Читать книгу Radical Welcome - Stephanie Spellers - Страница 18

I could tell you more about radical welcome, or I could show you. Here are some brief sketches from eight congregations trying to live the dream of radical welcome.

We had to convince people that no one was trying to take over “their” church and run away with it. This isn’t an “us” versus “them” situation. There’s only us.

ENNIS DUFFIS, GRACE CHURCH-LAWRENCE

Grace Episcopal Church in Lawrence, Massachusetts, was faced with that most painful of dilemmas: change or die. The historically white, middle-class city of Lawrence had shifted, and the sons and daughters of the aging white church community had moved on. Members of the dying church opted to live, and that meant embracing their now-Latino neighborhood.

From the beginning, there were concerns that Grace would become a Latino church, that the new members would actually “steal” the church from their white elders. The Latino priest and missioner, Ennis Duffis, took that fear very seriously. “We had to convince people that no one was trying to take over ‘their’ church and run away with it. This isn’t an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ situation. There’s only us.”

Resurrection came when white and Latino members worked together to create and run several homegrown community ministries, and when they intentionally crafted opportunities to communicate openly and to truly enjoy and respect each other’s cultures. Eventually, the dominant Anglo community began to welcome the leadership of younger, less educated, less affluent Latinos. Moving beyond mere representation, the thriving congregation now looks like the neighborhood: more Latino than white, including a Latina who heads the vestry and a Spanish-language service with praise music and lots of children, preceded by a smaller but stable Anglo service. The next frontier for Grace: continue to grow while nurturing points of common ground between the white and Latino worship communities and the ever-changing neighborhood.

Harlem, New York, is a mix of cultures, races and classes, and small but spiritually mighty St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in West Harlem seeks to embody it all. A banner at the front of the church announces to the world: “St. Mary’s-West Harlem: The I Am Not Afraid’ Church.”

Jesus says go to the highways and byways and welcome those people. This church came to the byways and got me and showed me that love.

JASEN TOWNSEND, ST. MARY’S-WEST HARLEM

The presence of white and black members who hail from Harlem’s established middle class and from nearby Columbia University is no great surprise here. Even the growing Latino population fits the neighborhood’s multicultural profile. Perhaps most remarkable—especially for the Episcopal Church—is the leadership of the homeless and poor members, many of whom came for the community meal program downstairs and, thanks to the genuine and explicit welcome, made their way upstairs for Sunday worship.

These powerful apostles have brought a fresh spirit and urgency to the reading and singing of the gospel, and constantly challenge their companions’ middle-class Anglican expectations. They also bring a commitment to welcome others as they’ve been welcomed. Jasen Townsend entered St. Mary’s by way of the soup kitchen several years ago. When I met him, he was marching, shouting and waving as a straight ally in New York City’s Pride Parade. Ask why he does it, and Townsend just points back to the gospel. “If the guests who were invited to the wedding feast won’t come in, Jesus says go to the highways and byways and welcome those people. This church came to the byways and got me and showed me that love. . . . If you want to love Christ, if you want to live like Christ, then you’ve got to love every person.” The next frontier for St. Mary’s: broadening their radical welcome to include even more Latinos and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people.

We have a history of resisting oppression, but we also know we can’t live off that glamorous history. Others need us. How do we support them, too?

EMILY FRYE, ST. PHILIP’S-HARLEM

Just blocks away, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church in Harlem, New York, looks for the most part like what it is: the oldest black Episcopal Church in New York. Parishioners point with pride to their courageous founders, who in 1809 left the venerable Trinity Episcopal Church on Wall Street and demanded a separate home for black Episcopalians in New York. St. Philip’s has been proclaiming black liberation theology ever since.

That venerable history drew the cream of black society for the better part of the last two centuries. But when Cecily Broderick y Guerra came to serve as their first female rector, she wasn’t impressed. Instead, she said she sensed the church had become a “terminally closed system.” So she set out preparing the congregation for transformation, both to welcome residents of their economically depressed neighborhood and to make room for gay and lesbian people at the center of their common life. She preached about the link between discipleship, welcome and transformation. Meanwhile, older black leaders began to make another link: the one between movements for racial justice and the struggle for gay liberation. As Emily Frye, a senior lay leader, explained it to me: “We have a history of resisting oppression, but we also know we can’t live off that glamorous history. Others need us. How do we support them, too?”

Thanks to that welcome, a small, committed gay and lesbian community has grown at St. Philip’s. Recently, with the support of the vestry and the Diocese of New York, the church became the host for Epiphany, the first Episcopal group for black Christian gays and lesbians. The church’s leaders hope they can deepen the welcome to the LGBT community, drawing gay and lesbian people into parish leadership and encouraging members used to fighting for black civil rights to demonstrate the same passionate concern for their gay and lesbian brothers and sisters—and children. The next frontier for St. Philip’s: keep moving on LGBT welcome while building greater relationship with the poor community that now dominates their corner of sweet Harlem.

I think the cross over our altar says it all. You can’t tell if Jesus is being crucified, if he’s ascending or descending. What’s clear is that his arms are outstretched to embrace us all.

JOHN YORK, ST. BARTHOLOMEWS-ATLANTA

Tucked away in the land of blooming dogwoods, St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church in Atlanta, Georgia, is like a radically welcoming oasis. It bears all the marks of a healthy, suburban Atlanta parish—multi-building campus, more than 700 members on an average Sunday, thriving children’s programs—and one mark you might not expect: the first out gay rector called in the Diocese of Atlanta. That move took a lot of guts. It also took plenty of preparation; the community’s leaders had to carve out appropriate spaces for questions, storytelling, healing, venting, and even healthy departure before and after William “Mac” Thigpen’s arrival.

For years, St. Bart’s has made its mark by connecting with the people other churches might not, first creating a nightly shelter for homeless families in their own parish hall and then welcoming young adults tied to the nearby Emory University community for worship and leadership. Whatever they do, lay leader John York told me, they try to imagine how it speaks a fresh, liberating word about God. “We have this opportunity to say, ‘Not all churches are like the one you grew up in,’” said York, a Texan transplant who grew up Southern Baptist. “I think the cross over our altar says it all. You can’t tell if Jesus is being crucified, if he’s ascending or descending. What’s clear is that his arms are outstretched to embrace us all.”

The next frontier for St. Bart’s: extending the welcome and keeping people of color and people without the economic privilege most members take for granted.

Some of us were reluctant to open to the neighborhood. We worried about stealing. We needed to go through some change to become a place that wasn’t afraid of having “them” around.

NANCY CLAYPOOL, ST. PAUL’S-DULUTH

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Duluth, Minnesota, was once known by neighbors as “the fortress.” Duluth’s class stratifications run deep, and for most of the church’s history, a spot on St. Paul’s rolls went right along with a country club membership. Then the money drifted further east. Now St. Paul’s sits in one of America’s largest poor, white communities, with increasing numbers of people of color only adding to the complex mix.

St. Paul’s tried running from their neighborhood, usually preferring to “do for” their less privileged neighbors. The tide and the church’s attitude have turned decisively during the last decade. But they did more than open their doors to the poorer and more ethnically diverse neighborhood. They opened the doors and listened. Then they set up or revamped their own ministries according to what they heard. Slowly, this historically white and wealthy church has opened its lovely, historic building in order to house homegrown social ministries and provide ample meeting space to a variety of secular community social services. As long-time parishioner Nancy Claypool admitted, “Some of us were reluctant to open to the neighborhood. We worried about stealing. We needed to go through some change to become a place that wasn’t afraid of having ‘them’ around.”

Now the parish is building unprecedented new relationships with its community, tearing down the walls so that neighborhood children and their parents can adopt the church as their own. They have vibrant ministries with young adults and are even taking steps to break through midwestern cultural silence regarding the presence of gay and lesbian people. The next frontier for St. Paul’s: seeing to it that the poor children and families streaming inside during the week for various community ministries are welcomed as a consistent, empowered presence in the Sunday worship community.

Please, preach in Spanish and then offer the English translation. It compels me to pick up a new language because I want to make friends with all these other people around me.

DANIEL MOGBO, HOLY FAITH-INGLEWOOD

Over the years, Holy Faith Episcopal Church in Inglewood, California, has bent and stretched to accommodate its Los Angeles–area community. When Holy Faith was founded in 1911, the church was just like its community: white, reserved and wealthy. In the 1960s, blacks swept into Inglewood and whites swept out of the neighborhood and, at a slower pace, out of the church. It took another two decades, but by the early 1990s, Holy Faith was half white and half black. Within a decade, Nigerians and Latinos arrived and made their mark, turning an integrated parish into a multicultural one.

With every change, members have struggled visibly with racism and classism in order to incorporate the leadership, liturgical sensibilities and voices of the new community. Now they are learning how tough it is to keep performing the balancing act and to become a strong community (and not just several cultural groups that call the same building home). “The best times are when there’s a combined service,” Nigerian lay leader Daniel Mogbo told me. “I hope we do that more often. Please, preach in Spanish and then offer the English translation. It compels me to pick up a new language because I want to make friends with all these other people around me.” Mogbo said they have to keep pushing, keep engaging other cultures and opening more fully to the discomfort of doing or hearing something new in the liturgy and leadership.

That’s what they got when they called Altagracia Perez as their new rector. The first woman called to the post, Perez is Puerto Rican and black and fully bilingual. Her leadership is far from conventional, by design. “I try to bring a different set of questions. Not just how do we get more people, but how do we share power, how do you create a culture that is flexible and fluid enough to be open, constantly evaluating and reorganizing based on the reality around you.” They will need those skills for the next frontier: welcoming the different socioeconomic backgrounds and cultures of their ever-evolving neighborhood.

One of the largest, most visible, progressive Episcopal churches in the country, All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena, California, hasn’t traveled an easy road toward radical welcome. On the surface, it looks simple. During the Vietnam War, All Saints served as a center for the faith-based peace movement. Throughout the more recent gay and lesbian liberation struggle, they have become a powerful voice urging the church to move from fear to hope. Many congregations look to them for direction on how to step out on social issues while growing in numbers and financial health. What they could never face was the race divide.

We’ve put so much energy into same-sex blessings and welcoming GLBT people, so now the boundaries are a little more permeable for everyone.

STEPHEN CHENEY-RICE, ALL SAINTS-PASADENA

Until now. Over the last few years, they’ve worked to build passion for the genuine inclusion of people of color, and to confront and transform systemic racism and classism throughout the congregation’s many sub-communities. According to lay leader Stephen Cheney-Rice, that’s the hardest work of all. “We’ve put so much energy into same-sex blessings and welcoming GLBT people, so now the boundaries are a little more permeable for everyone,” he said. “Still, at base, people don’t want to give up the goodies. There’s still an uncomfortable feeling when they talk about race or class.” Leaders have taken some bold, even controversial moves in order to jumpstart change at All Saints, and those efforts are finally bearing real fruit. The next frontier for All Saints: continue spreading the critical consciousness within the congregation and building relationships in and outside the congregation, without losing their size and powerful voice.

You can connect with people at a pub or a club. God has already been there. The question is, where will the church be? Jesus has gone ahead of us into Galilee. It’s time for us to go out and meet him there.

KAREN WARD, CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES-SEATTLE

At the other end of the spectrum stands Church of the Apostles, an emerging church in Seattle’s funky Fremont District. COTA welcomes about 70 people to their main Saturday evening worship gathering, held at their arts-center-cum-worship-space, the Fremont Abbey. If you hadn’t guessed, COTA is run by and for Generation-Xers (now in their thirties and early forties) and Millennials (now in their late teens and early twenties) and seekers of any age who yearn for postmodern, electronically savvy, “ancient-future” worship, and radical, authentic Christian living.

Karen Ward serves as midwife and spiritual mother to COTA. She came to Seattle in the 1990s and sold the Northwest Washington Lutheran Synod and the Episcopal Diocese of Olympia on her dream: to create a Christian community for a generation of seekers who were wounded by the church or have simply never darkened a church door. Like others in the “Emerging Church” movement, they are trying to get back to the source and create an authentic expression of church that honors Jesus’ call and the church’s ancient traditions and speaks the language of emerging generations and the cultures they inhabit. “Some people seem to think the Devil owns certain types of music, certain parts of the world, certain venues, and God doesn’t,” Ward told me. “Our theology says there’s only one God, and God is already out there, everywhere. So you can connect with people at a pub or a club. God has already been there. The question is, where will the church be? Jesus has gone ahead of us into Galilee. It’s time for us to go out and meet him there.”

COTA has a clear vision and a strong commitment to building lay leaders who think of themselves as urban monks and apostles of Christ. The next frontier for this emergent community: convincing larger church bodies to invest in the church of the future, and convincing Seattle’s secular culture that church matters.

As you can see, radical welcome manifests differently in every congregation, mostly because we all have different centers, different margins, different contexts in which we operate. And yet, even as these congregations vary widely in their demographics, liturgical styles, social contexts, and even theologies, they share a hard-won commitment to open to the often painful process of transformation. They’ve sought guidance, engaged in careful discernment and offered each other the gift of patience. They’ve directed their energy outward—out to the community, out to God—and it has enriched their internal lives beyond measure. They’ve listened to each other, to their surrounding community, to the faithful witness of generations past, and then set a course for the future. God’s future.