our being. God’s love is the reason for our earthly existence. God’s love is how we can get up for yet another day, go to a lifegiving or enervating job, carry on with life’s challenges and joys, and still show up on Sunday to give thanks. The Eucharist is an act of thanksgiving.

In the first part of the Eucharist, The Word of God, we present ourselves before God, all facing east, the historic posture of prayer, and we acknowledge that we’re facing God, “unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.” We’re laid bare, and stripped of all our pretensions, and we try to open our ears enough to hear God’s word proclaimed in holy Scripture. The one who has ears to hear, let that one hear. We’re given texts chosen not by the priest but by the wider Church, texts that challenge and encourage us and intersect with our own lives. And as we move to the central point of the Mass, our trust in the community of the Church reaches a peak in the singing of the Nicene Creed. This is no litmus test of belief. It’s an act of believing, of praising a God who defies our human descriptions and who is far larger than words can express. And finally, we pray specifically for the needs of the Church and the world. In these prayers, we’re interceding, as Christ does for us in heaven, before the throne of God. Our lives are knit together with all of humanity. These prayers are specific, not sanitized and general. The hurt of someone living in a war zone across the world must be ours, too. The joy of someone in the next pew is ours as well. We then confess our sins because perhaps something in the prayers has moved us to realize the collective shortcomings of humanity. We hear God’s words of forgiveness. And then we turn to our neighbors in the pews, look them in the eyes, and offer the peace of Christ. This is not social hour, but a moment of profound reverence in which the peace that passes all understanding is offered in the Name of the One who reconciles us to God and one another.

At this central point in the Mass, we turn towards the altar. We have arrived at the second part, The Holy Communion. Gifts of bread and wine, the fruits of the earth and work of human hands, are carried to the altar by members of the congregation. Money is brought, too. But something invisible is likewise brought. To that altar, each of us brings the deepest intentions of our hearts. We bring our concerns, our pleadings on behalf of someone dear to us. We bring an awareness of our human limitations. We bring the heaviness of living in a cruel world. And all of that is placed on the altar. Only God can transform human brokenness into wholeness.

In the Eucharistic Prayer, we thank God for all he has done in salvation history, and that grand scope of a narrative narrows down into the Upper Room, where Christ gave thanks to God the Father, blessed bread and wine, broke, and shared it, and then sent the disciples into the world to serve in his Name. We move into God’s (kairos) time, where the past, present, and future meet. The events of Jesus’s final hours are re-presented to us. In God’s time in the Mass, we participate in our own salvation. The priest says Jesus’s very own words, the Words of Institution, and then asks for the Holy Spirit to come upon the gifts of bread and wine to make them the Body and Blood of Christ. The priest also prays that that same Holy Spirit will come upon us and our lives to make them holy. After bells are rung, what once was bread and wine is now Bread and Wine, Christ’s true Body and Blood, a mystery we accept but can’t understand.

After we say the Lord’s Prayer, the priest breaks the Bread so that it can be shared. We receive the Bread and Wine with thanksgiving. With hands outstretched, right over left, the Bread is placed in our palms and brought directly to our mouths, a Gift that can’t be controlled but only received. The Wine is consumed with our hand gently guiding the chalice to our lips—again, a Gift to be consumed, not grasped. We thank God for this Gift, the priest offers God’s blessing, and then we encounter one of the most overlooked but important parts of the Mass. And this brings us to another etymological exploration.

“Mass” comes from the Latin word “missa,” which derives from mittere, which has to do with sending. While it may be tempting to think we have done the most important thing in receiving Christ’s Body and Blood and so we can then quickly depart from the church, we’re indeed missing something profound if we leave the church before the Dismissal. The Dismissal, when the priest sends us out into the world to serve in our Lord’s Name, is crucial to close out the Mass. The Dismissal is about mission. We hear the Lord’s charge to go and make disciples, to go and love our friends and enemies. The Mass is not complete until we hear these words. To leave before we hear these words is to receive a Gift without acknowledging how that Gift makes a demand on our lives. I urge you: after receiving our Lord’s precious Gift, please stay until you hear these words. They are your eternal charge from the God who is mission.

I hope it’s clear to you why the Eucharist/Mass is at the heart of our lives. It has had such primacy in the Anglo-Catholic tradition that many parishes offer daily Masses, not simply to be excessive but as a reminder that every moment of our lives is suffused with God’s gracious gifts. Every moment is one for thanksgiving. This Lent, I encourage you to make attendance at the Eucharist on Sundays an essential part of your lives, and carry that beyond Lent, too. Consider, if you can, coming to one of our quiet, contemplative daily Masses. These Masses are wonderful. On Wednesdays or on Fridays, with often just me and a parishioner present, at midday or in the stillness of the early morning as the world is waking outside, I remember friends and parishioners who are suffering or rejoicing, and my intentions for them are placed on the altar and then rise up to God as incense. A daily Mass may reinforce to you the great power of the Mass, which is always an act of healing. Never underestimate the objective power of the Sacrament. Even when you don’t “feel it,” your reception of God’s gifts at our Lord’s command is healing you and the world. The efficacy of the Mass transcends our incomprehension and our desire to control it.

After the servers and I have processed out of the church on Sundays, we end with this magnificent prayer, and I will end this message with it, too. “Blessed, praised, worshipped, hallowed, and adored be our Lord Jesus Christ on his throne of glory in heaven, in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, and in the hearts of his faithful people.” Indeed. Amen.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

March 14, 2025

It was just five years ago (doesn’t it seem longer?) when the Covid-19 pandemic shut the world down. The Church didn’t know what to do in March of 2020. People weren’t allowed to congregate, and so the sacraments couldn’t be safely administered. It was both a horrible and a confounding time. But even in those harrowing few months in the spring of 2020, there were moments of grace. And one grace-filled legacy of that horrible time of pandemic was a recovery of interest in the Daily Office. Churches couldn’t legitimately celebrate the Eucharist online (the sacramental life requires people being present in person with each other). So, during the lockdown, most churches resorted to the Daily Office (Morning and Evening Prayer) as a way of worshipping and praying together.

Even while the doors of Good Shepherd were closed on weekdays and opened only for Mass on Sundays, we revived the Daily Office on weekdays in August of 2020, although it was prayed via livestream. While online participation is not the same as in-person attendance, the Daily Office can be more meaningfully prayed online. And to this day, there are a handful of persons who regularly pray Morning and Evening Prayer with us through our livestream.

In last week’s message, I referred to the Church’s traditional threefold “rule” of prayer: the Mass, the Daily Office, and private prayer. It’s worth spending some time reflecting on the value of the Daily Office, especially as we seek to enrich our prayer lives with greater intentionality this Lent. Our prayer book classifies the Daily Office as one of “the regular services appointed for public worship in the Church” (13), along with the Eucharist. The Daily Office is one of the most effective ways of sanctifying time in the Anglican tradition. Indeed, at the time of the English Reformation, the monastic hours (seven times of prayer during the day observed in the monasteries) were the sole provision of those monasteries. But Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer (1489-1556) brilliantly condensed that sevenfold “office” to a twofold one, and the Daily Office became more commonplace in the parish church. This is one of the loveliest gifts of the English Reformation.

And so, it has been the custom in parish churches within the Anglican tradition (and especially in Anglo-Catholic parishes) to pray Morning and Evening Prayer with regularity. At Good Shepherd, each Office begins with the Angelus, a Marian devotion of the Incarnation, reminding us that in this world, the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Monday through Friday, Morning Prayer is prayed at 9 a.m. and Evening Prayer at 5:30 p.m. On Saturdays, Morning Prayer is prayed at 9 a.m. While at times, the Daily Office could seem rote and tedious, its real beauty lies in the marking of time. God’s kairos time is layered onto our chronos time. No matter what chaos is happening in the world, the church doors are opened, and prayer is offered at 9 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. When the world seems to be going off the rails, the Church’s rhythm of prayer never ceases.

But beyond the mere setting apart of “hours” for prayer, the Daily Office finds its center in the Book of Psalms. In the appointed cycle of readings for the Daily Office, one prays nearly the entire Book of Psalms (150!) over the course of about seven weeks. At Good Shepherd, the psalms are usually recited antiphonally (from side to side of the Choir), and we take brief pauses at the asterisk of each psalm. These pauses slow us down in our busy lives. They allow us to reflect and breathe. This rhythm of antiphonal recitation of the psalms is soothing and comforting to me.

We don’t avoid difficult psalms either. Some of the psalms are, in fact, grotesque. The psalmists pray for the death of their enemies, for unspeakable horrors to be visited upon others, and at times, such as in Psalm 88, the psalmist appears almost to have given up on God. In my opinion, we should be praying these psalms, not in the spirit of vengeance of the original authors but as a way of keeping ourselves honest. I would be dishonest with myself if I couldn’t locate within my heart (if unspoken) some of the terrifying emotions to which the psalmists give voice. As I pray the psalms in Morning or Evening Prayer, I’m reminded of the ways in which I want to make God in my own image, but in a spirit of repentance, I can turn to God and give thanks that God isn’t like us in such a fickle, emotional way.

The Daily Office also gives us an opportunity to swim in the waters of Scripture. We read in their entirety many books of the Old Testament that we would never hear at Mass. We hear the central stories of our faith. And again, we recall how our own sinfulness is reflected in the vicissitudes of very human people trying to figure out their own relationship with a God who ultimately eludes their grasp until Christ gives humanity the perfect image of God.

I’m always amazed at how the Spirit will speak a word to me, unbidden, at the Office. Sometimes a phrase lights up for me, like Psalm 18:20: “he rescued me because he delighted in me” or Psalm 37:9: “do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil.” On some occasions, I’ve found humor. In another parish, I once observed a man living on the streets in a pre-Office verbal tussle with a parishioner, and upon reciting the words of the Lord’s Prayer, the man raised his voice quite visibly at the words “as we forgive those who trespass against us”! On that day, and hopefully in a spirit of repentance, that man needed those particular words (as perhaps did his interlocutor). While some appointed readings for the Office might leave us flat on a given day, more often than not, there’s a compelling word to hear.

At Good Shepherd, we conclude the Office with specific prayers, for the world, the nation, the local community, the sick, the departed, and the parish. We pray through our parish cycle of prayers, remembering by name those who worship here regularly. And we pray for our beloved Friends of the parish. One of my favorite prayers is for those whom we don’t yet know but whom God will draw to this parish for a deeper relationship with Christ. We ask God to send such people to the fold of this parish, but ultimately, who comes and when they come are in the hands of God.

If the Christian life is about reshaping and reprioritizing our lives, then praying the Daily Office is one way to do that. It takes great intention to devote a period of time each day for prayer, but it’s well worth the effort. This Sunday, we all have the opportunity to experience Evening Prayer in its glorious sung form, Choral Evensong, a hallmark of the Anglican tradition. Come and let the beauty of Scripture and sung prayer wash over you. And then revel in the presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament in Benediction. Have a bite to eat after Sung Mass and the Lenten reading group, and then return to the church to rest in the presence of God at 3 p.m. this Sunday.

When our day is structured intentionally around God in praying the Daily Office, Scripture becomes our language for a time. The quotidian realities of daily existence intersect with God’s loving, timeless initiative, which enfolds us in unending compassion and mercy. We no longer see our lives as something into which God intrudes when we need him. When we pray without ceasing, God is our life, and everything else is oriented around God. And as Scripture rightly tells us, in him, we live and move and have our being.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

March 7, 2025

Last Sunday’s adult formation conversation led by Bonnie Hoffman-Adams was remarkable. As I listened to parishioners speak, I gave silent thanks for the profound depth of spirituality and theological intelligence present in this parish. I listened as two parishioners reflected on their experience in another parish many years ago in which the liturgies of Holy Week and Easter were considered so special and so essential to salvation that no one in the parish would have thought of missing them! Can you imagine that? That comment inspired me, and I thought what a magnificent dream it would be for us at Good Shepherd. Imagine if no one in the parish could bear to miss out on the extraordinary liturgies of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter. Imagine planning your lives so that you wouldn’t miss these saving liturgies of the Christian faith.

I heard several consistent themes during last Sunday’s rich conversation. It was clearly expressed that Good Shepherd is unusual among many parishes in our commitment to the Book of Common Prayer’s expectations for public worship. Mass is celebrated frequently (and, of course, as the principal service on the Lord’s Day) and the Daily Office is prayed nearly every day here. I also heard parishioners rejoicing in the loveliness of our size right now. We’re still small (but not too small!), and so there’s a wonderful openness to fresh ideas and very little territorialism around ministries. There’s also a (unique?) opportunity to inculcate a culture of intense prayer in this parish, especially as we’re not yet too big and diffuse to do so. I also heard a desire to preserve the warmth and openness of our parish in its current size even as we grow. And finally, I heard a real desire to figure out how we could mutually encourage one another, so that anyone who misses a Sunday at Mass will know they’re missed. In other words, how do we call one another into a deeper prayer life?

So, I return to my original musing. Imagine if none of us could bear the thought of missing the Church’s important liturgies. I think that realizing that dream is more than setting out to do it. I believe it begins with something more prosaic, but also highly disciplined. It begins with establishing a regular rule of life.

A rule of life is not as rigid as it sounds. It’s merely a way of structuring one’s existence to ensure that it’s centered on God. We have “rules” in our “secular” lives. We probably rise at the same time most days. We go to work or school at a set time. We exercise at specified times. In other words, we build a skeletal structure for our days so that they have shape and focus. There are times when we deviate from our “rules,” and that’s okay. But a life without a “rule” is as shapeless as an amoeba.

The late Anglican ascetic and pastoral theologian Martin Thornton writes of “The Christian Framework” in his book Christian Proficiency (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 1988). This framework is essentially a rule, or as he puts it, “the frame or supporting structure of the ‘Body’” (17). Thornton describes the Church’s threefold rule as the Mass, the Daily Office, and private prayer (20). He uses an analogy to explain how these parts of the rule relate to the Body of Christ. He writes, “dare we think of the Eucharist as the living heart of the Body of Christ, the Office as its continual beat, its pulse, and private prayer as the circulation of the blood giving life and strength to its several members according to their need and capacity?” (17).

Good Shepherd, Rosemont, along with many of our sister Anglo-Catholic parishes, has established its public rhythm of prayer around this ancient threefold rule. Masses are offered not only on Sundays but on Major Holy Days and on other weekdays. (In the past, when there were more parishioners and multiple clergy, Masses were offered daily; on some days, two Masses were celebrated.) The Daily Office is prayed publicly Monday through Saturday, and some parishioners and I pray the Daily Office every day, even if not in public. Private prayer is, of course, ongoing in the lives of parishioners. In a time when it’s tempting to reject ancient “rules” of prayer so that we only do things “when we feel like it,” there’s much to be commended about traditional forms of prayer. Indeed, in our rather aimless age, we would benefit enormously from returning to our roots in this regard.

Martin Thornton makes yet another interesting point to which we should pay some attention. He writes of the “Christian Regular,” “one who chooses to undertake his common obligations and duties, and to develop his personal spirituality, by acknowledging, accepting or ‘embracing’ some total scheme, system, pattern or ‘Rule’ of prayer” (47). Maybe our dream for Good Shepherd is to become a parish full of Christian Regulars.

The regularity of our individual lives, while oriented around the Mass, Daily Office, and private prayer, will be shaped differently. As Thornton points out, rules of life are not inviolable or legalistic; they’re malleable and lifegiving. Each of us will need to establish our own way of integrating the three pieces of the ancient Church rule. But each of us can do this if we intend to do so. As I said in last week’s message, Lent is a time for greater intentionality in our lives. It’s a time to give form and shape to the chaos of our daily lives. It’s a time to put God at the center and to let our worship and praise of God animate all that we do.

It’s my deep conviction that the flourishing of ministry in this parish will be enabled by our collective commitment to being Christian Regulars. I believe that when we’re disciplined in our prayer lives, God habituates us to a remarkable openness to the Spirit, who lives and breathes among us. And that openness allows us to respond to God’s call in surprising and glorious ways.

Some of us may have more time to pray than others, and those of us who do will carry a certain amount of weight for the good of the whole Body. But all of us have time to do something. In our prayer, we’re not just aligning our lives to God as to a north star; we’re also supporting one another. To riff on St. Paul, the prayer of the Body’s foot is as essential as the prayer of the Body’s brain. We all have a role to play in our collective prayer life.

This Lent, would you consider becoming a Christian Regular? Would you consider patterning your day on our parish’s daily rhythm of prayer? If you can, come to the Daily Office in person. Maybe you need to start with allocating one day of the week on which you can pray one of the Offices. If you can’t attend in person, pray with us online. Try attending a daily Mass during the week if your schedule allows. And by all means, please prioritize attendance at Mass on the Lord’s Day. Remember that we have two Masses each Sunday, at 8 a.m. and 10:30 a.m.

To be a Christian Regular means that prayer suffuses our life so thoroughly that when we miss out on it—or when we miss a Sunday Mass or something that is part of our Rule—it feels irregular, like a heart skipping a beat. Some words of the late Roman Catholic priest Henri Nouwen may speak more to our hearts than Thornton’s valuable but “drier” way of describing the spiritual life. Nouwen felt a call in his own life to develop what he called “prophetic vision,” which is “looking at people and this world through the eyes of God . . . This is not an intellectual question. It is a question of vocation. I am called to enter into the inner sanctuary of my own being where God has chosen to dwell. The only way to that place is prayer, unceasing prayer. Many struggles and much pain can clear the way, but I am certain that only unceasing prayer can let me enter it” (The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming, New York: Doubleday, 1992, pp. 17-18). In a rule of life well conceived and prayed, we become whole, and our whole life becomes unceasing prayer. It starts with discipline, but it ends with freedom, the freedom that is nothing less than finding the abundant life that Christ brings and that is God’s unending gift to us.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

February 28, 2025

In just a few days’ time, we will enter into the season of Lent. Before I write anything more, I want to name something that you might be experiencing but that you might also prefer to keep secret. I wonder if you’re not looking forward to Lent. Are you even scared of this season of the Church year? Dare I ask whether you wish you could skip right over Lent and move directly to Easter? If you’re having such feelings, please don’t despair. There may be a very good reason why you’re dreading Lent, if that’s indeed the case. (If not, please keep reading nevertheless!) If you aren’t looking forward to Lent, then it could be because we in the Church haven’t done a very good job of talking about Lent and of embracing its true meaning. Throughout so many years of Lenten observance have we confused the means with the end?

I fear that we don’t talk enough about the end, and in fact, we talk far too much about the means without ever referencing the end. What do I mean by this? If you were to read the “Invitation to a Holy Lent” from our Book of Common Prayer, you would learn that the season of Lent originated as a time of preparation for the observance “with great devotion the days of our Lord’s passion and resurrection” (p. 264). If we read these words carefully, it will be clear that everything is centered around the paschal mystery of Christ’s dying and rising again. This mystery is so profound that, at some point, early Christians realized they needed a great deal of time to prepare for it. And so, Lent became such a time of holy preparation.

The Invitation to a Holy Lent tells us that Lent became a season of penitence and fasting. I suspect that we know this all too well. Penitence and fasting have become unpopular in our own day. They aren’t “fun.” But again, if we don’t much care for Lent because we don’t much care for penitence and fasting, then we have again confused the means with the end. In other words, penitence and fasting (along with other Lenten spiritual practices) are not ends in themselves. They are ways in which we learn to celebrate with greater joy the paschal mystery.

Let me offer an example. Each year, I make a spiritual retreat, usually to an Episcopal monastery. When I go there, I prepare to simplify my life for a few days. I know that I will eat less, live more simply, spend less time on my phone, talk less, and spend much more time in prayer. My time on retreat is nothing more than a time of greater intentionality as I seek to know Christ more deeply. I know that in the busyness of life, I will have too much of a good thing, so to speak, and furthermore, I will begin to become complacent about how good a thing life can be. Those things of which I do less on retreat (eating, living, being on my phone) aren’t necessarily bad things, but when my time spent on them becomes too heavily weighted, then I must actively seek out time in which to recalibrate my life. And so, after retreat, I enjoy eating more because I’ve eaten less and been more mindful of what I eat. I enjoy prayer more because I have slowed down in prayer while on retreat. I take greater care with my words because I have talked less. Perhaps now, the point of Lent is becoming clearer to you.

One way of looking at Lent is to see it as a season of intentionality. This certainly might involve giving some things up, such as flesh meat on Fridays or sweets or even some food on days of fasting. But the means is not the end. The means is a way of relishing more in the end. But what is the end?

Again, I turn to the Invitation to a Holy Lent in our prayer book. Hidden in this Invitation is a kernel of good news, which I believe is the end to which Lent is directed. The Invitation notes that during Lent “converts to the faith were prepared for Holy Baptism.” Also, during Lent “those who, because of notorious sins, had been separated from the body of the faithful were reconciled by penitence and forgiveness, and restored to the fellowship of the Church” (p. 265). And here’s the clencher: “Thereby, the whole congregation was put in mind of the message of pardon and absolution set forth in the Gospel of our Savior” (p. 265).

The end of Lent is knowing ever more clearly that each of us is loved, forgiven, and freed by God. This is what’s at the heart of pardon and absolution. The thrust of the paschal mystery is that in Christ’s own death and resurrection, all of creation is set free by God. Sin, while still present, has lost some of its power. Death, while still real, has lost its sting. To embrace Lent with intentionality is to seek to grasp with greater thankfulness the forgiveness and freedom we find in Christ. But if we live with unbounded freedom and utter abandon every day of our lives, we may forget just how beautiful true freedom really is. In Lent, we have an opportunity to discipline ourselves so that we can find true freedom in God.

And all this means, of course, that we must talk about sin. We can’t avoid it. But unfortunately, there are many Christians who have equated talking about sin with the end. The end, it would seem based on such careless speech, is to wallow in our sinfulness. The end is to feel utterly unworthy to be in God’s presence, as if we’re no more than dung upon the earth. While the Reformed heritage of Anglicanism rightly recalls God’s sovereignty, our Catholic heritage must remind us that God created everything good and calls us into loving relationship with him. Even more strongly put, God invites us into the divine life, to share in the divinity of the One who humbled himself to share in our humanity, as one of our prayer book collects so beautifully expresses it. So, what if we described Lent in this way: Lent is a beautiful, treasured time of intentionality in which God invites us to acknowledge and repent of our sin so that we can see in the fullest possible light his infinite, astounding love for us. Sin is simply everything—our willfulness, stubbornness, and bad choices, for example—that prevents us from embracing God’s desire that we might have abundant life.

I wonder if reframing Lent in this way might make it seem more enjoyable to you. And so, I invite you into a holy Lent. As we enter into Lent, I want to be specific about some ways in which it would especially behoove us to relish Lent this year. It goes without saying that we are living in a chaotic, deeply divided time in the life of our nation and in the world. We will be tempted on many occasions to become at odds with one another, in particular because of the ways in which we might disagree with one another. Daily, we are lured into despair. We might be duped into hostile camps, silencing conversation and hurling accusations at one another. But when this ugliness rears its head, remember that Lent is about being reconciled to God and one another. That’s the essence of the paschal mystery. In Christ, we find reconciliation. This Lent, would you make it your prayer to live towards reconciliation rather than pettiness or divisiveness? Lent is also a time for living more deeply into our baptismal vows, and this means that to live intentionally during Lent, we must allow every moment of our lives to be suffused with an awareness of our interconnectedness with one another. All of our actions, all of our speech—however much we may want to separate them from our “religious” lives—affect the well-being of our neighbors. We can’t work out our salvation on our own terms. We are bound together in a common life. Here again is what it means to live towards reconciliation.

In the midst of your busy lives, the Church calls you to set aside time on Ash Wednesday, March 5, to come to church. Mark the intentional observance of this season of Lent with Mass and the imposition of ashes. I invite you to do one other thing this Lent: make the observance of the Lord’s Day the center of your lives for this season. In the Mass, we are most fully accountable to God and one another. In the Mass, we get the clearest sense of our potential to be reconciled to God and one another.

This Lent is particularly special at Good Shepherd. We’re journeying with three adults as they prepare for Holy Baptism at the Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter on April 19. Hassan Baloochiyan, Melika Balouchiyan, and Emma Simpson will be welcomed into the household of God at Easter. They are already a part of our family, but officially on April 19, they will be our beloved brother and sisters in Christ. Please join me in praying for them during this Lenten season. I hope you will be with us in person on April 19 at 8 p.m. to welcome them into the Church.

I pray that this Lent will be a blessing to you and that our collective Lenten observance will sustain us with hope in trying times. I pray that, above all, whatever spiritual practices you take on this Lent will keep your eye on the end, where we’re invited to leave our sinful and unrepentant ways behind and walk with one another into the outstretched arms of God, who offers us endless love, mercy, and forgiveness.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

February 21, 2025

“The Church is not the building but the people” is a saying I’ve heard more times than I can count (and truth be told, I wouldn’t mind not hearing it ever again!). Yes, the statement is true, but it doesn’t mean that our church buildings aren’t important. To focus on the Church as the Body of Christ over and against property owned by the Church is to create a false dichotomy. How can the Church’s buildings not be important to the work and ministry of the Church? Doesn’t worship, the center of our corporate existence as Christians, benefit immensely from the buildings in which we gather? Isn’t our worship shaped by the buildings? Don’t our church buildings provide necessary shelter for those on the streets, or kitchens to feed the hungry, or places of respite (like our retreat house) for the weary traveler and pilgrim? In an age, where we hear a persistent narrative of Church decline, church buildings and property can too easily become the metaphorical albatross around the Church’s neck.

I recently heard someone suggest that in a time like ours, maybe the Church is being called out into nature rather than into our precious buildings. But I wonder if the opposite is true. In a demystified age, isn’t the Church being called back into the transcendence of our buildings? Nearly every day, visitors wander through the open doors of our church. I’m frequently told that the stunning beauty of the space and its felt holiness are a strong source of attraction. This supports what I suspect is true: church buildings are sanctuaries of rest and mystical encounter in a depersonalized world.

As many of you well know, Good Shepherd holds a significant amount of property in trust for our diocese (over 15,000 square feet to be exact). (By canon law, we don’t technically own our property but are stewards of it for the diocese.) Over the past twenty years or more, the property has been severely neglected due to the turmoil of previous parish conflict with the diocese and Episcopal Church and the ensuing years of rebuilding after the parish returned to the fold of the Episcopal Church in 2012. Indeed, shortly after the parish returned to the Episcopal Church, the parish sold property on Lancaster Avenue and adjoining Roberts Road to seed a newly-established endowment after the near depletion of the parish’s former endowment during the years of court battles and conflict. It was a desperate time. Thankfully, this contentious period in the parish’s history is behind us. We’re practically a new congregation, and the spirit in this place is vibrant, healthy, and positive. We must move on, and we’re doing so with God’s help. But knowing our history is important. While we may not have created the problems we’re facing, but we are the ones that God has chosen to deal constructively with them.

As one can imagine, the past several years have required enormous attention to deferred maintenance on campus. From replacing boilers to fixing leaking roofs, the parish’s response has been one of reaction to crisis. In previous years, the parish wasn’t in a position to respond proactively to building concerns. Thanks to the hard work of our staff, our former Rector’s Warden Donald McCown, other parish leadership, and in recent months to the labor of our facilities manager Kevin Loughery, we’re in a much better place than we were four years ago.

And still, as time moves on, our buildings only get older. All but one of our buildings are well over a hundred years old. We have a running list of property issues, which we routinely triage. At the moment, we must isolate the most pressing concerns and address them first. At the same time, we’re moving out of crisis mode and into a more proactive stance. We’re beginning to look to the future with preparation and hope, rather than with anxiety to the immediate past and whatever crisis has emerged.

We’re taking a wholistic approach in caring for our buildings and property. The ministry that occurs within the walls of Good Shepherd is directly affected by the state of the buildings. For example, the bitter cold of the cloister and sacristy at the moment due to an insufficient heating system is both a burden on our acolytes as well as on chorister parents waiting for their children to finish rehearsals. The cold is also seeping into the adjoining organ chamber, causing the mechanics of the organ to be less reliable due to constantly varying temperatures. The compromised roof of the retreat house, if not tended to imminently, will impair ministry there. The lack of proper fire detection devices in the church, cloister, and Choir Room are safety issues. We can’t divorce our buildings from our worship and ministry. And now is the time to look proactively towards being even better stewards of our buildings and property for generations to come.

In 2025, our vestry-approved budget assumes that it will cost over $106,000 to maintain all our buildings and property. Thankfully, some of this maintenance is offset by rental income from tenants, as well as donations from our retreat house. But the additional capital projects to which I’ve already alluded (only a few of the many!) can’t be funded by our operating budget. We now need to establish a capital fund for the perpetual care of our buildings and property and of our pipe organ.

Last month, we received an astoundingly generous gift of $40,000 from an anonymous donor and friend of the parish, who offered this gift, unsolicited, as a gesture of confidence in what is taking place at Good Shepherd. The vestry has decided to invest this $40,000 (as well as the remaining $13,000 of a $26,000 bequest from the estate of the late Martha Wells) in a short-term investment fund with the Church Foundation (which manages our main parish endowment). This fund will be used for capital projects related to our buildings and property and care of our 1977 Austin pipe organ.

In just over a week’s time, we’ll be launching a fundraising campaign to raise additional money to supplement the $53,000 we’ve already been given. We hope to complete specific capital projects identified by our parish vestry. Stay tuned for an email introducing this campaign on Monday, March 3, when you’ll learn more about how much money we’re seeking to raise in this three-month campaign. I encourage each of you to consider giving generously to this fundraising effort. But I will also note that gifts to this campaign are separate from, and in addition to, pledges toward ministry in 2025. This fundraising campaign is a one-time ask for specific needs so that we can properly stewards our buildings and pipe organ. Any money raised above and beyond the total cost of the capital projects will be placed in the newly-established capital fund for future capital projects. It’s my sincere hope that many of you will continue to make gifts to this fund over the coming years so that we can bless those who come after us in this place. In short, this fundraising campaign is addressing needs in the present and looking with proactivity towards our future. I also ask you to mark Sunday, May 4 on your calendars, which will be a celebratory day as we close out the campaign, featuring an organ recital and hymn-sing by our Organist and Director of Music, Robert McCormick, followed by a catered reception and art exhibit/sale featuring works by Jessi Cooke, whose studio is now in Kemper Great Hall. Donations raised at the May 4th event will benefit the fundraising campaign. These donations are only a small part of what we hope to raise. To reach our goal, we’ll be relying on the generosity of parishioners and Friends of the parish.

If you haven’t noticed by now, I’m assuming that Good Shepherd has a future. Just four and a half years ago, the future was uncertain. But I hope you’ll agree with me that the faithful of God in this parish have responded palpably and energetically to the Holy Spirit’s presence here. The parish is growing. Ministry is expanding. Giving is rising exponentially. Our work is only beginning, but I’m utterly confident that Good Shepherd will survive and thrive into the future.

To be honest, there are days in which I feel overwhelmed by the vast amount of labor and money it requires to maintain our property. Some weeks, it doesn’t just rain; it pours. But almost every time, when I’m discouraged, God offers a gentle word of encouragement to me, whether through a random, kind email from a parishioner or Friend of the parish, or through a generous gift (like the $40,000 gift we’ve recently received), or through the recent donation of a beautifully refurbished piano by our piano technician Ralph Onesti. I notice those gestures from God, give thanks, and then gird my loins for the hard work ahead. And I remember, as I said in last week’s message, that hope is defined precisely by its presence in times of frustration and despair. I do have hope. I have great hope that the Church needs a place like Good Shepherd, Rosemont. I have great hope that God has a new future in store for us, for many, many years to come.

One final word of thanks: I’m thankful that this parish has chosen not to lament the presence of our buildings but, instead, to see them as gifts from God. While we may still have financial challenges, God has given us over 15,000 square feet that shouldn’t just sit empty but should resound with the voices and activity of God’s kingdom taking shape on earth. This is the posture we’re adopting at Good Shepherd. From day one of our collective rebuilding work over the past four and a half years, we’ve taken chance after chance on God’s abundant generosity. With God’s ever-present grace, may we continue to be responsible stewards of what he’s entrusted to us in this world, even as we anticipate with joyful longing the world to come.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

February 14, 2025

I was recently given a copy of Spirit of Hope by the Korean-born philosopher Byung-Chul Han. Although I’ve just started reading this essay, I’m already moved by a central point that Han makes. He claims that we inhabit a culture of fear, and fear, as Scripture tells us, is the opposite of love. Han describes fear as something that narrows our worldview and our perspective. Fear squelches our hope. But Han also distinguishes hope from mere optimism. Optimism refuses to acknowledge sorrow or darkness or despair. Hope, rather, is borne out of sorrow, darkness, and despair. [Byung-Chul Han, The Spirit of Hope, trans. Daniel Steuer, Hoboken, NJ: Polity Press, 2024]

St. Paul says as much in his magnificent Letter to the Romans: “we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit which has been given to us” (5:3-5). Paul’s words are difficult to hear because they assume that we will all suffer. But Paul’s words are remarkable in suggesting that there is a disciplinary progression in bearing patiently with suffering. In doing so, he claims that we will discover hope. We can’t produce hope through our own efforts, but we can receive it as a gift from God, a gift that is always present.

If I wanted to paraphrase what I think Byung-Chul Han is saying, hope is believing that, with God, we always have a future. Han characterizes hope as “the midwife of the new,” (26) a “daydream” (29) that looks forward with a narrative, rather than a “nightdream” that can only look back in fear or anxiety. Daydreams “suggest a We that is ready to act to improve the world” (30). Hope is easy to find, of course, when things are going well. It’s incredibly difficult when we are in despair or depressed or anxious or fearful. And yet, we can’t avoid the central place of hope in the Christian life.

It goes without saying that to live in hope, we need God’s grace. But to live in hope, we also need each other. This is the We that Han describes. If we’re inhabiting a culture and world permeated by fear—and I believe we are—then, the Church is more important than ever before. The Church is a place where we’re schooled to exist together, to mutually encourage one another, to bear with one another, to share in each other’s joys and sorrows, and to call each other to hope. Just as we need God, we need one another if we are to abide in hope.

If you’ve been following the careful planning of this year’s Sunday adult formation sessions, you will have noticed that our theme is directly related to the theme of the 2025 pledge campaign: “Life in Community.” This is intentional. This program year, we’re focusing on the importance of abiding in community and on how we all need each other, even when we’re tempted to go our own way. In a deeply divided time, this intentional focus is of crucial importance. I believe we’re living in a golden moment for the Church. The Church has something unique, which is an identity rooted in the claim of the resurrection, which means that every breath we take is infused with the possibility of newness. We’re never deprived of a future. Every moment is a moment of hope. But notice that the Church can only embody this vision of hope if she continues to gather weekly for corporate worship and then proceed into the world to serve in our Lord’s name. Being together is not an ideal in our minds; it’s a reality lived in the flesh.

January and the first part of February have been difficult for me personally, partly because the weather has been so dreary and unstable, and partly because my heart breaks at the divisiveness I see around me. But also, I’ve struggled because there have been a number of unavoidable factors that have hampered our ability to gather fully on the Lord’s Day as a parish community. The weather has been vexing, and there have been many illnesses. All these things are beyond our control, but I want to name the fact that when any of us is absent from worship, I miss you. I feel a sense of loss because I yearn for the We. And this comes from the foundational fact of Christianity that we need each other. We can’t exist fully without one another. And we become most fully ourselves when we come together, in the flesh, on the Lord’s Day to break bread together, to share in that present and eschatological fellowship of communion, a communion that the world outside the Church knows little about.

In just a few weeks, on Sunday, March 2, our parishioner Bonnie Hoffman-Adams will be leading our next Sunday adult formation discussion on our “Life in Community.” Bonnie and I frequently talk about how Good Shepherd is such a beautiful place of community, and we also reflect on how it can be even more effectively a place of true Christian fellowship. I hope you will make every effort to come on March 2. Remember, we need each other.

But before March 2, we have another opportunity to gather together in person and reflect on how our parish can live in a “spirit of hope.” We should rightly rejoice in how this parish’s recent history has been a visible testament to a “spirit of hope.” When death was near, God gave us new life. But our story isn’t over. We have a future. The Church has a future. And especially in a fearful age that gives up easily, we need to maintain a “spirit of hope” by renewing our commitment to God and one another. Our Parish Visioning Conversation on Sunday, February 23, after Sung Mass is such an opportunity. It will be, first and foremost, a time of mutual encouragement. We exist together and we come together in worship and fellowship to find this mutual encouragement. We need one another. I need to hear your stories, as well as learn of your pain and joy, and you need to encounter mine. February 23 will be a time for us to reflect on why we value this parish so much. Why do we come here week after week? How do you find hope in our life in community? What can others do to help us in that effort to be present here and be involved here? What are your gifts that you long to share? And above all, how is God directing our efforts as we seek to exist in a “spirit of hope.” Before you read another word, please take a moment to register to attend the February 23rd conversation. If you’re introverted and this sounds scary, you’re not alone. No one will be forced to speak, but everyone can. We will simply come together to listen and encourage one another. If you can’t make the conversation, I’d still love to talk with you individually. Please contact me.

It’s my sincere prayer that each of you will find the Church and this parish to be a place that calls you more deeply into a “spirit of hope.” If you’re afraid, come to this place, come and worship and be with others. If your life is great, come to this place, come and worship and be with others. We all need each other, and the world needs the Church. There’s never a time when we don’t need God and the Church and each other. In God’s loving embrace, in the fold of the Church, and in the company of one another, we learn most truly that every moment, no matter how dark, is a moment in which to hope.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

February 7, 2025

At Wednesday’s Low Mass, the following words from St. Paul’s Letter to the Galatians lit up for me like an electric sign: “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (2:20). If we’re honest, these words should give us great comfort and also disorient us profoundly. Only by hanging on to both visceral reactions can we truly understand the call of Christian Baptism.

Those words of Paul speak to the magnitude of Baptism. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. Out with the “I” and in with the larger family of God. This is upsetting information to a culture of individualism, which has even pervaded the Church. I, for instance, can go online and buy anything I want without ever talking to another person. I can choose what to do with my things. I can tailor my various profiles, whether in Facebook or Google or LinkedIn to be all about me. I can decide what my “truth” is. I can set my own boundaries and tend to myself alone. I can, if I choose and put blinders on, go to church and let it be about me and tune out everyone else.

But to do any of that is to live against the grain of being a baptized Christian. When each of us is baptized, we become part of a larger family that we don’t choose. Indeed, the point is that we don’t have control over who’s in our family in Christ. When another person is baptized, then you and I become responsible for their spiritual and physical well-being. In this, we also don’t have control over those who become part of our family. This is why people were and still are offended (and try to render more palatable) Jesus’s words from Scripture about who his family is. When told that his mother and brothers are asking to speak with him, he says, “‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother, and sister, and mother’” (Matthew 12:48-50). It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.

If we believe St. Paul that through baptism it’s no longer we who live but Christ in us, then the Church matters supremely. In a time and world in which “I” supersedes “we,” the Church has great importance. The Church is the heartbeat of our lives because she’s the spiritual organism, founded by Christ, in which we are schooled in letting Christ live in us. When we show up at church on any given Sunday, we can’t control who will also be there. We’re forced to sit shoulder to shoulder with others who irritate and annoy us, as well as with those (hopefully!) who bless us and give us strength and companionship. We’re invited to move with them from our comfortable(?) pews to the Communion rail, to receive the same Sacrament, to drink from the same cup, and to be strengthened in our fellowship with one another. In some sense, when we come to Church, “I” always takes second place to “we,” and while that may be uncomfortable to us, it’s the core of the Christian message.

When we’re sitting in the pew on Sunday, we share the sorrow of the grieving spouse, of the friend struggling to pay the bills, of the teenager bullied at school, and of the stranger to this country who is deeply afraid. When they sorrow, as Paul tells us, we should sorrow. But we rejoice with our pew companion who just got a new job, who aced a school test, who has a new grandchild, and who just moved into the cancer remission stage. Their joy is ours, too. In the Church, we’re summoned to renounce our selfishness, our need to control, our clinging to “our” possessions, and our ego, so that it’s no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me. At Good Shepherd, this sense of accountability to one another is present in both the pews and at coffee hour. Our Parish Visioning Conversation in just two weeks’ time will be one more opportunity to let Christ live in us. Who is my neighbor? How does my fellow parishioner hold me accountable, and how do I hold them accountable? How is my own salvation tied inextricably to theirs? These are foundational questions for our visioning conversation.

In our current times, the Church has enormous power if we heed Paul’s words. I urge you not to underestimate the potential of this power. But that power is rooted in an honest embrace of Paul’s words. If we believe that it’s no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me, then profound changes in our own lives for the welfare of all should be inevitable. Our family includes, then, the immigrant and refugee. Our family includes those who are vulnerable and radically different from us, not because we need to understand or judge their situation, but because Christ went to such people himself. And if he lives in us (and we have renounced the “I” within us), then we go to those people, too. We’re, indeed, their companions when they’re hurting. Our family includes all: people we don’t choose to be part of our family, regardless of political views, regardless of country of origin, regardless of economic status, and regardless of anything else that those outside the Church use to sow divisions.

If we’re not careful, the devil will turn members of Christ’s body against one another. He does it in small, subtle ways. Beware but be aware. And then, turn your back on him and turn to Christ, which is the central spiritual movement in Baptism. Turn to Christ and come to the Church, which will remind you of who you are as a baptized Christian or who you will be as a baptized Christian. Come and learn how to let Christ live in you. I need the Church. You need the Church. I need your presence in the Church on a weekly basis for the sake of my own soul. You need my weekly presence in the Church and the physical, in-person presence of your fellow Christians. We’re in the business of salvation together, for once we’re marked as Christ’s own forever, it’s no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me. And if Christ truly lives in me and you, then imagine what we can do in the world in his name.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 31, 2025

In our Baptismal Covenant (found in the Book of Common Prayer, p. 305), the entire congregation and the person(s) to be baptized profess that they will, with God’s help, “proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ.” All too often, words are cheap, and speech is meaningless. Countless persons have given up on the Church because they claim that her members say one thing and do another. So, could it be that in such an age as ours, we proclaim the Good News most effectively by example? One of the most striking documents from the Church’s earliest years (around the 2nd or 3rd century) is the Letter to Diognetus, in which the author says the following of those first Christians.

“They pass their days on earth, but they are citizens of heaven. They obey the prescribed laws, and at the same time surpass the laws by their lives. They love all men, and are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death, and restored to life. They are poor, yet make many rich; they are in lack of all things, and yet abound in all; they are dishonoured, and yet in their very dishonour are glorified. They are evil spoken of, and yet are justified; they are reviled, and bless; they are insulted, and repay the insult with honour; they do good, yet are punished as evil-doers.” (https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/0101.htm)

We could do worse than to aim for others to praise us in such a way. It’s humbling to recognize that our writing and spoken exhortations may have little effect on those we’re addressing, but our behavior—a simple action, a kind word, a selfless gesture, a refusal to return evil for evil—speaks volumes.

We might say that we Christians hold a quiet power to command respect and attention through what we do. The earliest Christians committed themselves to a way of life—indeed, it was called The Way (see the Acts of the Apostles). True, there were profound speeches in those early days (think of Peter’s sermons in Acts or Paul’s letters that were meant to be heard), but the way those Christians lived is perhaps what grabs our attention even to this day. Many went to gory deaths because they refused to speak out of both sides of their mouth. Rather than renounce their faith, they said nothing at all and were killed. They literally gave their lives rather than deny their Lord.

Because of the prolixity—and frequently, the cheapness—of modern-day speech, exacerbated by social media and television, I find myself longing for fewer words, maybe even no words at all. My heart keeps getting pulled more and more down the via negativa. I crave silent prayer. I long for beauty. And even into “the city’s crowded clangor,” to quote a famous hymn, our actions as Christians can speak more powerfully than words, crying “aloud for sin to cease” (Judge eternal, throned in splendor, words by Henry Scott Holland).

I’m compelled to point out the power of actions here at Good Shepherd. At this very moment, parishioners are welcoming the stranger among us. Some among us are quietly reaching out to those who are sick or lonely, ensuring them that they aren’t alone. Right now, children and youth are being embraced by this parish even when they’re alienated at school. And the beauty of all this is that, despite our diversity of perspective and viewpoints on some matters, we exist together, in love. It’s the Gospel that unites us. And we do our best to live the Gospel, which restores us to God and one another.

I don’t want to dwell on the divisiveness of our current national climate or on the growing animosity among nations of the world. I want to dwell on the potential for the Church to step into the rancor surrounding us and live as if we confidently believe in the Good News of Jesus Christ. When we’re confused, we can be grateful for our Lord’s words in Luke 4 (heard last Sunday at Mass). We have marching orders, and they’re fairly clear, as I said in last Sunday’s sermon. Preach good news to the poor. Do something for them in Christ’s name. Preach release to the captives. Better yet, work for their release and live your life as if you believe in God’s forgiveness for all. Ensure that the blind receive their sight, and strive for the healing of all who suffer. Human healing is rooted ultimately in Christ’s power to heal. Let the oppressed go free. Work to ensure that their social status, ethnicity, or place in life is not a barrier to their living a full life. The Incarnation of our Lord assures us that these hopeful words are more than words; they can be realized in action with God’s help. As his body on earth, Christ has told us (in John 14), that we will do even greater works than the ones witnessed in his earthly ministry. We will do them only by God’s power. Let that soak in for a minute. So, my invitation to you is to focus your gaze on Christ. Let his Gospel animate your life. When too many words weigh you down, do something. Recalibrate the actions of your life around the One who gives you life.

As we think about how to live in Christ and preach the Gospel by example, I’m pleased to share that our recently dormant Social Concerns Committee is being revived by parishioners Allen and Jason Crockett and John Williams. A few years ago, this committee was formed to function as a kind of social conscience for the parish. Of course, we must all hone our own social consciences as Christians, but this committee pledges to be a visible presence of prayer, attuning itself to the needs of the local community and world. Every parish needs a “remnant,” a small group of the faithful who are visibly doing things on behalf of the whole. Some of us show up as a remnant for the Daily Office, knowing that the entire parish can’t be present, and yet, the prayer offered is no less effective than if it were fifty persons present. So it is with the Social Concerns Committee. This group of parishioners will gather regularly to pray and discern how Good Shepherd, with its gifts and resources, might give public witness to the Gospel. They will then invite the parish into this public witness.

The committee will meet on Zoom on Saturday, February 22, at 2 p.m. to discuss next steps. If you feel called to participate in the work of this community, please email me, and I will send you the Zoom link. I hope that the revival of the Social Concerns Committee will enable us to connect our retreat house ministry more tangibly with the needs of the neighborhood, as well as those beyond.

I leave you with the striking words of our Lord to his disciples as he approaches his death: “when they bring you to trial and deliver you up, do not be anxious beforehand what you are to say; but say whatever is given you in that hour, for it is not you who speak, but the Holy Spirit” (Mark 13:11). When I’m feeling rudderless or anxious or uncertain, I take great comfort in these words. Don’t worry. Don’t be anxious. The Holy Spirit will tell you what to say. And I also believe that in our hour of greatest need, the Holy Spirit will also show us what to do.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 23, 2025

The weekly parish email and my rector’s message are being published a day earlier than usual this week so that you can take time to thoroughly review the 2025 Annual Report. On Sunday, we will hold our annual parish meeting immediately following Sung Mass in Kemper Great Hall, which is on the second floor of the Parish House. After Mass, simply move through the cloister hallway and up the steps into the Parish House, and take the elevator or stairs at the end of the hallway to the second floor. Whether you are a newcomer to the parish or have been here a while, whether you are officially a member and eligible to vote in the parish elections or not, please attend this important meeting. Your voice and gifts are crucial to the continued flourishing of ministry at Good Shepherd. Lunch will be provided.

In lieu of my usual weekly message, I invite you to read my report on the state of the parish in the annual report, as well as the extensive reports from parish leadership. I hope that you will be encouraged by the vibrancy of parish life at Good Shepherd, as well as the bold decisions made to support the growth of ministry and the Gospel here. Our time together on Sunday in the annual meeting (our “family meeting”) will be most productive if you’ve taken time to read the Annual Report and study the year-end financials from 2024 and review the vestry-approved 2025 annual budget, both of which may be found in the Annual Report. The parish vestry and I value transparency, so it’s important that you know how money is spent in the parish and what the expanding vision of our life in community looks like. For those of you eligible to vote in the parish elections, please review the ballot before the meeting and read the minutes from last year’s annual meeting. I’m grateful to the Parish Nominating Committee (Donald McCown, Sarah Austen, Timothy Austen, Bonnie Hoffman-Adams, and Elly Mulcahy) for the selection of a slate of candidates for all positions.

If you’ve not yet done so, please register online to attend the annual meeting. If you can’t attend in person, please email me for the Zoom link. Sunday will be a time for celebration: to give thanks to God for his many blessings to us and to dream about the future God has in store for us. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Sunday!

Yours in Christ
Father Kyle

January 17, 2025

In my report to the vestry for its January meeting, I reflected on the Church—and specifically, Good Shepherd, Rosemont—as a place to be found, especially when we’re lost. At the risk of repeating myself to our vestry, it seems important to share my reflections with you, parishioners and friends of the parish. It would behoove us to ponder exactly what makes the Church the Church in 2025. Why go to church? Why invest time and energy in the Church when we have plenty of demands on our time from organizations and entities outside of her? For those of us who believe in the importance of the Church and her mission, why is the Church inseparable from our desire to lead full and meaningful lives? I’d like to share my own responses to these questions by way of a message I recently wrote to our vestry, which I offer here in a slightly revised form.

I’m not surprised that one of the most beloved stories in the Bible is the Parable of the Prodigal Son, or of the Loving Father, or of the Son Who Was Lost but Found, or whatever you want to call it. I think this story is popular not only because it’s a wonderful story but because we all know what it feels like to be lost. And we relish the security of being found. In St. Luke’s Gospel, this beloved parable is preceded by the Parable of the Lost Sheep and the Parable of the Lost Coin. In the former, even one sheep among ninety-nine others is sought after with great zeal and love. In the latter, a woman turns her house upside down until she finds one lost coin. As much as many Christians out there delight, rather perversely, in telling us about a God who seems to have it in for us, the God described across the pages of Scripture and revealed to us in Jesus Christ is a God of infinite love who seeks everyone who is lost. This God knows us by name. This God knows every hair on our heads. This God is the “hound of heaven” who pursues us in love. When we’re lost, God will find us, somehow, somewhere.

From the moment I was called to be the rector of this parish, I was acutely aware of the theological significance of the parish’s namesake. I still take seriously the call to be a good shepherd, and I try to be a responsible shepherd. It’s ironic that a parish with such a name went astray for so long. And having been here for four and a half years now, it’s not lost on me that we’re a sheepfold for lost sheep. I don’t mean “lost” in the sense of being profligate or wasteful or irresponsible, but I simply refer to that very intrinsic part of the human condition—being lost. We’re all lost. When we sin, we’re lost. When we’re lonely and searching for community, we’re lost. When we’ve lost someone dear to us, we’re lost, too. When we’re unhappy with some aspect of our lives and know that there must be something better, we’re lost. When our children are out of control and we feel that we can’t help them, we’re lost. When the world seems like an increasingly dangerous place and we long for safety, we’re lost. When we’ve not made God a part of our lives before but now yearn for him, we’re lost. Yes, all of us are lost in some way. All of us have been lost. Indeed, all of us are lost in some fashion or another.

I’m always delightfully surprised at how many newcomers find the Church of the Good Shepherd, and I’m convinced that the Holy Spirit has drawn them here. And I also maintain that there’s something special about the community forming at Good Shepherd. It’s true that the Church should always be a refuge for sinners and a home for the lost, but some churches are more unfriendly, less welcoming, more cliquish places than others. The Church of the Good Shepherd is not. I feel strongly that we’ve been called to a ministry of hospitality, which involves more than dishing out a muffin or a mug of coffee after Sunday Mass. It means scouring the church with our eyes until we notice the person who is new among us. It means leaving our comfortable circles at coffee hour to go and speak to the person who is sitting alone. It means saying our usual hellos to our old friends at church and then walking up to the person who has attended for the first time and kindly, but without any pressure, offering to escort them to coffee hour. It means reaching out by email to the newcomer and inviting them for coffee. It means risking the discomfort of breaking our shyness to make conversation with someone new.

But it’s even more than this, and here’s where it gets a bit scary. Ministry to the lost means first recognizing how we are lost. It means unearthing those painful memories of being bullied in school or ostracized or made fun of. And then from that dark place, we keep our eyes open for those among us who are also lost. We tell them about the place that has changed our lives, where we’ve been found and have experienced community—Good Shepherd, Rosemont. We invite them to experience this home, this safe sheepfold, with us. In short, we follow the Great Commission to be evangelists, the duty of every Christian.

You already know that I believe our parish and the wider Church is called to grow. Growth is assumed in the Gospel message. But for our parish to continue to grow and become sustainable for a long future, we can’t merely rely on those who find us on their own (and through the work of the Holy Spirit). No, the Holy Spirit often uses us to find others. We shouldn’t neglect this charge. So, invite someone to church. Tell them about this place that you love so much. If you have an idea for how this parish can minister more effectively to the lost, voice your idea but also lead the charge in realizing it. Our parish’s growth will depend not just on ideas but on leaders committed to turning ideas into reality. We all have a hand to play in the growth of this parish. 

I hope that it can be the mission of each one of us to always be on the lookout for that lonely person. Please talk to them. And would you please go a step further? Would you use our Realm directory to locate the email address of someone new and invite them to coffee or tea? Or lunch? The Church will be stronger if we don’t just talk about community but live it in an intentional way.

We’re told nearly every day that the Church is dying, but what such despairing, narrow-minded messages overlook is that in a world that is deeply lost, where cruelty can assert itself with ease, and where there is an increasing loss of meaning, the Church is the steward of a treasure. That treasure is the Gospel. And this means that for the person who has no home at school or in the workplace, or for the person who is struggling to find friends or community, or for the person who is quietly suffering or deeply lonely, the Church is their true home, because it’s the home of us all. The Church will revive if we embrace this and believe it. If we refuse to continue feeding the beast of a world that demands more and more of our time but chews us up and spits us out, and if we turn, instead, to the Church that will comfort, nourish, and strengthen us, then we will have learned something about what all of us need from the Church. The Church’s mission is always to the lost, because the best news we can offer to the world is that, although we once were lost, now we’re found.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 10, 2025

I was recently reminded of an old Anglo-Catholic phrase “assisting at Mass.” We Anglo-Catholics have a peculiar language at times, but below its quirkiness lies a rich piety if we aim to discover it. “Assisting at Mass” doesn’t refer merely to those serving at the altar, nor does it apply only to clergy or musicians. Assisting at Mass is the duty of everyone present.

The Anglo-Catholic tradition has been accused at times of clericalism and of promoting an individualistic piety. I’m sure it has been and is true in some (many?) Anglo-Catholic parishes. But if we dig below the surface of dutiful observance and obligation (both of which can be good things), we’ll find that the phrase “assisting at Mass” is anything but clericalist. To assist at Mass isn’t only to show up; it’s to invest oneself in the Mass. Assisting at Mass assumes that a Mass needs more than just a priest. It needs a priest and at least one other person present.

Have you ever noticed the way the Amen following the Canon of the Mass is printed in our prayer book (and leaflet)? It’s in capital letters and italics. This Amen is the assent of the congregation to Christ’s presence in the Sacrament of the Altar. The priest can pray all she or he wants, but the voice of the congregation and their presence—indeed, their assistance—are necessary. Christianity is not an individualistic affair. We probably need this reminder more than ever in the age of livestreaming. Livestreaming is a gift to connect our parish with friends near and far. It’s a gift to those of us who must stay at home due to illness but want to worship online. But livestreaming is no substitute for our fleshly presence at the Mass. It’s no substitute for receiving Christ’s Body and Blood, which restores our bodies and souls.

I frequently reflect on what it means to be Anglo-Catholic in the Episcopal Church in this century, when we have a Catholic prayer book and the Eucharist is now the principal service of worship on the Lord’s Day. Part of what it means, in my humble opinion, is to call the wider Church—specifically the Episcopal Church—to a robust practice of worship, especially an observance of the Church’s great rhythm of prayer and celebrations of the liturgical seasons, feasts, and fasts. Worship is not mere perfunctory observance. Worship is a living encounter with the One in whom we find abundant life and salvation, Jesus Christ. This encounter, which is part of how we are saved, means that we must show up first. We show up sometimes when we aren’t “feeling like it.” When we “aren’t feeling like it” is precisely when we most need it. Worship requires our physical presence, in person, so that our bodies can breathe and sing and kneel and stand in real time with the physical bodies of our friends in Christ.

And so, “assistance at Mass” isn’t specifically an Anglo-Catholic thing, but because Anglo-Catholics famously worship a lot, perhaps it’s our gift to the wider Church to call more people into a hearty liturgical practice. People frequently comment to me on how much worship we have at Good Shepherd, especially considering our size. That’s true. But I hope it’s not a burden to us. I hope it’s life-giving. It’s an integral part of how we can genuinely discern God’s call to us in mission and service. A regular practice of worship is crucial to our salvation, because salvation is not about “me and God.” Salvation is about “us and God” and a shared life where we all exhort and “assist” one another in growing more and more into the likeness of God. After all, Jesus came to draw all people to himself, as St. John tells us (12:32).

During this season of the calendar year, when weather is cold, inconvenient, and downright unpleasant at times, we may need a reminder of “assisting at Mass” more than ever. As the Preface of the Mass reminds us, “[i]t is very meet, right, and our bounden duty, that we should at all times, and in all places, give thanks unto thee, O Lord, holy Father, almighty, everlasting God.” The fruits of our “assistance” might be felt right after Mass, but more likely, they won’t. You may feel those fruits three days later or three years later. The point is that we show up to “assist.” We assist on Sundays, but also on weekdays, on feast days, and on days of fasting. Our presence is necessary. And what a delight and privilege it is that by virtue of the Incarnation we can dare to call God “Abba,” Father. What a joy that our presence at Mass is not optional, our presence is necessary. I will look forward to seeing you on Sunday to assist in the holy mysteries of our living encounter with the One who gives us life.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

January 3, 2025

Technically speaking, we Christians have already begun a new year. It began on December 1, the First Sunday of Advent. At the beginning of Advent, I wrote about newness. But since we are inevitably tied to secular calendars as well as liturgical calendars, as we begin 2025, we should once again reflect on newness. If you’ve watched our parish video, produced in the early summer of 2022, you will have noticed an intentional reference to the apostle Paul’s words: “if any one is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Those words of St. Paul encapsulate the recent history of this parish. Less than ten years ago, it looked as if this parish might close its doors, but God did something new. The newness that God brings is evident almost every day I spend here, and the parish video is itself proof of this ongoing newness. It’s already woefully out of date! So many new faces have arrived at Good Shepherd since that video was made, and sadly, some are no longer with us. So much new ministry has been birthed since the video was filmed. Good Shepherd, Rosemont, is a shining, visible example of God’s new creation among us. We who have experienced directly God’s power to make things new in this parish can and should give witness to this.

But we inhabit a world that is tired and worn down. It’s a world that primarily functions as if everything is old, and we don’t know how to cope with that reality. We rehash old grievances. We neglect the elderly among us, assuming that nothing new could occur in their lives. We hearken back to how things used to be, as if nothing good could come out of the future. We even think that some are worthy of death because they are defined by their former, corrupt past. We judge people by their worst mistakes. We despair of the Church having a glorious future again because she’s in decline. So we say.

And yet. . . and yet, God is always making things new. To be a Christian is to live in the hope that newness is always possible. The heart of our faith lies in the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, where even death itself doesn’t have the final word. Newness proliferates because Jesus still lives among us and the Holy Spirit enlivens our bodies, our hearts, and our imaginations. And God’s revival of this wonderful parish is living proof of that newness.

At this moment in time, the Church has a privilege and a duty to proclaim to a tired, worn, skeptical world that in Christ, a new creation is always possible. Can we live as if this is so? I wonder what this will look like at Good Shepherd. I like to imagine a new calendar year as an opportunity to dream about what the coming year will look like in the parish. What new people will God send our way to join us in ministry? What new ministry will take root here? What old ideas can be revived and realized in new ways?

Please mark January 26 on your calendars, which is when we’ll hold our 2025 annual parish meeting after Sung Mass. At this meeting, we’ll reflect on the old year with eyes of hope towards the new one. The visioning of a new future at Good Shepherd is not the sole provision of me your priest, nor is it only the responsibility of the vestry. Dreaming about a future graced by God’s newness is for all of us, which is why your presence at our parish meeting is so essential.

I hope you’ll join us for the Feast of the Epiphany, a Principal Feast of the Church year. If you’re in town, please prioritize this feast. We’ll close out the Christmas season with a Procession and Sung Mass on Monday, January 6, at 7 p.m. At that Mass, we’ll also bless chalk for the chalking of doors at home, an Epiphany tradition. A potluck supper will follow in the retreat house. Until then, savor the final days of Christmas. This is, after all, the season in which the wonder of God’s newness comes to us in the newness of a little Child, our Savior, in whom all things are made new.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 27, 2024

The Hymnal 1982, our authorized Episcopal hymnal, contains thirty-nine Christmas hymns. Most years, I lament the fact that we’ll only have three occasions to sing these hymns during the Christmas season. But this year, because of how Christmas falls within the calendar, we’ll have two Sundays in the Christmas season. This gives us more opportunities to sing from the great treasure of hymnody for the Christmas season.

Many of the hymns are standard favorites, hymns you wouldn’t imagine not singing at Christmas. At this point in the Christmas season, we’ve already sung many of them. But there are some overlooked gems. One of my personal favorites—both tune and text—is #104, “A stable lamp is lighted.” The text is by the late American poet Richard Wilbur. The tune is by the living American church musician David Hurd, currently Director of Music at the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin in New York City, one of our sister Anglo-Catholic parishes. In my opinion, David Hurd’s tunes are some of the best examples of American hymnody in the previous and current centuries.

I adore both the tune and the text of “A stable lamp is lighted.” The tune is poignant, even sad. The text is theological poetry at its finest, redolent with Scriptural allusions and centuries of Christological ponderings. One of the reasons I’m so fond of this hymn is that the text moves to a deeper level than some of our beloved Christmas hymns. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t want Christmas without “O come, all ye faithful” and “Angels we have heard on high.” But “A stable lamp is lighted” reminds us that at Christmas, we celebrate a mystery that transcends a cozy birth story or feelings of constant merriment. Christmas joy is not mere happiness or cheer. Joy assumes a measure of hope, and joy can come to us even in our sorrow. Joy is profound enough to withstand suffering.

In Wilbur’s great hymn, all of creation responds to the birth of the Messiah. “The stars shall bend their voices/And every stone shall cry.” Wilbur references, obliquely, Psalm 19 but also, more directly, Habakkuk 2:11, where in the face of injustice, even the stones themselves will not be able to remain silent. Recall that when Jesus enters Jerusalem in Luke’s Gospel, some Pharisees ask Jesus to rebuke his disciples, who are greeting him with praise. Jesus says, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out” (Luke 19:40). “Every stone shall cry” is a constant refrain in Wilbur’s hymn. This refrain expresses the mystery of Christmas: all of creation cries out at the birth of the Messiah, but the cry is mixed. It’s a cry of both joy and sorrow because the happiness felt at Jesus’s birth is tinged with an unshakeable feeling that a sinful world will not be able to hold the perfect goodness found in Jesus the Christ. In the Christian life, joy and sorrow can’t be easily separated.

Wilbur’s hymn plays with imagery inspired by the Church’s early Fathers, where in the manger, “straw like gold shall shine” and “A barn shall harbor heaven” because a stall will “become a shrine.” The extraordinary meshes with the ordinary. Jesus’s throne is in the manger. From Jesus’s birth, the cross is already in the picture. This Light of the world will be rejected and refused by the world, even though the darkness can’t overcome the Light.

All of this might not immediately seem like good news on Christmas. It might, in fact, seem depressing. But the truth is that this season can be bittersweet—even deeply sad—for many people. It’s mistaken to assume that if we’re good Christians, we’ll be happy and cheery all the time. The real truth of Christmas tells us otherwise. Jesus was born to a wandering family who ultimately made his crib in a barn or a cave, not in a palace. Jesus was born under the boot of Roman oppression. Jesus was born to peasant parents in questionable circumstances, at least from a human point of view. The mystery of Christmas is complicated and messy, and the good news is that in such a manner, our redemption comes to us. As the Church Father Gregory of Nazianzus told us, “that which is not assumed is not saved.” Jesus comes to save it all.

As Wilbur notes in his hymn, the sky whose stars bend their voices at Jesus’s birth will “groan and darken” at his death. When heaven touches earth in the Incarnation, all of creation is affected. The mystery of Jesus’s birth leaves no corner of the earth untouched. And today, for those of us struggling with sadness or illness or despair, the mystery of Christmas assures us that we can be joyful Christians who retain hope even when we can’t facilely dismiss our sadness.

The final verse of Wilbur’s hymn explains the heart of the mystery of Christmas: “But now, as at the ending,/The low is lifted high;/The stars shall bend their voices,/And every stone shall cry./And every stone shall cry,/In praises of the Child/By whose descent among us/The worlds are reconciled.” No darkness can squelch the light of Christ. No sorrow can eliminate the joy. And no matter how many voices are silenced by oppression, the stones themselves will cry out in testament to the One who is our Savior and has redeemed the world.

May God bless you and yours this Christmas. If you’re in town, please come to Mass to sing the wonderful hymns of Christmas and to give thanks in the Eucharistic feast for the birth of our Savior, who continues to reconcile the worlds and whose light always shines in the darkness.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 20, 2024

On Tuesday, at Evening Prayer, we began using the “O Antiphons” with the Magnificat, an ancient tradition in the days leading up to Christmas. These “O Antiphons” are known most familiarly in the hymn “O come, O come, Emmanuel.” The “O” refers to the word that begins the antiphons, which are intended to flank the recitation or singing of the Magnificat, Mary’s great song from Luke 1. Beginning on December 17, each day is assigned a particular antiphon. The antiphon for December 20 is “O Clavis David.”

O Key of David,
and Scepter of the house of Israel,
that openest and no one shutteth,
and shuttest and no one openeth:
Come and bring the prisoner out of the prison-house,
he that sitteth in darkness and the shadow of death.

In the imagery of today’s appointed antiphon, Christ is the Key that unlocks the door to freedom from sin and death. What an incisive and powerful image this is!

On Sunday, after Advent Lessons and Carols, I was putting things away in the sacristy, including the cope that I wore for the service. All our copes reside in a closet just outside the vesting sacristy, and this closet is usually locked. I was hanging the key to the closet on the peg where it usually lives when it fell and disappeared. I heard it hit the ground, and I searched and I searched the sacristy, but to no avail. I couldn’t find the key. And then I noticed a small hole in the floor next to the radiator. Surely, the key, with its attached label, wouldn’t have been small enough to land exactly in that hole, which is no more than an inch and a half in diameter? I shone a flashlight down the hole, but I couldn’t see the key anywhere.

My frantic search, and my obsession with finding that key, persisted. I would need to access the cope closet before Christmas Eve. Where was the key? I felt a bit like the woman in Luke’s parable of the lost coin. She sweeps the floor of her house, yearning to find that one lost coin. Sometimes, the thing for which we search so desperately seems small, and yet the sense of losing something can be overwhelming, no matter how tiny the lost item is.

When something is lost, especially a key needed to unlock a door, we experience a helplessness. Whether it’s a car key that’s locked inside the car, or a house key that’s left hanging in its place while you stand outside in the cold unable to enter, keys are uniquely important. The British priest and poet Malcolm Guite notes the particularity of a key to unlock a door in his poem on today’s “O Antiphon.”

Even in the darkness where I sit
And huddle in the midst of misery
I can remember freedom, but forget
That every lock must answer to a key,
That each dark clasp, sharp and intricate,
Must find a counter-clasp to meet its guard,
Particular, exact and intimate,
The clutch and catch that meshes with its ward.
I cry out for the key I threw away
That turned and over turned with certain touch
And with the lovely lifting of a latch
Opened my darkness to the light of day.
O come again, come quickly, set me free
Cut to the quick to fit, the master key.

(https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2014/12/20/oh-clavis-a-fourth-advent-antiphon-and-sonnet-2/)

Being a part of the human condition is so often like being locked out of a room full of treasures. The room in this analogy is freedom. To be locked out is a horrible feeling of exclusion. There’s a sense that something that could be readily available to us, and which is so near at hand, is being withheld from us. But when we find the balm of freedom—when we finally discover something that is lost, or when a door in life is opened to us—it’s sheer bliss. Do you recall the last time you experienced that?

Sin and evil in our world feel like powers that take the key to the door of freedom and throw it away. Unlike the lost key for which I was searching, when sin and evil are involved, it’s as if the key was deliberately taken and thrown into some bottomless pit. As St. Paul reminds us, sin is really Sin; it seems like a power or force that holds us hostage. it locks us in a prison and then throws away the key.

In these final days leading up to Christmas, there may be no more powerful image to hold onto than that of Christ as the Key of David. He is the Key, as Malcolm Guite reminds us, that in our sinfulness and willfulness we throw away. And yet, he is not lost down a hole or in some dark abyss. He’s right here, reigning in our hearts. He visits us daily. Our Key of David is not far away. He’s not lost. We’re lost, and he has found us.

There’s surely some logic to the fact that some people who usually never go to church nevertheless find their way to churches at Christmas and Easter. They must somehow know that without Christ, they’re lost and need to be found, they’re outside a locked room without a key. This is the deepest meaning of Christmas: our Key is always available to unlock the door and let us into freedom.

If you’re traveling this Christmas, may God give you a safe journey. If you’re in town, I hope to see you at Masses on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, both Sung Masses with choir. Join us, too, for Low Masses on the Major Holy Days following Christmas Day. If you know people who are struggling because they’ve lost the key to joy, would you consider inviting them to church? May God bless you this Christmas as we celebrate the perpetual arrival in our lives of the One who is the Key of David, the Christ, the Messiah, the only One who can set us free.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

P.S. It turns out that the lost key to the cope closet did indeed fall through the hole in a floorboard of our sacristy. But thanks to Kevin Loughery, our wonderful buildings and property manager, it will be recovered in time to open the cope closet for Christmas!

December 13, 2024

There’s a letter that I’ve been waiting for in the mail for a few months now. Every day, I glance in the church mailbox to see if it’s arrived. It will eventually tell me whether a grant that I applied for has been awarded. But the letter hasn’t come yet. Waiting for something can easily become an obsession. I usually don’t like waiting. On many Wednesdays, I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, ready for the 12:05 p.m. Mass, and I’ve waited for people to show up. Usually, after five minutes or so and no one has arrived, I return items to the sacristy and move on with my day—I can’t offer Mass without a congregation. Waiting is never easy. I’ve waited for medical test results before. I’ve waited for academic exam results. I’ve waited for college admission letters. I’ve waited for phone calls from loved ones to assure me that they’ve made it safely on a road trip or that they’re doing okay. Waiting is usually not enjoyable. I’ve waited for the answer to prayer. I’ve waited for some kind of divine affirmation that I’m on the right path. Waiting is, at times, frustrating.

But I wonder if waiting could be more pleasant than it usually is. Does waiting always have to be an anxiety-ridden endeavor? Does everything have to be centered on what’s been waited for? What if waiting were more focused on the present rather than the future? Perhaps that’s really what waiting is from a theological perspective. Spiritual waiting usually involves some measure of hope in the future, but it also doesn’t neglect the present. It may be that the purpose of waiting is to redirect our gaze to the present.

If one waits long enough, one may be conditioned to accept the present, with all its uncertainty. One may cease to idolize the future of knowing something for sure and, instead, embrace the gift of the present moment with whatever it brings, which often surprises. Over the past few years, as we have added liturgical services to our daily round at Good Shepherd, I’ve shown up and waited. I’ve said the Daily Office alone, and I’ve waited for people to show up. And with time, they have. I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, hoping people might show up for Mass, and I’ve waited, and on some days, just when I think no one will, someone does. I’ve waited for the right gifts to come with the right people to address a need in our parish, and I’ve waited, and then they’ve appeared. Waiting can be a rich time because in the act of waiting, we learn to depend solely on God.

One of the reasons I’ve felt more and more drawn to silent, contemplative prayer with time is that it encourages me to be more comfortable with waiting. If I’m not using words to ask God for something, then I’m less likely to be expecting a direct answer. Instead, I sit in silence or even gaze at an icon, and I wait. I wait for the Spirit to show me something in that time of doing very little.

Anyone who preaches or who writes or who creates art knows that waiting is essential. It’s very difficult to sit down and write something that’s inspired. It’s impossible to preach a good sermon without waiting for some word of inspiration from God. A work of art is trite at best unless it springs from a divinely-given creative impulse. It’s all about waiting.

The waiting of this season of Advent is too often focused on the future, on Christmas and then on the Second Coming. Yes, Christmas will come on December 25 (it always does!), and yes, Christ will come again to judge both the living and the dead. Both of those comings can elicit anxiety. Will I be able to deal with the stress of family this year at Christmas? Will I be able to stand before Christ’s judgment throne and not be swallowed up in fiery wrath? So much perceived condemnation accompanies the awaiting of these comings.

But waiting in the present moment is different. It judges us, for sure, but as a gift. It’s not about what could happen or what I will do if something happens in the future. It’s about how I respond to Christ’s glorious coming into the present moment of my life. As I wait for test results or a letter in the mail or people to show up for Mass or for Christ to come again in glory, the present moment happens. And in the present moment, the risen Christ comes to me and to you, in all his glory, to bless us and surprise us. In the present moment, Christ teaches us, and the Holy Spirit reveals new understandings to us. In the present moment, Christ simply is, and we are invited to be with him just as he is, as Mary sat patiently at his feet while Martha busied herself in the kitchen.

Advent is a time of year in which we’re tempted to go the route of Martha—not that it’s bad or wrong. We’re tempted to be always on the go, always shopping, always wrapping gifts, always going to another holiday party, always filling every minute with more and more activity. But what if we embraced this Advent as a season of Mary, who sat at the feet of her friend Jesus’s feet and simply was with him? This is a season of hope. It’s a season of waiting. It’s a time to rejoice that as we await the celebration of the coming of God-with-us, Emmanuel, in this present moment—especially as we wait—God-with-us is already here. We’re waiting with him. And in that present waiting, we are indeed blessed.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle

December 6, 2024

In this past week’s Pilgrims in Christ meeting, someone asked why we genuflect at the mention of the Incarnation in the Nicene Creed at Mass (“was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary, and was made man”). It was a good question. I suggested that one reason was to remind us of the concreteness of the Incarnation. At one particular moment in time, in a specific location in the Middle East, the eternal Word was made flesh in the person of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Christianity is a religion of particularity. It’s nothing short of astounding that an eternal God made himself visible in human flesh in Jesus, the perfect image of God. This eternal God’s image is also localized in our own bodies, which, of course, exist in temporal space. So, when our knees touch the floor as we say some words in the Creed, we remember the doctrine of the Incarnation. We remember that our bodies matter. We remember that our bodies are not “shells” to be discarded at death, for our bodies—loved and redeemed by God—will also be raised one day at the end of time. As words from Sunday’s Gospel tell us, “all flesh shall see the salvation of God” (Luke 3:6).

This particularity of Christianity has manifested itself in the Church through the parish system. Historically, a parish was a geographical area in which one lived. One usually was a member of the church within the bounds of the parish in which one lived. Devotion to one’s geographical parish is rare these days, although we still technically have parish bounds. But the point remains the same: to be a Christian is to be a disciple of Jesus in a specific place and time. As Christians affiliated with Good Shepherd, Rosemont, our parish community grounds us and localizes us in one place of worship, even if we live thirty-five miles from the church.

On this view, then, being a member of a parish is an important part of Christian identity. Membership is a way in which each of us is formed among a unique group of people. We’re called to a parish for a variety of reasons. Perhaps we are fed by the worship there. Maybe we like the people. Or the music stirs us immensely. But I also believe that the Holy Spirit draws people with certain gifts to specific parishes that are in need of such gifts. And people with definable needs are drawn to parishes with resources and people that can minister to those needs. In all this, we see the doctrine of the Incarnation at work. Particularity matters. Time and place matter.

And so, the very practical reality of membership within the Episcopal Church is more than merely practical. It’s more than managing statistics. It’s an accounting of our identity within one parish within the wider Episcopal Church that is part of the larger worldwide Anglican Communion that exists as a Communion of churches within the worldwide Church Catholic.

On Sunday, at Sung Mass, we will officially welcome sixteen new members to Good Shepherd. Some of these new members have been worshipping here for well over a year, but they’ve now indicated that they wish to become members of this local community of disciples. Their names have been inscribed in our parish register in pen, for posterity, giving testimony to the particularity of their membership in this community of faith. With membership comes commitment. These new members are pledging their lives of discipleship to occur in this parish of Good Shepherd, Rosemont. And I’m so glad that they’re here!

I should say a word about membership in the Episcopal Church. Any baptized person may officially become a member. Practically speaking, “adult communicants in good standing” in this parish are those sixteen years of age and older, “who for the previous year have been faithful in corporate worship, unless for good cause prevented, and have been faithful in working, praying, and giving for the spread of the Kingdom of God” (Canon 1.17.3). This means that one’s baptism is recorded in our parish register, one attends church regularly, and one pledges financially to the ministry of the parish. To vote in parish elections at each year’s annual parish meeting (to elect members of the vestry, delegates to diocesan convention, and delegates to deanery meetings), one must be an adult communicant in good standing who has attended Good Shepherd for at least one year previously. I encourage you to read more about membership on our website. If you’re not yet officially a member of Good Shepherd and would like to be, please contact me.

I also recognize that there are many among us who are not officially members but who worship here regularly, pledge to the well-being of the parish, and give sacrificially of their time and talent to Good Shepherd. I’m most grateful to these individuals. Even though they aren’t officially “members” by the canonical definition, they are valued assets to this community of faith and are fully integrated into our parish’s life and witness. Regardless of whether you are a member or not, you are loved and cherished here.

On Sunday, as we celebrate the welcoming of new members, we will appropriately be distributing copies of our new parish directory, which has been printed from information included in our online database, Realm. Now, you’ll be able to remind yourself of the name of that person whom you see regularly but whose name has escaped your mind. (But please remember that you can access all this information right now by logging into Realm!) You may pick up a copy of the directory at Mass on Sunday. I hope that this simple directory will be one more way in which we can grow closer in community, pray for one another, and ensure that all here feel a sense of belonging. Thank you to Lorraine Mahoney for leading the charge on creating this parish directory.

We are people of the Incarnation, of particularity in time and place. And I’m thankful that each of you has chosen to immerse your own life of faith in this parish. I pray that in doing so, you will grow more fully into the likeness of God by virtue of the other faithful disciples here. May you sense a divinely inspired meshing of your own gifts with the gifts of this parish, and may it all be to the flourishing of Christ’s kingdom.

Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle