Our church is in the midst of a major transition: it’s becoming bicultural. The combined joy and pain of our growth is intense and surprising at every turn. Sometimes I wonder if this is how a tree feels when it begins to grow new branches. I often feel fatigued in advance by the complexity of the conversations we want and need to have, as well as scared of where we are going and what it will require of me.
It’s at these times that I find myself contemplating the comforts of what we used to be, a monocultural church
It started with food. A long line of people stood outside the church door waiting their turn as the groceries piled up on folding tables around the sanctuary. Most of these people, in truth, wanted nothing to do with our church itself.
In the last year, my church—St. George Episcopal in Leadville, Colorado—has gained a number of Latino and Latina members. Last week we held our first ever bilingual vestry meeting, at which we quickly realized that the language barrier itself was not our primary challenge.
Novelist Kent Haruf has often drawn on his upbringing on the sparse eastern plains of Colorado. But in his latest novel, Benediction, Haruf inches closer to his roots than he ever has. One of his central characters is a minister in a small town church that’s much like the ones that Haruf grew up in as the son of a Methodist minister.
About a decade ago, the rector of our small Episcopal church began to incorporate Spanish into the liturgy. She didn’t do this because we had Spanish-speaking members. We didn’t. She did it, she said, to remind us that the liturgy doesn’t belong to us alone.
The New Yorker recently published excerpts from Flannery O’Connor’s youthful prayer journal. This was a journal she kept, when, at 21 years of age, she was enrolled at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and had just published her first short story.
I don’t have a sob story. My family is healthy; we’ve never been denied coverage. We are simply self-employed and want to stay that way. And paying for private, individual health insurance is an ongoing dilemma.
Najla Said has had every reason to be confused. She explains in the opening lines of her memoir: “I am a Palestinian-Lebanese-American Christian woman, but I grew up as a Jew in New York City. I began my life, however, as a WASP.”