It is unfashionable in an era of pluralism to claim that the church holds unique power to save. But it is certain that the church exists to connect humanity to our Creator. The church holds language, story, tradition, and ritual that can be effective against idolatry. The church is far from perfect. Many, many times in our past we have fallen prey to idolatry ourselves. We have failed to be an obedient church;3 we have not loved God with our whole heart.4 But inherent to our core purpose is the language of sin, confession, redemption, absolution, and grace. This language is a gift both the church and the world desperately need to make sense of our current predicament.
We have sinned and fallen short of the grace of God. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. As a result, our planet is in peril. The good news is that God, in God’s mercy, knows our sinfulness and has provided us a means of salvation in Jesus Christ. We left Eden a long time ago. God came to join us outside its gates. Now, as we turn to Christ and offer our lives for his service, God enables us to become stewards of Creation.
The stewardship of Creation begins with a renewal of religion. Science exists to teach us facts. Religion provides a language of reverence. A language of reverence leads to a practice of reverence. And the practice of reverence—the recognition that each day we walk on holy ground—is what our planet needs.
My first journey into the decision-making process that shapes my church’s governance was at the Episcopal Church’s General Convention in 2012. It happened to be in Indianapolis, which was an easy drive away. I was curious: what was this gathering like? I signed up to go as a guest for a portion of the meeting. And that’s how I found myself in the visitor’s gallery of the House of Deputies on July 10, 2012.
The General Convention of the Episcopal Church is a huge event. It combines more than a thousand people meeting for the church’s business—over 800 clergy and laity, and over 300 bishops.1 Add exhibitors, volunteers, and guests, and it can be overwhelming. I wasn’t quite sure how to navigate it, but I wanted to know how my church made decisions. So I spent some time watching the decision-making body where I felt most at home: the House of Deputies, where laity and clergy deliberate and decide on the resolutions that govern our common life. On July 10, while I sat in the gallery, Resolution C-095 (Structural Reform) came before that house.
Imagine a vast room the size of a few soccer fields filled with almost a thousand people. Imagine them all facing one direction, sitting at long tables of eight, looking toward a few raised tables of meeting facilitators, note takers, and parliamentarians. Imagine podiums scattered throughout the room with microphones and cameras. Imagine huge screens with the face of whoever is speaking on that screen—because the room is so large that without a screen, a person’s face would be the size of a peanut. Imagine a gallery to the side with another fifty or so people in chairs, watching the floor of the House, where the credentialed voters—elected by their dioceses—make choices for the church’s future. I was in that gallery, watching that huge floor of deputies, still wondering how this all worked.
Structural Reform
Resolution C095 (Structural Reform)2 came before the House of Deputies in the customary way. It was passed by a diocese at their convention, then considered and revised by a legislative committee of General Convention. But even though it went through an ordinary process, it was far from an ordinary resolution. It began, “Resolved … that this General Convention believes the Holy Spirit is urging The Episcopal Church to reimagine itself.” It called for the appointment of a Task Force “to present the 78th General Convention with a plan for reforming the Church’s structures, governance, and administration.” And it concluded, “Surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” ( Jer. 29:11).
In the gallery, I leaned forward. What kind of discussion would this be? What would be decided?
Because the House had a time limit, discussion was short. A proposed amendment regarding the makeup of the task force took up most of the time available. Without real conversation on the resolution, it was difficult to tell what might happen. Would a majority of the House of Deputies support the statement that God was calling the church to a new vision? Would the church’s leadership embrace creating a task force that could seek to change many established aspects of our common life?
President Bonnie Anderson called for prayer before the vote.3 The House hushed for communion with God, then took a voice vote. The “ayes” were resounding. When the “nays” were called, there was silence. Among more than eight hundred people, not a single “nay” was heard.4 As people realized what had happened, a ripple of surprise went through the crowd. The Episcopal News Service later reported that the vote “stunned deputies and visitors alike.”5
“The Holy Spirit is urging The Episcopal Church to reimagine itself.” In the gallery, I rejoiced. I knew we needed a newly invigorated Episcopal Church—and other newly invigorated churches as well—to serve the work of God in the world.
Conversion Matters
For the first twenty-two years of my life, I didn’t know there was a way to be seriously Christian that included a historical reading of scripture, the acceptance of multiple human authors of a divinely inspired Bible, a willingness to be wrong, a recognition of multiple religions as worthy of respect, and an openness to all people using their gifts in leadership. Somehow in my nonreligious childhood I picked up the impression that the vast majority of Christians were narrow-minded bigots who rejected science, believed the Bible fell from the sky as the literal word of God, adhered to it slavishly at the cost of their capacity for critical thinking, promoted the supremacy of white men as the only legitimate leaders, and condemned most of the world to hell.
My parents didn’t teach me to think about Christianity this way; these were simply vague impressions I formed as a young person in the 1980s. Because I wasn’t raised in any religion, my view of Christianity was from the outside looking in. I could only hear the loudest Christian voices, which were often voices of condemnation. Quieter, more moderate Christian voices existed; they just didn’t reach my less than fully attentive ears.
It took going to seminary—a seeker who discovered the Unitarian Universalist Association and was called to ordained ministry—to teach me that there was more than one way to be a Christian. When I entered Harvard Divinity School, I believed in God, but I didn’t know what I believed about God. By the time I left, I was a baptized Christian. It would take me another decade to become an Episcopalian, in part because I first encountered the Episcopal Church reading books, not talking to people. Reading Madeleine L’Engle got me through high school, but it took another decade before I met any actual people belonging to her faith tradition who talked with me about their religion, much less invited me to church.
My whole conversion story is outside the scope of this book, but one portion is essential. In seminary I was assigned to read The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity by Jon D. Levenson (Yale University Press, 1995). Because a distinguished professor who practiced Orthodox Judaism wrote it, I couldn’t dismiss it as the work of one of those science-rejecting Christians. I picked it