That We All May Be One

I went to see my spiritual director yesterday. Actually, she is technically my “former” spiritual director, a 95 year old School Sister of St. Francis whose name is Mary Dingman. When I was elected Bishop of Iowa, I knew that I would need a spiritual companion, preferably one who was “outside the system” of the Episcopal Church. I had been in intentional spiritual direction for over a decade and knew how important such a relationship could be.

One of our priests introduced me to Mary who, at that time, along with a Jesuit colleague ran a small retreat house and spiritual direction ministry in downtown Des Moines called “Emmaus House.” We hit it off immediately and, for the thirteen years I was Bishop of Iowa, we met on a monthly basis, often coupled with a day of reflection on which I would show up at Emmaus House early in the morning (usually on a Wednesday) check into a small room on the second or third floor of the old house), spend the morning in prayer and study, have a simple lunch of bread and soup, spend an hour with Sister Mary in conversation, and wind up the day just before supper time when I would return home.

These days were life-giving for me. Mary saw me through crises of diocesan ministry (including painful instances of disciplining clergy for sexual misconduct), agonizing wrestling with how I would cast a vote at General Convention on some of the most vexing and controversial issues facing the Episcopal Church in those years, and finally walking with me through painful family issues including the death of my first wife in 2000.

Mary  always listened carefully, cared deeply, and was able to bring out of her storehouse of a lifetime of prayer and Bible study just what I needed to hear and learn on a given day — whether that was advice, encouragement, challenge, or counsel simply to “wait on the Lord.” I do not believe I would have been able to survive those difficult years, at least spiritually but perhaps even physically, had it not been for this faithful friend.

She is frail now. And she met me at the door of the modest home next door to a beautiful Roman Catholic Church in the rural village of St. Paul, Iowa where she lives in retirement with her sister. She was wearing a nasal catheter attached to the oxygen supply she now requires after congestive heart failure last year.

But she is as sharp as ever, and we spoke of my life in retirement, the state of ecumenical relations these days, our shared horror at the political situation in our country today, the breath of fresh air Pope Francis is breathing across the church and world, and what it is like to grow old. She said, “You know, one of the hardest things for me entering the convent at 25 was giving up being with my family and living on the farm in southeast Iowa.”

Now, with permission from her order, she is living with her own sister in a tiny community only a mile from the old family farm which her nephew and niece still own and work. “At the end of my life,” Mary said, “God has given it all back — family and the quiet rural life I so loved. Isn’t that amazing?”

“And, you know, even serious illness brings new occasions for prayer, ” she observed, gently touching her oxygen tube, “Before this, I never thought to give thanks for the air.”

Perhaps not, dear Mary, but I have never ceased giving thanks for you.

We’ll see a lot of flags out on this Memorial Day. The houses on our streets are lined with them (a service provided for a small fee by a local service organization on major national holidays like this). I must confess I love our flag. I used to argue that we should carry it in civil rights and anti-war processions in the 60s because we shouldn’t let “them” have sole possession of the flag.

I don’t even mind flags displayed in the sanctuaries or naves of our churches (I know, heresy!). Of course, there are limits. When I was a curate, the parish I served processed the flags (US and Episcopal) right after the cross and torches on Sunday mornings and the acolytes would even flourish them after the first hymn while we sang the fourth verse of “America.” Now that’s over the top!

But I am not ashamed of our church’s role in the nation. Our “mother” Church of England is an established national church. I don’t agree with that polity because I think a certain separation of church and state is important at least in this country.  Yet, the Episcopal Church functioned as a quasi-national church for decades supplying more than our share of congressmen, judges, and even a few presidents.

I even believe that the Episcopal Church is a national church despite our last Presiding Bishop’s insistence that we not be identified as such because we have a presence in many countries around the world (even though we have always encouraged these formerly missionary dioceses to attain independence as autonomous parts of the Anglican Communion as soon as they can). Even our diocese in Europe is showcased by the “American Cathedral” in Paris. Oh, and isn’t our cathedral in Washington DC known as “the National Cathedral?”

I prefer the traditional designation Episcopal Church (USA) to the more-recent and to my mind presumptuous “The” Episcopal Church — as though there were no others, i.e. The Scottish Episcopal Church. What? A national designation? Shocking! I’m even OK with the preferred title in our Canons — The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America (PECUSA)

So, call me a conservative, but I’m fine with churches becoming incarnate in a particular national heritage and identity. I think that’s what the Anglican Communion is all about. As long as that identity doesn’t numb us to our responsibility to be critical of our nation and government when gospel principles call for it.

In fact, that’s part of what it means to be a truly “national” church!