In 'Christianity for the Rest of Us', Dianna Butler-Bass points out that one of the practices of healthy congregations is the sharing of personal stories of faith. I think this is a very sensible idea, one with the deepest kinds of Christian roots. So I was not too surprised when Fr. Paul asked if I would do this. I hope that the practice flourishes here, as I look forward to hearing more of your stories.

So far, my own spiritual adventure has been pretty predictable. As a child, growing up in the Catholic church, my spiritual training was pretty much what you would expect. Sunday school classes, catechism classes, and serving as a altar boy. Back then, we were altar boys, because girls weren't allowed. During that time I developed a familiarity and comfort with the liturgy. The rhythm of speech and song, private reflection and communal prayer, all the stage presence of all the wonderful forms of language - it all impressed on my young mind that something big was going on - not that I really understood much of it. I was raised and confirmed Roman Catholic, trained in the catechisms that crystallized so much religious thought. I memorized many prayers, and memorized a whole list of questions and answers about faith and religion, but what I learned was really twofold. First, all the right answers had already been worked out for me, and second, that only certain types of questions were allowed. I could never reconcile the clear reality of God's gift of my reason and freewill if all the answers had been worked out, and if everything was proceeding according to God's secret plan.

When I was a little older, as a rebellious teenager, I was lucky to hear the gospel at St. Casimir's in Winona. St. Casimir's was a tiny brick church, presided over by Fr. Speck, one of those wonderful old priests who refused to retire, because he was doing what he loved best. At that time, the congregation at St. Casimir's was an old one; and by that I mean that they would have envied the youth and vitality St. George's enjoys today. It was not the sort of energetic, upbeat place that you would expect to capture the imagination of a teenager. Rather, it was Fr. Speck's love for, and explanation of the gospels that made services so engaging. He never told us what the readings or gospel meant, not in the sense of presenting the approved interpretation, instead, he would explain those elements that were foreign to our modern ears, removing the stumbling blocks between the audience and the author. His goal was always to 'make straight the way of the Lord', so that we could more easily hear God speaking through the texts. To me, this was a novel style of preaching and scripture study. It appealed to my inquisitive mind, and it left the way open for God to speak to my world in new ways. This was not simply retelling old tales to re - enforce the rules.

But I was much too young to take any of this so seriously at the time, to think about it much beyond Sunday mornings. By the time I headed off to college, and life on my own, I figured that I had pretty much left organized religion behind.

During my bright college days, I was exposed to a wider world and a more complex universe than my dim recollections of the Boston Catechisms could contain. There was much in the modern world that was clearly good, but the church of my childhood had not been able to come to terms with: for example, feminism - the radical notion that women are human beings. I also watched narrow fundamentalism gaining ground, preaching simplistic authoritarian doctrine. This at the same time that I was learning more and more about a universe that provided elegant evidence of a Creator more sophisticated, subtle and amazing than any literal creation story could explain.

But still, I was too distracted by life and all it's busy-ness to take any of this too seriously. When that wonderful time came that Rachelle and I were seeking a minister to officiate at our wedding, I was too thrilled by the whole idea to be much upset that we did not meet the strict admissions criteria for marriage in the Catholic church.

It was not until Addia was born that I felt any need to start putting together the pieces of my own spiritual life. I was totally unprepared for the intensity of feeling I would have for her. I could rationalize the emotional attachment of parent to offspring, calculate the biological benefits to the species afforded by certain instinctive behaviors - but none of that meant anything anymore. The reality of the fierce, protective love I felt for this child was and is overwhelming. To realize that this new capacity was within me was bewildering. To sense that this awesome love I was feeling was only a dim reflection, a feeble hint at the love God bears for each of us - that was transformative.

As Addia grew, and when Evan arrived, I was busy with the tasks faced by any parent, but I began to see the problem of free will in a new light. Like most parents, I wanted to keep my little ones safe from everything. We baby-proofed the house, set up the baby monitors, and strapped them into everything: car seats; shopping carts; strollers; changing tables; eventually even helmets and elbow pads. It dawned on me that the only way to make them completely safe would be to hide them away from life; to make all their decisions for them, in short, to strip them of their reason and free will. I have to accept that for them to be free to be all that they can be, they must be free to make mistakes. If I can barely stand to see them fall and scrape a knee, how much more must an all knowing God suffer from all of our poor choices?

Reading the Christmas story to Addia - a few years too early - I was trying to explain to her that while Christ's birth, life, death and resurrection were all miraculous, an even greater miracle was this - that it was all done uniquely and specifically for her. Not for Mommy or Daddy or Evan, but just special for her, because God loves her so much. But at the same time, here's another miracle - it's also specially just for Mommy and Daddy and Evan and everyone in the whole world in just the same way. As I struggled to find the words to explain, I was also struggling with a difficult realization. It is very easy for me to accept that God loves my kids, but much more difficult to think that God loves me too. I realized that I needed help with ideas so big.

So we set out to find a church home, eventually enticed to St. G's by elements we found on the website: a welcoming congregation, supervised nursery, and a way cool dragon. Evidently we found something that kept us coming back. The liturgy was traditional enough to sound right to my critical ear, the welcome we received was genuine, the donuts were excellent, but most importantly, the theology was lively and progressive in the best sense. It has taken me time to come to appreciate the significance of the empty cross that hangs above our altar; growing up, I took the symbolism of the crucifix for granted. Here at St. George's I see the difference made by emphasis on the empty cross, the empty tomb, the full, glorious life in the risen Christ. I feel as though I've turned a page, from fixation on our human unworthiness and shameful sin, to redemption, joy, forgiveness, grace; to abundant life.

That is the good news we have to proclaim to our troubled world. God seeks relationship with each of us, constantly offering us opportunities; just as he did for doubting Thomas. He ever provides us the provocation to faith we need, never giving up on us, ever willing to let us fail, ever hoping to see us succeed. I think the world is ready to hear such a hopeful message. I believe we are facing multiple crises in our time, political, economic, and environmental. Our country is floundering through a time of momentous, radical change; a time when sensible voices of well reasoned belief are desperately needed. Now is not the time for us to close up shop, shaking our heads at how quickly things changed. This is our moment to live out our boldest Christian Episcopal traditions, to share our best visions of what the world can be; to shine forth - the living body of Christ at work in this world.