Confirmed
It was a big weekend for me. On Saturday, I turned 40. I don’t really feel any different, but, I suppose like most people, I kind of figured things would be a little better than they actually are. It isn’t that things are bad. Far from it. But forty seems so old for most of our lives that I just always figured I’d at least have a clear career path ahead of me.
Sunday I was confirmed as a member of the Episcopal Church by the Bishop. This is now the fourth denomination I have joined, but the first by confirmation. I was baptised as a child into the Churches of Christ, which is not the same thing as the United Church of Christ, the Church of Christ, Science, Church of Christ (Disciples), or any other similarly named sect. Which means that it is difficult to identify unless you know what to look for. If you find a church that bans musical instruments (other than voice) in the sanctuary, practices full immersion baptism after public confession and profession, and holds that each congregation is an autonomous and independently functioning body of worship; then you might be in the right place. But don’t bet on it – they wouldn’t like that.
I always say that I moderated to Southern Baptist as an adult, but “moderation” isn’t really the right word. The Churches of Christ are not really that far out there – at least, in theological terms, they are only slightly more “out there” than the Baptists. But it should also be pointed out that Southern Baptist churches were historically non-creedal up until the last two decades or so. The Dominionist movement has sought to change that, and it has been, to some extent, successful. I’m not sure how much Dominionism has to do with my falling out over the issue of abortion, but I was pretty well tired of being told “I’ll pray for you” in a tone that said, “You poor misguided bastard.”
After a while, I began to attend a United Methodist Church in Corpus Christi, and eventually joined that denomination. The UMC has a history of being very active social faction, reaching back to the Wesley brothers’ determination to start a new church if the Anglican church would not reform. In some sense, John Wesley is to the Anglican Church what Martin Luther was to the Catholic. The Methodist Church is guided by The Book of Discipline, which they periodically review and update. Much to my consternation, they have moved away from confronting the issues of our day – abortion and equal status for gay members.
So I found the Episcopal Church, not totally by accident. My wife and I were searching for a church where the two of us would be equally at home and feel comfortable raising our children. The Episcopal Church’s reputation as being “Catholic Lite” meant that it was a familiar enough setting for her to feel comfortable – though she noted that “The Apostle’s Creed” was renamed as “The Nicean Creed”. But what really drew us in, and what keeps us coming back, is the people we found waiting for us.
Our congregation is quietly revolutionary, and that suits us just fine. Our pastor lent his name to sue the state of New Jersey to give marriage rights to gay couples (he won the rights, but not the name of “marriage” – progress comes in stages). When our boys were baptized, they also received both a Jewish and Islamic blessing. Heck, they even let dogs in – at least on occasion. They’re okay with the former-Catholic members’ slight hang-up on Mary, the mother of Jesus. They’re as okay with a literal interpretation of scripture as they are with my much more progressive interpretation – so long as it has personal meaning and isn’t imposed on any who come near.
And they genuinely love my family. When the boys bumrush the aisle during the sermon, there are a few snickers and knowing winks as parents of older children remember their own battles. But there has never been a snide comment or even so much as a glare for the children using their voices at whatever inappropriate time they feel moved to do so. We greet each other with warm hugs, cheek-kisses, or sometimes just a wave or a nod. But we were accepted as surely as if there had been a Hart-family-shaped hole that no one had ever seen before we showed up.
They even bore my joking when, after my wife asked if I needed to pick a Confirmation name, I asked if I could use either “Pontias Pilate” or “Herod” (actually, I was asked, “Why not Judas?”). The ceremony itself was somewhat non-climactic, but the reaction from my new congregation was anything but. Had there been any doubts that this was where my family belongs, they would have been dispelled entirely.
The Bishop did have a few good points, and I’ve been chewing on them for a few days. When they stop tasting, I’ll spit them out and let the world know how I feel about them. For now, I’ll just say that I appreciate his presence, but it was really the smiling presence of Mark Lewis bobbling about in a joyous bundle of energy that made the day for me. Well, that, and everyone else in the building. How can I possibly explain what it meant to glimpse an elderly member standing silently with my sleeping son in her arms when the Bishop asked for those who would sponsor my Confirmation? Why was my heart overjoyed when Joseph awoke in my arms during Communion just in time to hear the offeratory hymn? Why did my wife and I reach for each other’s hands as we stood before the congregation?
Well, because I was Confirmed, and she was Received (they accepted her Catholic Confirmation). To be perfectly honest, I can’t imagine two words that feel more appropriate for what happened that day. Confirmed. Received.
Home.
Sphere: Related Content
Where I Blog
NJ News
National News