Everyone remembers the chaos, confusion, and upheaval of Pandemic Holy Week 2020. In our Diocese, it was only 5 days prior to Palm Sunday when we got word that there would be no in-person gatherings for Holy Week or Easter. In the small, conservative town where my husband was serving as Rector of the only Episcopal church in the county, we had many parishioners who were extremely upset that they would not be allowed to gather for Easter (the Baptist and nondenominational churches in town were all carrying on business-as-usual). A significant number of church members were also having an extremely difficult time navigating their computers in order to access online worship options, and nearly all of them refused to do anything on Zoom. With my husband being the only clergy and full-time staff person, filming church services for Holy Week and Easter was neither plausible, nor the best way to offer real spiritual support and guidance to this particular congregation during this time. Since so many of our parishioners were unfamiliar with the liturgical traditions surrounding Holy Week, I was inspired to create a "Holy Week 2020 Spiritual Resources Guide." It was a simple black and white booklet of readings, reflections, and spiritual practices for each day of the week, which could be accessed digitally as a PDF, or cheaply and easily printed out. It was adaptable for use by families or single individuals sheltering alone. The focus was on simplicity - encouraging people to use things they already had in their homes to reflect on what mattered most during this season of quarantine, and embrace an embodied experience of the Paschal Triduum. Realizing there were probably a lot of clergy in small churches all over the country that were in a similar position as my husband - with neither the staff, time, technology, or resources to put something together for their congregations at the last minute - I put out an offer on social media to share this resource with anyone who might want to use it, and I was overwhelmed by the response. It ended up being shared widely, and was used in churches of several different denominations all over the country. I was so grateful that the Spirit led me to to create something that both lifted the burden of exhausted clergy, and also seemed to genuinely deepen the experience of Holy Week for the individuals who used it, helping them understand the importance of the season and embodied spirituality in a new way.

The term "broad church" seems almost an understatement when it comes to my liturgical style and practice. Because of my widely eclectic experience of church growing up, my undergraduate studies in comparative religion, my own lived spiritual journey from a secular agnostic to a committed follower of Jesus, and my training at Union Theological Seminary, where I worshipped and planned liturgies alongside Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist, Quaker, Mennonite, Baptist, Black Pentecostal, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, UU, and Wiccan faculty and students (and where we looked at liturgy within a broader context of anthropology, psychology, and ritual studies) I interpret the term "broad church" in perhaps the broadest sense possible. I have worked and worshipped in all kinds of churches, and as a trained leader of paperless congregational singing, I often find myself preaching and/or leading worship in smaller communities that invite a more casual and participatory posture. My work as a seminary intern at St. Mark's in the Bowery in New York City had an especially profound impact on my ability to see how radically different liturgical styles can coexist and blend in meaningful, effective, and reverent ways. That being said, I fell in love with the Episcopal liturgy at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco in 2006, and my respect for the Anglican tradition has steadily increased in the years since. As an artist, I appreciate thoughtful contrasts, and multivalent liturgical actions that speak meaningfully to the paradoxes and mysteries of our faith in nonverbal, multisensory ways. The unique synthesis of high gothic medieval aesthetics and ancient liturgies paired with intelligent yet down-to-earth preaching in an environment of warm, relational hospitality is the liturgical and spiritual context in which my soul feels most at home. I am an especially big fan of iconography, clarity in structure, and what some people refer to as "smells and bells." My training in social psychology and anthropology has given me a special appreciation for the Anglican principle of lex orandi, lex credendi - that our ritual actions are deeply formational, and should therefore be purposeful in how they nurture our theology and our spiritual lives. For that reason, while I am open to a variety of liturgical experiments and models, I do believe that liturgy should always be approached with a strong sense of intentionality, humility, and respect for tradition. I believe that doing things simply for the sake of being "edgy" or "different" - or because a certain demographic thinks it would look "cool" - is as equally problematic as defaulting to doing things simply because "that's the way we've always done it" or because "those are the rules." Both of these approaches lack a certain thoughtfulness that I look for and hope to cultivate in any stylistic context of liturgical expression. To read more about my approach to liturgy and music, visit my music and liturgy consulting page.

While I enjoy working independently, and often have a strong sense of creative vision, I tend towards a collaborative approach in almost everything I do as a natural part of my personality. I strongly value relationships, and am also acutely aware of my own limitations as a single human being. I especially value the input I receive from others who differ from me in terms of their social location or life experiences, and my work with the Enneagram has attuned me to the inner differences that exist between people beyond just outer social categories and demographics. I know that everyone has a unique story to tell, and that everyone has something unique to offer. I believe that diversity is God's will, and that encounters with "otherness" always ultimately makes us better by helping us to expand our vision. I believe that at the heart of the Christian life is the challenge to learn how to be with those who are different from us in meaningful, mutually supportive, and life-giving ways. Our liturgy allows us to "practice" this within the context of ritual space, but learning how to do this in our everyday lives and relationships requires the hard work of spiritual formation. Therefore, I believe all forms of church ministry should ideally become contexts in which we invite in diverse perspectives and seek to grow in our ability to grapple with difference in healthy ways. It is always my desire that others feel seen, heard, and valued, and particularly in the context of ministries with the poor, I think it is especially important that we begin to teach people how to shift from "power-over" models of charity to "power-with" models of relational solidarity. I'm also a strong advocate of emergent strategies and approaches that support new life and vitality, enabling God to do "a new thing." It is important to take the time to help individuals listen for an authentic sense of call in the context of community. I do NOT believe in "voluntolding" people, or any other form of coercion that manipulates people into working for free - whether it be liturgical, formational, or social justice work. The work of the church cannot be entirely dependent upon the good intentions of the wealthy and the unpaid labor of the poor. What this means in reality is that sometimes older ministries need to end in order for something new and vital to emerge among a new generation. As churches, we need to learn how to approach these life cycles as Christians, taking our cues from Jesus and looking at it through the lens of resurrection, rather than clinging to old wineskins in the hopes that we don't "die." Sometimes incorporating others in ministry means learning when and how to get out of the way and make room for something new that is asking to be born.

As an introvert, one of the most important ways I care for my spiritual, emotional, and physical health is through the practice of maintaining healthy boundaries, and learning when to say "no." Whether it is choosing not to attend a particular social function, taking some time out in the middle of the day to just pause and step outside, managing my time wisely so that I am not spread too thin, or making sure that I regularly incorporate times of retreat when I need to "re-charge," these are all practices that I have learned to develop over the years, and that I honor more and more as I get older. I am also nourished spiritually by a number of contemplative practices like centering prayer, walking the labyrinth, the daily examen, etc. However, the two practices that consistently allow me return to an awareness of God's presence almost immediately are being alone in nature, and experiencing the Eucharistic liturgy in the context of the Episcopal church. I am grateful to have a wise and loving partner with whom I can have fun and be completely authentic. He offers a wonderful combination of compassion/support and helpful nudges/challenges that enrich my self-awareness and help me grow. I also maintain a large network of friends (especially women friends) with whom I can pray, vent, process, and receive wisdom, solidarity, and support. I have had many years of both spiritual direction and over a decade of psychotherapy in different modalities, including psychodynamic therapy, CBT, somatic experiencing, IFS, ACT, and trauma-informed care. This work has been monumental in helping me to integrate some of my most difficult experiences, so that I can maintain healthy self-differentiation and boundaries even while drawing on the wisdom I've gained from those experiences, which allows me to be with others who have had similar experiences in a genuine but healthy way. As far as my physical well-being, I enjoy hiking, swimming, roller skating, disc golf, stretching, and breaking blocks with lightsabers using my VR helmet.

It is my hope that everything I do is, in some sense, an expression or manifestation of my Christian faith, and in that sense I tend to think of all my work - whether it occurs in religious or secular contexts - as being part of my involvement in "the wider Church." In terms of the Episcopal Church specifically, however, I have sought a variety of ways to develop my relationship with the institutional church body, most recently my participation in the Special Task Force on Liturgy and Prayer Book Revision, as well as my efforts to develop a new approach to adult spiritual formation for parishes within the Episcopal Church. I also regularly attend Diocesan Conventions as a way of staying up to date on the larger mission, goals, and initiatives of the Episcopal Church, and as a way of staying in relationship with my larger network of ministry colleagues. Most of my work, though, has been at the threshold of the institutional church - particularly in terms of supporting and enabling a sense of call among laypeople, and seeking to build bridges of understanding between the church and those who have felt estranged from it. My background in communication studies has made me acutely aware of the strategies that American evangelicals have used over the last few decades to dominate the public discourse with a certain set of messages about what it means to be "Christian." My social media work seeks to counter these messages by introducing theological and Biblical perspectives that have often been less accessible to the general public, striving to counter disinformation about the Christian church especially in evangelical and "exvangelical" spaces. My spiritual direction work, meanwhile, seeks to create safe space particularly for those who long for a deeper relationship with God and/or the church, but who are reluctant to engage due to past religious or spiritual trauma. In terms of engaging my geographical community, as a singer/songwriter and artist, I am always staying connected to people in the local arts scene, and through music I am often connecting deeply with people in contexts that collapse the traditional boundaries between sacred and secular. In some ways, the underground grassroots punk art community will always feel like "my people"... even though I'm a bit of an odd duck these days for being a Jesus follower and church nerd who genuinely loves to talk about desert monks from the 4th century. I sincerely appreciate the unexpected moments of grace that often emerge when I am in conversation with folks at bars and restaurants. I feel like that's the best and most genuine form of "evangelism."

My experiences offering pastoral care and spiritual counsel to the customers who came into the Christian spirituality bookstore I managed on behalf of the Servant Leadership School at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church played a huge role in my call to attend seminary. It became clear to me during this time that there were many people who were deeply interested in exploring issues relating to the Christian faith, but who (for a variety of reasons) would never darken the door of a church, or bring their questions and doubts before a "clergy" person. But they were willing to speak vulnerably and honestly with me - a fellow layperson and someone they perceived to be "just like them"... who just so happened to be knowledgeable about the available resources on their topic of inquiry and interest. These kinds of experiences have continued to inform my decision to remain a layperson, as well as to inform the way I think about "pastoral care" in my spiritual direction practice and my formation work. I greatly honor vulnerability, and value the kind of healing that can occur when those who have felt shamed by religion or the church risk bringing their truth into the light of a loving relationship. This work often helps build a bridge of trust that can eventually lead people to connecting safely and helpfully with clergy. Because of this, I understand that "pastoral care" can happen in any context - not just in hospitals or in times of acute distress or grief. I seek to take a pastoral approach in all that I do, remembering that each person has a story to tell, and is a bearer of the light of Christ. Having studied the relationship between trauma and spirituality, I know that the only way out is through, and that it is always better to "transcend and include," rather than trying to "throw out" what I might consider bad theology or dualistic ("black and white") thinking. For that reason, I never "correct" people in pastoral encounters, but always try to stay curious about the role that a certain idea or feeling about God - or a certain spiritual interpretation of events - might be playing in that person's life and psyche. Then I listen for small moments and opportunities where I might be able to safely and constructively add a bit more nuance to their perspective, or introduce another way of thinking that might be less "black and white." Usually if I am patient, the Holy Spirit will always present just such a moment. When approached in this way, I have found that I am able to help people grow and expand their spiritual vision without re-traumatizing them by taking away their sense of safety and agency.

In the summer after my first year at Union Theological Seminary, I embarked on the somewhat ambitious quest of painting a 7-circuit Chartres-style labyrinth on the roof of the McGiffert residential building. This project was inspired by my time at Grace Cathedral, where I first encountered the labyrinth, as well as my work at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, which had a vibrant labyrinth ministry for which I maintained a wide selection of labyrinth-related books, gifts, and other resources at the bookstore I managed. Given my awareness of the growing interest in labyrinths, I was somewhat perplexed as to why a progressive, ecumenical seminary like Union in New York City did not have one on hand. I was also interested in learning more about the history of the labyrinth. So I put together a team of professors to oversee an independent research project, to study the mythological origins of the labyrinth and its use in churches throughout the Middle Ages, while also reviewing the contemporary literature on the spirituality of labyrinths, and working my way through the practical logistics of how to create a full-sized Chartes-style path myself. Thankfully, after some initial hiccups the project was a great success. I spent my remaining three years at the seminary leading guided walks, teaching my fellow seminarians about the history and theology/spirituality of labyrinths, and offering practical advice to those who wanted to construct labyrinths at their churches. The labyrinth ministry I established at Union ended up "seeding" many more labyrinth ministries at the churches where my colleagues went to serve, and many people have contacted me about it in the years since I've left. As I understand it, there are still students who appreciate finding a mysterious labyrinth on the roof, and many people have made use of it for prayer and meditation without ever knowing I was the artist. This gives me a great sense of satisfaction. The faculty who oversaw the project (both now retired) were: Janet Walton, jwalton701@gmail.com Troy Messenger, twmessenger@gmail.com You can read the full story of the creation of the McGiffert roof labyrinth here:

I strongly believe that an interactive, integrative, and transformational approach to adult spiritual formation - with a focus on developing and supporting a sense of "call" among laypeople - is going to be absolutely critical not only to the church's ability to thrive in the "post-Christian" 21st century, but to its survival. "The young people" are not going to come back to the church just because of trendy worship aesthetics, or a certain musical style, or even the best of our social justice initiatives (there are plenty of secular organizations who do this work just as well, if not better). As an artist and a social justice advocate, I believe that both of those things are important, and I understand how important they are for many young adults. But I also know that what ultimately draws people back into the church is the genuine discovery that it bears a deep wisdom tradition with the power to authentically support and spiritually transform individuals and communities with a real sense of purpose. Young people, in particular, are drawn to the church when they encounter elders whose lives bear evidence of a wisdom that is rooted in an authentic sense of purpose, and a faith that allows them to sustainably engage in the hard work of love and justice without succumbing to despair or burnout. For too long, the work of Christian "formation" has stopped at young adulthood. Offerings for adults have been rooted in passive forms of information acquisition, through one-off programs, events, and lecture series. Most of these programs deal with the outer life of individuals - what we "should do," rather than who we are called to be. Conversations about the inner work of being have largely been presented as separate from conversations about the outer work of social justice, or even a distraction from that work. As a result, too many adult Christians carry within themselves an incredibly elementary understanding of the Christian faith and of the Biblical narrative. As Richard Rohr writes, "Being informed is different from being formed, and the first is a common substitute for the second." The church has historically been so focused on the formation of children and youth that it has often forgotten that it is precisely in the second half of life is when the story of Jesus' life, death, and resurrection becomes most relevant, and the Gospel has the most immediate applicability to our everyday lives. It is also usually in the second half of life that people have time to reflect on their experiences, and start encountering bigger questions that drive them towards a longing and a need for a deeper kind of wisdom. It is crucial that the churches of the 21st century invite adult learners who are serious about exploring their faith and their inner lives into an experiential and relational learning context that addresses both the inner and the outer aspects of Christian life, in order to help people of all ages to embark on an authentic journey of spiritual discernment - listening for the voice of God within them in order to discover what it truly means for them to embody the life of Christ in the world.

Personality-wise, I am more likely to move into conflict than away from it, mostly because of the value I place on relationships and reconciliation, which cannot realistically occur without first reaching a place of understanding where all parties feel safe and "heard." Tensions and anxieties are usually indicators of places where attention and healing is needed. However, I also know that people are not always ready or willing to confront those places of tension or grief. My undergraduate training in conflict mediation and social psychology has made me aware of the contextual ways in which power operates, as well as the most common patterns of dysfunction that show up within group systems - patterns like triangulation, projection, negative peace, etc. Because of this, I am not afraid to identify unhealthy patterns when I see them (as the NYC Subway reminds us, "If you see something, say something!"), but I also try to look for "readiness" when assessing an individual or a group's ability to hear something. I like to think that my observations are, for the most part, in the service of strengthening relationships and healing ruptures. One instance of handling conflict within the context of a spiritual formation class occurred during our "Servant Leaders in Action" course, which invited community leaders to talk about their work on a variety of social justice issues. The Rev. Nelson Johnson, a well-known leader in racial and economic justice, who had been targeted by the KKK during the 1979 Greensboro Massacre and was the founder of the Beloved Community Center as well as the Greensboro Truth & Reconciliation Commission, had been invited to speak about his work. While talking about the difficulties he faced getting white local pastors to join him in this work, he mentioned off-handedly that he had made a phone call to the white pastor at First Lutheran Church in 1989, and that he never received a call back. A group from First Lutheran Church happened to be in the class, and were angered and confused by what they heard. They felt that Nelson had singled out and publicly slandered their church. After the class, they complained to their pastor, who then contacted the Servant Leadership School's director to communicate his distress. I was asked by the director to offer an "apology" on Nelson's behalf during our next class session. However I was also able to understand this within the larger context of race relations in Greensboro, as a classic example of white fragility, and I had no intention of saying anything that would make it seem like Nelson had done anything wrong, because I did not believe that he did. Rather, I reached out directly to the pastor of First Lutheran Church in order to clarify and contextualize what was actually said. I reminded him of similar disappointments that Martin Luther King Jr. expressed in his "Letter from a Birmingham Jail," when he lamented about the lack of response he received from moderate white pastors in his own time. In this way, I was able to help him see that Nelson's story about not getting a call back from a pastor in 1989 had nothing to do with church now, or its current pastor nearly 30 years later. I invited the him to consider that Nelson might even appreciate receiving a call of solidarity and support from him, knowing that history. I do not know if he ever reached out to Nelson, but I do know that he took it upon himself to speak to his own folks about the incident and that he seemed to assuage any lingering defensiveness among the folks in that group. I was very grateful that I was able to resolve that conflict in a way that eliminated any further escalation of conflict, while also refusing to participate in the vilification of a prominent Black leader, or to enable white fragility around racial issues.

By whatever accident of fate or destiny, my spiritual formation as a Christian has been shaped by some of the most forward-thinking organizations, individuals, and churches in the country - people who are imagining new ways of being "Church" with a big "C." My deep affection for the Episcopal Church began at Grace Cathedral during Alan Jones' time there, and I decided to become an Episcopalian after returning to my home Diocese of NC and hearing our then-Bishop Michael Curry preach. Through my involvement with The Servant Leadership School, the Wild Goose Festival and the Emerging Church community, Union Theological Seminary, and St. Mark's Episcopal Church in the Bowery, I have been exposed to such an expansive and progressive vision of what the church can be at its best, and I understand how it must change in order to survive and thrive in the future. Because of this, I have, at times, underestimated the level of resistance that I would encounter to such change, especially at the parish level. When I first moved back to North Carolina after seminary, I was perhaps a bit overzealous in my desire to share what I had seen and experienced in New York, and unprepared for how genuinely threatening the concept of change would feel to older generations of parishioners, who were raised with such a different concept of what it means to be "church," and what it means to be "Christian." When I got married, I moved down to the church where my husband served as Rector, which just so happens to be the only Episcopal parish in one of the most conservative counties in North Carolina. During my 5 years there, I committed myself to developing a deeper understanding of "traditional" parish life, in order to gain a better sense of how to more strategically and effectively introduce change on "the front lines." I have come to appreciate the immensity of the challenge we are facing at this particular moment in human history - not just as a church, but as a species. Older generations, who were raised in a world where compartmentalization was still possible, feel genuinely unsafe talking about things like politics and social issues in the church. There is a sense that ritual space should be separate, and set apart. Meanwhile, younger generations - raised within a context of globalization, the internet, climate change, and now AI - often tend to feel genuinely unsafe if people are not talking about these issues in the church. For them, ignoring the realities that people are facing in their daily lives within the context of sacred space feels like spiritual bypassing. As a geriatric millennial - the last generation who remembers a world before the internet - I feel like I am constantly standing on the edge of a vast chasm, trying to build bridges of understanding between what came before and what will come after. In navigating this position, I have learned how to be more thoughtful, intentional, and flexible in my approach - with people of every age group. I have learned to stay curious about people's stories, and I understand now the importance of establishing a sense of safety and trust before expecting anyone to open up, become vulnerable, learn something new, or truly retain new information. I have learned to take a "yes, and..." approach in being a leader for change, building on existing models rather than trying to come in and replace them with something that may have worked elsewhere. I have learned that people live into new ways of thinking and being slowly, through alternating between action and contemplation and by making repeated passes over the same content again and again. I have learned to apply the old writer's adage of "show, not tell" to Christian formation, understanding that humans learn mimetically, and that we should not expect others to do what we cannot (or will not) model ourselves. Perhaps most importantly, I have learned, as George Harrison sang, that "you can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink." There will always be some people who neither want nor need to ask deeper existential questions about the church, Christianity, God, or their spiritual and communal lives. There are people who are perfectly happy just showing up every Sunday, tithing their 10%, attending an occasional class or concert, and socializing with their church friends. There are a variety of reasons why some people do not want to engage with the spiritual journey any further than that. And that has to be okay. The invitation to "go deeper" must always be exactly that: an invitation. This means that there will always be the need for a "tiered" approach when it comes to adult formation. In that sense, I feel the the most important thing we can do as leaders in a changing church is to wholeheartedly put our trust in God, to help us discern the best way to respond as Christians to changing and emerging conditions as they arise. We must learn to improvise well, drawing on the roots of our Christian faith just like a jazz musician draws on their knowledge of chords and rhythms to imrpovise a new melody. This wisdom of trusting in God to always lead us in the direction of creativity, curiosity, and compassion is the unchanging core of our faith, and I feel like as long as we stay true to that, we can move through even the most radical changes as Christians with the dignity, humility, and grace of the saints.