Moreover, there is only so much to being a parish priest. You preach, teach, pray, offer the sacraments, visit the sick, evangelize, write, offer counsel and spiritual direction, lead stewardship campaigns, meet with neighbors, support colleagues, attend various meetings, and so on. Nobody is reinventing the wheel, and I’d be suspicious of anyone claiming to do so. Much the same can be said for the local church. A church is a church. There are certain things we do and other things we generally don’t do, and drastic reinventions are likely to be met with suspicion.

It is easy enough for a church, or a pastor, to keep doing what churches and pastors do. That’s generally not bad advice, and for some churches and pastors it is very likely good advice. It can also be worthwhile to think more intentionally about this. Who are we and who is God calling us to be here and now?

I am approaching two years of service in a new parish, in a new city, in a new country. Moving from a two-point rural parish in Ontario, Canada, to an urban parish in Orlando, Florida, fresh off the heels of COVID has provided a good opportunity for me, a pastor, and them, parishioners, to ask, Who are we? Who is God calling us to be? Not “the church” generally, but Emmanuel Episcopal Church specifically.

One thing I learned early on in my ministry here is that Emmanuel was planted in 1953 as a self-consciously low-church parish. Self-consciously, that is, in relation to two neighboring parishes that were, at the time anyway, higher up the candlestick. Planting a new, low-church mission in the 1950s entailed some distinct theological and liturgical convictions. For one, Holy Communion was decidedly not celebrated every Sunday, but once a month. The remaining Sundays were Morning Prayer. The founding cleric was Mr. Cooper. That’s Mister, not Father. And the church, once completed in 1964, was beautiful but simple in its design and ornamentation.

Over time much of this changed, as you might expect. In the 1980s, an influential cleric arrived who went by “Father” and who immediately implemented weekly Communion. At some point thereafter candles were placed on the altar, chasubles donned, and an aumbry was even installed for reserving the sacrament. Today, Emmanuel isn’t unlike many other Episcopal churches in the diocese or around the country. While there remain a few truly high and low churches, most of us have ended up somewhere in the middle. The liturgical renewal movement won the day, more or less.

Nevertheless, Emmanuel was planted as a low-church parish. That is a matter of fact. Therefore, one question I’ve been asking myself and revisiting quite a bit in the last 18 months is, “What in our low-church DNA might provide insight for the present and fuel for the future?” In other words, how does who we were shape who we are and influence who we might become? I confess that I do not yet have a concrete answer, but two things have begun to bubble to the surface.

The first is a theological conviction about the Word of God, by which I mean Holy Scripture. Traditionally low-church worship was Word-based in a way that differed from the sacramental worship of higher liturgical expressions. I know these lines have become a bit blurred over the decades, and that’s probably a good thing. Some of the best gospel sermons I’ve heard preached were from Anglo-Catholic pulpits! Nevertheless, this conviction says something.

Practically, this has influenced my preaching, which has taken on more of a Reformed accent. Don’t get me wrong — in the heat of August I preached for four weeks on John 6 and most certainly pointed folks to the bread and wine of Holy Communion whenever I could. But I would also say that I have become more intentional about framing the gospel as good news for weary sinners, highlighting at any opportunity the great Reformed doctrine of justification by faith alone, which is, need I remind my fellow Episcopalians, “a most wholesome Doctrine, and very full of comfort” (Article XI).

We cannot overemphasize the degree to which the salvation of humankind is asymmetrical, that is, a work of God alone and not of man at all, unless that man is the God-man, Jesus Christ. But I digress. My point is that this approach to preaching, this theological emphasis, was historically championed by low-church congregations like the one I now serve. That’s a thread worth pulling on, at least for us.

Another way the “Who are we?” question is influencing my ministry is in mission and evangelism. Of course, every church began in some way, but Emmanuel began relatively recently in a storefront on North Mills Avenue. Mission is at the heart of every church because it is at the heart of the Church, but I feel this acutely at Emmanuel.

Our founders decided that our neighborhood needed a new church, and Emmanuel was born in rather inconspicuous form. They wanted to reach new people with the good news of Jesus Christ. And they did. Mission is in the DNA of Emmanuel. Surely this is something that would benefit from renewed intention and attention now, 70 years later? I think so. After all, if we don’t desperately want to see people converted by the power of the Holy Spirit, to repent and put their trust in Jesus, committing to follow him each day, then is it really the gospel we believe?

Coinciding with this, our parish has begun some work in vision and mission, to be followed with a strategic plan. This work is already bearing fruit in our parish, and we’ve only started. The real merit of this work is the way it prompts people to think more intentionally about what we tend to take for granted. That is tremendously important in itself, because things that “go without saying” tend to become things that we forget how to say. It’s worth remembering and relearning to say that which goes without saying.

Some of the questions we have been asking together include: Who are we (history)? What do you love about Emmanuel? What is something Emmanuel has done in the last two years that you’re proud of? What are the pressing (existential and other) issues facing Central Floridians today? And so on. All of this is with an eye to another question I’ve mentioned: Who is God calling us to be? Along with this, we will think strategically about a plan that outlines priorities, emphases, and things we will focus on in the next two to five years. These will be held lightly, of course, but they will provide guidance.

It’s easy for pastors and churches to “do what we do” and as a result a certain forgetfulness or apathy can enter the equation. It is from time to time, therefore, helpful to think more intentionally as a congregation about who we are, and the work God has entrusted to us in this place at this time. The answers probably won’t be brand-new, but asking the questions together may well spark a renewed sense of energy and vocation. Or so I hope.

I don’t mean to suggest you will make it through 2024 without sinning, but perhaps you, Christian, can sin less this year than last. It is, after all, possible to progress and become more proficient in the Christian life. Indeed, this is precisely what we are so encouraged by in the lives of the saints. Saints are not those who no longer sin but those who sin less because the life and love of God are coming more fully alive in them.

An important caveat here is provided by the prayer book: apart from the grace of God in Christ, we can do “no good thing” (Collect for the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany). In other words, apart from the quickening and strengthening of the Holy Spirit, our attempts to move Godward are ultimately in vain, as a plant locked away in a dark room is unable to reach the light of the sun.

However, by the grace of God a window has been opened and a new light has come pouring in. Touched by its radiance and warmth, we now may grow toward its source. Christians are not perfect peaches, but they are new creatures made so by the grace of God in the sacrament of holy baptism. Indeed, “the old has passed away, behold, the new has come,” says Paul (2 Cor. 5:17).

Now the word of God is a light to lighten the path. Now we are enabled and empowered to keep his statutes and walk in his ways. Now we can learn to submit our will to the will of the Father, as Christ in the garden did, and pray, “Almighty and everlasting God, give unto us the increase of faith, hope, and charity; and, that we may obtain that which thou dost promise, Make us to love that which thou dost command” (Collect for Proper 25). Having been made regenerate, it is now possible for us to choose the good, having our will stirred by the Holy Spirit.

There is a scene in the middle of The Lord of the Rings that provides a fitting illustration. In The Fellowship of the Ring, Frodo had received a gift from Galadriel, “the greatest of elven women,” in the form of a phial containing the light of Eärendil’s star. “It will shine still brighter when night is about you,” says Galadriel. “May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

Shift to the end of The Two Towers, when Frodo indeed found himself in a dark place. He felt a great pressure to put on the ring. It was as if his will had been subdued by some power outside of himself. He felt his hand move, little by little, toward the ring hanging about his neck. “Then his own will stirred; slowly it forced the hand back and set it to find another thing, a thing lying hidden near his breast,” and his grip closed around the phial of Galadriel. “As he touched it, for a while all thought of the Ring was banished from his mind” (The Two Towers, p. 396; emphasis added).

In a moment of great temptation, Frodo felt his will stirred, and was able to resist by setting his mind, and hand, on “another thing,” a good thing. It was sufficient for him to recollect the promise of Galadriel. So too the Christian, when confronted with temptation, may resist by a stirring of her will — an act of recollection — enabling her to reach for some other thing, a token of a promise.

F.P. Harton has written about the importance of recollection for the Christian life, which he describes as the conscious movement of the soul toward God. “No soul can expect to be led of the Spirit … if he allow large parts of his life to pass without any conscious movement towards God. One needs to be more than a Sunday Christian … one needs the growing practice of recollection which fills all life with God and makes it a continual prayer” (Elements of the Spiritual Life, 84).

Likewise, Martin Thornton, influenced by Harton, describes recollection as the “practice of the presence of God.” There are two types of recollection, he says: habitual and actual. Habitual recollection is a constant state of the soul: “The state of permanent God-centredness wherein the presence of God is known, felt or realized continuously and without major interruption” (Christian Proficiency, 60). Though often subconscious, this state colors the whole of life. However, according to Thornton, this state is “the highest degree of proficiency to which we can normally hope to attain,” and therefore difficult to come by.

Furthermore, most of us exist in a state of habitual distraction. If we’re honest, our souls are a mess of interests, thoughts, emotions, and desires that we are hopeless to straighten out, despite our best intentions and New Year’s resolutions. Ultimately it is the work of the Holy Spirit to bring order out of the chaos of our lives, and yet we can learn to cooperate with the grace of God. It is just here that actual recollection can be of great benefit.

Thornton describes actual recollection thus: “a discipline whereby momentary acts of prayer are made periodically throughout the working day.” Acts of recollection are those intentional and sometimes small acts whereby we consciously turn to God at regular times throughout our day. “It is a simple, momentary response to his ever-present love, a remembrance of his presence.” Such acts are one way to resist the habitually distracted state in which we find ourselves and to condition our souls toward habitual recollection instead, and thus are a good aim for the ordinary Christian.

Going to church is one such act of recollection. In a time when attending church once a month is considered regular, one can imagine the cumulative effect of attending twice and so doubling one’s exposure to the proclamation of the gospel in word and sacrament. Never mind prioritizing weekly church attendance even over family obligations and children’s sporting commitments.

But one needs to be more than a Sunday Christian, as Harton observed. After all, it’s so easy to forget about God in between. Other examples of actual recollection are things like saying grace before meals and other daily prayers (with your family, if you have one), reading the Bible devotionally, and keeping religious artifacts in the home or on the desk in one’s office.

For example, by the front door of our home hangs a crucifix. Small ceramic crosses hang over the doors of our children’s bedrooms, reminders as we come and go. A number of years ago in Bethlehem, I acquired a small cross made of olive wood that can be held in the hand. Most days I carry it with me in my pocket. I’m not often conscious of it, but throughout the day I will notice it and thus it serves as a reminder of the ever presence of God and I am able, even for a moment in the midst of a busy day, to turn my attention to him.

The precise form and practice of this matters little and can be tailored to each individual’s particular circumstances, so long as the effect is the recollection of Christ. I am able to say Morning Prayer each day in our parish chapel while someone else may be prohibited because of a job. However, that same person could make the sign of the cross each morning while getting out of bed or say the Lord’s Prayer as work begins. Even small acts done with intention a few times throughout the day can make a big difference in the course of a week, a year, a life.

If you’re new to this, it may at first feel forced or artificial, but it can very quickly become spontaneous and delightful. Moreover, it is not difficult to imagine how these acts of recollection could change one’s life for the better, leading to a deeper sense of living in the presence of God. Imagine going about your day with a growing awareness of the Holy Spirit’s presence. How would that affect the decisions you make and the temptations you face? I suspect that one would be less inclined to give into temptation and sin if one were conscious of being in the presence of the living God.

This will take courage, to be sure, and the devil would rather you not. But next time you are faced with temptation and feel you are at the crossroads once again, choose the good. Feel the Holy Spirit stirring your will and then set your hand to find another thing, a good thing, a thing that will remind you of the faithfulness and nearness of God. Then do it again. And again. In 2024, chose godliness.

Critics seemingly missed this entirely. For example, the word love appears nowhere in reviews for The New Yorker, Variety, and The Guardian. Nick Allen of RogerEbert.com mentions love twice, but only to describe the love story of the two protagonists. On the other hand, Richard Brody of The New Yorker rather hilariously sees the film as quiet counsel to liberal progressives to capitulate to right-wing conspiracists, lest they destroy the world: “The drama that Shyamalan pursues is how reasonable and well-intentioned people can and should respond to possessed destroyers who hold them hostage.”

The film is set at an isolated cabin in the woods, where a gay couple — Eric and Andrew — are vacationing with their adopted Chinese daughter, Wen. Suddenly they are happened upon by four strangers, previously unknown to each other, who have been brought together for a purpose: to convince Eric and Andrew to save the world.

The family of three must make a choice. If they voluntarily sacrifice one member of their family, the world will be saved. If they do not, the world will perish altogether, though the family will survive, left to wander a devastated and desolate planet.

C.S. Lewis describes four loves, but essentially there are two forms of love. There is a love that is self-seeking, which desires to preserve not only the self but those who are sufficiently like the self: family, race, class, nation. Recent conversations touching on Christian nationalism come to mind here. We love our own and want to preserve our own.

In the film this is represented at first by both Eric and Andrew, who are immediately opposed to the offer presented to them. This is perhaps a natural instinct (at least under the dominion of sin), but the film reveals such love for what it is in the end: entirely desolate and without hope.

That the main protagonists are gay serves as a rhetorical device to emphasize this point. Shyamalan tips viewers off to this early in the film, when one of the four strangers voices his surprise at discovering a gay couple in the cabin. That it is a same-sex couple drives home the weight of the predicament in a way that a heterosexual couple would not.

If the protagonists were an opposite-sex couple, and their choice was to preserve their own lives, a glimmer of hope for the world would remain, for there would be the possibility of repopulating. Hope lives. But a same-sex couple heightens the tension by rendering any such hope vain. Sure, the family may choose to live, but for how long?

In this way, Shyamalan’s film underscores the final futility of a love that is merely self-seeking. There can be no justification for such love, which leads only to a hopeless end. It can only fall to the ground and die. “Those who save their life will lose it,” Jesus says. “If you love your mother and father more than me, you cannot be my disciple.”

Opposed to a self-preserving love, there is a self-offering love. Spoiler alert: As the film draws to a close, Eric determines to be the sacrifice that will save the world. Otherwise, he wonders, “What sort of world would that be for Wen?” Eric realizes that his love for Wen requires not his self-preservation but his self-offering. For her sake, yes, but for the life of the world.

This is less a natural instinct, yet the film too reveals such love for what it is in the end: true love, pure love, love purged of all that is not, the love that alone is credible, the love that remains. There can be no hope at all apart from such love. “Those who save their life will lose it, but those who lose their life for my sake will find it,” Jesus says.

In The Elements of the Spiritual Life, F.P. Harton distinguishes between a natural love and the supernatural gift of a charity that “regulates, redirects, and elevates” love. Love comes naturally to us, but charity is a gift and consequence of divine grace at work in the soul. “The motive of Love is the possession of a created good, while that of Charity is self-oblation to God,” Harton writes. “The object of Charity is the love of God for Himself and of creatures as the reflection of His infinite Being.”

On this note, Harton directs our attention to St. Bernard, who in De diligendo Deo distinguishes four degrees of love. Our love begins from the flesh because we are carnal. But, under the guidance of grace, our love can advance until at the last it is consummated and perfected by the Spirit. So man begins by loving himself for his own sake. At a certain point, however, he realizes that he is not alone and begins by faith to seek God. He loves God, but for his own sake, not for God. But by grace progress is made in the spiritual life and man enters into a deeper knowledge and experience of God. He begins to taste and see that the Lord is good in himself, not simply insofar as he benefits man. The fourth and final degree of love, according to Bernard, which he doubts anyone can attain in this life, is that “a man love himself only for the love of God.”

Knock at the Cabin is an interesting film in that it confronts us with this startling reality: only love — elevated and perfected by divine grace — can save the world. This love is rightly and perfectly ordered toward God and then everything else, even the self, in relation and proportion to him. Anything less not only falls short but is ultimately the source of chaos in the world.

“The trouble with human nature,” Ashley Null writes, “is that we are born with a heart that loves ourselves over and above everything else in this world, including God. In short, we are born slaves to the lust for self-gratification. That’s why, if left to ourselves, we will always love those things that make us feel good about ourselves, even as we depart more and more from God and his ways. Therefore, God must intervene in our lives in order to bring salvation.”

In the film, Eric begins to ascend from a merely natural love of the self/world for its own sake to a love that is being transformed by grace, such that he is willing, in the end, to sacrifice himself for the life of the world. But how does he get there? God(?) intervenes.

In one pivotal and mysterious scene, typical of Shyamalan, Eric sees a glimpse of a figure in light. This scene comes at the 30-minute mark, or about one-third of the way into the film. For the next 30 minutes, the suspense continues to build until when Eric has his epiphany: “I think I saw something, Andrew. … I think I saw a person, or a figure.” “Where’d you see a figure?” asks one of the intruders. “In the light behind you. In the reflection in the mirror.”

Shyamalan gives us no more than this, but reflecting theologically, we can say that it is only an encounter, no matter how momentary, with the divine light made manifest in Christ Jesus that can draw us out of our self-interested love toward a love that is a gift, a love that desires only God, a love that can save the world and indeed has. Following the triptych of the film, we can say that the goal of every human life is to be drawn out of itself into the life of the Holy and Blessed Trinity.

Addendum: On Pastoring at the End of the World

I’ve been thinking about this recently in terms of my vocation as a pastor and shepherd of the flock. To be a rector of a parish still has a certain prestige to it, at least where I am in the American South. It’s a position of privilege and honor. People look to you for guidance and insight. It’s easy, therefore, to develop a heightened sense of one’s importance. We want the prestige, we want the respect, we want to ascend the ranks. We aspire to greatness in the eyes of the world. At least I do, if I’m honest.

Of course pastors must lead and make important decisions. Some, perhaps, might even have podcasts and write for a broader audience. But the church needs servants, and that’s what a rector is. The goal of the pastor is always to serve. There is nothing in the life of the church (from plunging toilets to washing dishes) that is beneath you. In fact, you must embrace the most menial of tasks humbly and with joy — even, especially, when it is unnoticed. To be last and least. To preach the gospel, die, and be forgotten. To descend to the bottom of the pile of humanity that is your parish: that’s the calling because that’s where Christ is to be found, inviting us to join him there in perfect love.

The same too can be said of any church. What do we want to be known for? Great preaching! An enviable choral program! A booming ministry to children and young families! A social media presence that puts others to shame! Why? Usually for our sake, if we are being honest. We want God insofar as he is useful (and beneficial) to us. But to love God for himself, and to love ourself only for his sake, is the vocation of the church in any place. A descent to the bottom of the parish, where Christ is. A church that is being perfected for the sake of the world. A church that is learning to die early for the sake of neighbor. A church that gives itself away. This characterizes the divine love that is both gift and vocation, the love that will save the world.

What makes for a good pastor? Is there a metric by which we could discern good pastors from bad? Could we even know? These questions were on my mind as Good Shepherd Sunday, as we fondly call the fourth Sunday in Easter, came and went once again. And I think there’s much to learn from them still, even after we’ve left Eastertide behind for another year. Good Shepherd Sunday is, of course, about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, but it also provides an opportunity to reflect on what makes for a good shepherd.

As a parent of young children, I spend ample time at playgrounds. Our current favorite is one we recently discovered up the road and around the corner from our home. Shortly after we arrived, a neighboring school let out and very quickly it got loud and lively. Children running about laughing and playing and screaming. Parents chasing them, huddled about having conversations, or sitting on a bench having a quiet moment with their phone.

When it was finally time to leave, I stood at the edge of the playground and yelled, “Turtles! It’s time to go!” Out they popped from behind slides and swings and climbing structures, and off we went. Not without petitions to stay longer, of course. My point is that when their father, who they know and love, calls them, they are able to recognize his voice even among the cacophony of racket and competing voices that you find at a busy playground on a sunny day after school has let out.

This is a bit like what Jesus is describing in the parable of the Good Shepherd (John 10). It’s a parable about competing voices, about the ability to distinguish between these voices, to discern the voice of the shepherd and to flee from the voice of the imposter, the thief and the bandit: “The sheep follow [the shepherd] because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers” (4-5).

So, we have a sheepfold, presumably surrounded by a fence, with a gate and a gatekeeper, and we have sheep. We also have people who enter the sheepfold, though not all by the same way. The shepherds who love the sheep and who know them all by name have come in by the gate. Then there are the thieves and bandits, who have come in another way.

Here, perhaps, is a metric by which we can measure church leaders. A good leader, a true pastor, is one who has entered the sheepfold by the gate, by Christ. Well, what does that mean? I think it means a few things.

For one, it means the shepherd knows these sheep ultimately belong to the Good Shepherd. Immediately after referring to himself as “the gate,” Jesus changes the metaphor ever so slightly so that he is no longer “the gate” but “the good shepherd.” And this Good Shepherd entrusts his sheep to the care of other shepherds that he has sent. In fact, this is how John’s gospel ends. The risen Jesus restores Simon Peter and gives him a command: “Feed my sheep.” Peter is now a shepherd who has been given a share in the work of the Good Shepherd. True shepherds are sent with the authority of the Good Shepherd, and they know that their job is to care for the sheep entrusted to them, to nurture them in the faith, not to use them for an agenda.

That brings me to my second point. Good shepherds have only one agenda: to proclaim Christ crucified (1 Cor. 1:23). That’s it. That’s the agenda: Jesus Christ, who lived, died, rose, ascended, and is coming again as judge. It is he whom we proclaim, says Saint Paul, teaching everyone to trust in his supreme goodness and mercy and warning everyone that apart from him nothing can stand (Col. 1:28). Every word that you hear from every bishop, priest, and teacher, if it is not a word that ultimately proclaims the  cross, it is not a word worth listening to. It is a worthless word and it will fall to the ground. Christ is the agenda. Nothing else.

Third, shepherds who know that the sheep entrusted to their care are not their own and whose only agenda is to preach Christ crucified therefore care deeply about the unity of the flock. They know that there is one shepherd in whose name they are sent and one flock for whom they are to care. As Jesus himself says, one of the characteristics of the Good Shepherd is that he gathers and unites (John 10:16), whereas the bandits and thieves scatter and sow dissension (John 10:12).

Bandits and thieves want followers even if it means scattering the flock; shepherds want followers of Jesus and are willing to suffer for it. When we hear competing voices within the Church, one question we must ask ourselves is this: Are these voices sowing dissension and scattering, or are they gathering people around the cross?

Fourth, and finally, good shepherds are willing to suffer the violence of others for the gospel because Jesus the Good Shepherd did just that, and it is he whom they follow. In the words of Saint Peter: “He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness” (1 Pet. 2:24).

The love of God in Christ is a suffering love that bears fruit. And Christ’s suffering for righteousness is our example (2:21). Therefore, those who cling to the gospel of Jesus Christ do not need to defend themselves when attacked, do not need to return the abuse, do not need to participate in posturing and threats, but need simply entrust themselves to God, who judges justly.

So if you’re taking notes, good shepherds who enter by the gate (1) know who the sheep belong to, (2) have one agenda, (3) care about the unity of the flock, and (4) are willing to suffer for the sake of love.

“And the sheep will follow him because they know his voice,” Jesus says. Sheep are not dumb. They know the voice of the shepherd, and they can discern an imposter just like my children know my voice down at the playground. And when a preacher or teacher is proclaiming Jesus Christ, or not, you know.

Jesus continues: “They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” Except that sometimes we do follow strangers. Sometimes their voice can be very appealing. Jesus warns that many will come in his name to lead astray (Matt. 24:4-5). Paul too warns the elders in Ephesus, “Some even from your own group will come distorting the truth in order to entice the disciples to follow them” (Acts 20:28-30).

These bandits come with agendas and enthusiasms — some even seemingly biblical — other than the one great apostolic enthusiasm and agenda: to know Christ and to make him known. So it is important to “beware” and to “keep watch” for voices that are incongruent with the suffering love of Jesus Christ. They exist, and they exist in the Church today.

Nevertheless, while there is a certain attraction to the voice of strangers, Jesus says that ultimately people will run from them because they do not find the abundant life that Jesus gives there. Which raises an interesting question about church decline here in the West: Is it in part because sheep run from the voice of strangers? Is it in part because we have not clearly and simply proclaimed Jesus Christ, crucified and risen? What if we were to come back to the gate and recommit ourselves to the beautiful simplicity of the gospel?

Let me finish with this: the Church needs shepherds, no less the Episcopal Church. So pray, especially for all bishops, priests, and deacons. Pray that they would be people of the gate, pray that their chief enthusiasm and message would be Christ crucified. Pray that they would commit themselves to Scripture. Pray that they would be willing to bear with one another in love. Pray that God would raise up more faithful shepherds. And pray for discernment so that amid a cacophony of voices the Church might more clearly hear the voice of the Good Shepherd, Jesus Christ, who still speaks to his people today and whose voice is for them a spring of abundant life.

The Diocese of Toronto took its theme for synod this year from the Gospel According to St. John: “Cast the net” (21:6). It is a wonderful passage of Scripture to reflect on as a diocese. It’s a promising passage filled with hope for God’s church emerging from COVID.

After the crucifixion, Simon Peter has resumed fishing and some of the other disciples have joined him. They are together, but they are now faced with the painful absence of their friend and teacher, Jesus. They had been fishing all night to no avail. The new day’s dawn was breaking and they were surely exhausted.

After the last three years of collective trauma and strife, who among us does not feel exhausted? After the last few decades of statistical decline by just about every metric, who among us does not feel like packing it in? It feels like we have been fishing all night, to no avail. We may, perhaps, sense that a new day is coming, but we are tired.

“Just as the day was breaking,” John tells us, “Jesus stood on the beach; yet the disciples did not know that it was Jesus” (21:4). Their lack of fish having been established, the risen Jesus (not yet recognized as such) invites them: “Cast the net on the right side of the boat” (21:6). The resulting catch was so plenteous they were unable to haul it in.

“What does it mean for us to cast the net on the other side of the boat?” This is the question we considered as a diocese over the course of a few days together online, and it’s one the Diocese of Toronto will consider during the next year as part of diocesan visioning.

It’s a good question, but there is a risk in answering it. In a discussion group I participated in, much of the conversation centered on particular initiatives: this church was getting more young people involved in the liturgy, that church was running a food bank, another church had built a labyrinth, and so on. Meanwhile, the Church of England is pitching “football-themed nativity plays” to coincide with the World Cup.

I’m generally in favor of trying things and evaluating as we go. The risk, however, is that we can begin to see and understand the health and vitality of the Church through data and technique. If we gather enough information and do the right things in the right way, then perhaps we too will be met with a catch that far exceeds the capacity of our nets.

In A Failure of Nerve, Edwin Friedman argues that a focus on data and technique is a symptom of a chronically anxious society/organization/family, and can undercut the ability of leaders to lead. In my experience, that’s true and it can lead to the feeling that you are on a treadmill, doing a lot but not going very far. Particularly in a time of congregational decline, the pressure on clergy to “get it right” is immense.

I remember sitting in an interview for my first cure — an energetic, optimistic, naive (!) 33-year-old — and being asked, “So, what are you going to do to get young families to come to church?” And goodness, we’d better get young families to come to church, because we’ve seen the line graphs and the next decade doesn’t look so hot. So we busy ourselves reading all the right books, going to all the right conferences, engaging in all the right ministry initiatives.

Part of Friedman’s argument is that this is all wrong. “Leadership in America,” he says, “is stuck in the rut of trying harder and harder without obtaining significantly new results” (p. 3). That sounds nothing at all like leadership in the Church.

So what’s the solution for a chronically anxious organization (or family, or nation)? It’s never simply a matter of data and technique, but of presence, particularly the presence of the leader. Leaders ought to “focus first on their own integrity and on the nature of their own presence rather than [on] techniques for manipulating or motivating others” (p. 13).

Think about Holy Orders for a moment (though the point could apply to any Christian). Clergy are those whose presence is predicated on another presence, whose ministry is predicated on another ministry — the presence and ministry of the risen and living Jesus Christ. Therefore, the health and vitality of the Church in whatever context depends solely on the presence of the crucified and risen Lord and our attentiveness to him.

Before we can ask, “What does it mean to cast the net on the other side?” we must first ask, “Why did the disciples cast the net on the other side to begin with?” Not because of their skill or ingenuity. Not because they had gathered more data or mastered some new fishing technique. Despite being out on the water all night, they had caught nothing, remember. There is only one reason: they were sensitive and obedient to the voice of the risen Jesus. This is the only thing that truly matters, and therefore where Church leaders, and parishes, should focus their attention.

This is good news. It means the past, present, and future of the Church is not a matter of technique or resources. It doesn’t matter if you’re a church of 15 or of 500, a rich church or a poor church, an urban church or a rural church, an aging church or a younger church, ultimately it comes down to one thing: listening to the voice of the risen Lord. Any leader, and therefore any church, can do this. The key question for ordained leaders, then, is not “How much do you know?” (data) or “What new things are you trying?” (technique) but rather “How are you being attentive to the presence and voice of the risen Jesus?”

How does this happen for the disciples in John 21? Jesus “revealed himself” (21:1 x2), “stood” (21:4), “said” (21:5, 6), and finally “took” the bread and “gave” it to them (21:13). There are clear parallels here to Luke’s post-resurrection account, wherein the disciples on the road to Emmaus are unable to recognize the risen Jesus until he reveals himself by coming among them, opening the Scriptures, and breaking bread.

If you want to hear the voice of the risen Jesus, read the Bible with the faith that he meets us just there. Don’t just read it, but pray with it: think about what you read and pray. Let it roll around in your mind and seep down deep into your soul, study it, memorize it, fall in love with it, talk about it, and — not least — obey it, lest you deceive yourself (James 1:22).

The obedience part is what Martin Thornton refers to as “ascetical discipline”: the embrace of a Rule (not “rules”) and capital-p Prayer (the awareness that all of life is lived in relation to God).

Only when we have clergy and parishes that are so formed will we discover what it means to truly “cast the net on the other side,” because only then are we attuned to the presence and voice of the risen and living Jesus. Apart from this, no degree of creative ministry or sanctified busywork can begin to turn the ship.

One feature of our recent synod was the presentation of a diocesan survey, asking people to rank a number of subjects in order of importance. The top three results were spiritual formation, personal spiritual development, and involving young people. I was encouraged by these results, and take them to mean that the seeds of genuine religion remain, alive, if perhaps ungerminated.

Yet I observed a major disconnect between these survey results and the stated priorities of diocesan leadership for this next season. In his charge to synod (which was generally very good) the bishop highlighted three priorities for the diocese: renewing our commitment to reconciliation with Indigenous peoples, responding to the climate-change emergency, and committing ourselves to the work of anti-bias and anti-racism (ABAR).

Those are noble enough goals, but what is interesting is where these subjects ranked in the diocesan survey. Out of 25 subjects, renewing our commitment to reconciliation was ranked 6th, climate change was ranked 19th, and ABAR was ranked 10th.

The disconnect could not be more apparent. The people are crying out for Prayer (genuine religious experience before God), but what they are being given is moralism. They want a Rule, but instead they are being given rules. They want ascetical discipline, but instead they are being given moral discipline. They want a true and living faith, but instead they are being given what Thornton calls a “‘this worldly’ religion of philanthropy, naturalism, and the social gospel … a quasi-Pelagianism which we do not hesitate to call materialistic” (p. 106).

What does it mean to cast the net on the other side? This is a vital question for us to ask as we emerge from COVID and as we live in a society that is so post-Christian it’s pre-Christian (a phrase I learned from my friend Jonathan Thompson, pastor of Sanctus Church in Ajax, Ontario). But whatever the answer to that question may be, it involves at the very least the ability and willingness to hear the voice of the risen Jesus Christ — and not only to hear but to listen, to obey.

What clergy and parishes need today is not more data or better technique, thanks be to God, but rather a Rule (a common life marked by discipline and holiness) that will help us live our whole life in, with, and through Jesus Christ. Happily, any parish can begin to turn toward this with greater intention and vigor. We must, so let us.