Reentry

Those well-used walking shoes

I am a child of the space program. I was a child when television, in black and white, allowed us to watch the return of Mercury astronauts from our initial forays into human space travel. What followed was an intense fascination with space – something that, for previous generations, was the stuff of fantasy.

As our “mission to the moon” developed, I was there at every turn: from Mercury to Gemini to Apollo. I assembled model rockets. Some may remember those Revel model kits – while many of my peers were assembling model cars, I was busy with rockets and space capsules and creating dioramas of moonscape landings. So much so, that for a time, I dreamt about being involved in the program – maybe not as an astronaut but at least as an engineer.

Depiction of the heat shield
from the Apollo space capsule

One of the greatest challenges at every stage of the program was how we would return our astronauts safely to earth. Perhaps the most serious single problem encountered during reentry is the heat that develops as the spacecraft returns to the earth's atmosphere. Friction between vehicle and air produces temperatures that exceed 3,000°F! Most metals and alloys would melt or fail at these temperatures. Overcoming that challenge was crucial, so that the space vessel would not incinerate upon reentry.

From the human viewpoint, crews had to readapt to Earth's gravity. Transitioning from one gravity field to another is trickier than it sounds, since it affects spatial orientation, head-eye and hand-eye coordination, balance, and movement. Something so simple as walking becomes a challenge.

As I return to ministry at St. Luke’s, I am feeling a bit anxious. While I look forward to my return from sabbatical, I know there will be some “reentry” challenges involved. Some will be predictable, but many may be unexpected.

In an earlier blog post, I described some of the culture shock experienced upon entering the refreshment program at Ridley Hall (see “Shock Therapy,” July 14, 2023). Spending over two months’ leave in another county and culture has changed me – much of it for the better, I pray. But I have changed nonetheless – and so has St. Luke’s. It will be another kind of "shock" – to reenter.

The busy train station at King's Cross, London
on my journey home.

All this will require a bit of re-orientation – of getting to know one another – again. How we view the changes that have occurred will affect how we relate to one another. We might have positive or negative feelings about the differences we encounter. What I hope for us all is that during this time of reentry, we will remain flexible, open, and above all optimistic.

Just as the engineers in the space program prepared both their physical and human assets for the process of reentry, I have been reflecting, thinking, and planning just how I will overcome the challenges of reentering my role as rector – priest and pastor – for the people of St. Luke’s. If those preparations were wise, I will not get overheated and will be able to recover my “land legs” quickly. That way, the journey we mutually began over three months ago, will see us walking with one another with renewed vision and confidence. 

All the while, I ask one thing in particular throughout this process. In the words of Thomas More as he wrote to his beloved daughter, Margaret, 

“Please pray me, as I shall for thee.”

Shock Therapy

The empty chapel at Ridley Hall

It was about three weeks into my sabbatical that the fascination of the “new shiny thing” wore thin. It was then that I realized that I was undergoing a form of “shock therapy” – an experience of radical change that was aimed at a radical restructuring of my sense of reality.

Allow me to quote from my journal entry on May 15th:

“My experience at Ridley Hall is disappointing. The conditions are awful. The room is Spartan at best. No biggie there (except for two weeks of without heat). But the food is awful. Diet is less than healthy. High carbs. High fat. Almost no veg. Can you imagine a meal where you must bring your own water? No beverage of any kind except coffee/hot water at breakfast. No real salads to speak of. Veg options full of oils or strange sorts of dressings. Rarely simple greens or cooked veg with meals. There were no napkins at meals for at least four days. Lunch today was particularly messy, greasy fish patty on a bun with chips (fries) – and nothing to wipe your fingers or your mouth, Disgusting! Student discourse, of course, is largely about their courses etc. which leaves me out – for the most part. Only rarely can I seem to interject. And of course (again) it’s eat or be eaten – in and out – little graciousness in terms of ‘dining’ or conversations or the like.”

And later the same day:

“The worship has gone stale. The ‘praise’ style has quickly shown itself to be a bit shallow and vapid. Some of the talks were gifted and thought provoking – but the services far from prayerful. They’ve been a reminder to me of what their value and limitations are.”

And still later:

“There is so much atonement talk. I hear so little emphasis on the reality of the work of the Holy Spirit. I thought I might hear more about that . I am quite surprised at the lack of emphasis there. And where is discernment? Without conversation around the work of the Spirit? What of gifts? Charisms? How does one plot a way forward?”

Quite honestly, that was a dark day – and so were the days that followed – almost to the point where I began to regret my decision to come to Ridley Hall for my sabbatical study. And yet, there was something more – something that nagged and called me forward. What I realize now is that those darker days were a form of “shock therapy” – a time of radical disorientation that was designed to reorient my thinking.

All of us need a form of “shock therapy” from time to time. We all tend to associate with people of like minds and similar attitudes to our own. In American culture today, this is a great challenge – no, a great problem – as we tend to isolate ourselves within our own “tribes” of like minded folk. Some have called them “silos” of thought. Others call them “bubbles.” Regrettably, many of us have fallen into the easy trap of associating principally with people most like our selves – a form of social narcissism. It’s easier to live among people "just like me" than it is to confront the vast diversity that exists in our society and our world.

Perhaps it is nostalgia for an age gone by – before instant media access and social media presence. Confronting the differences in others was easier to navigate when we encountered those differences slowly – perhaps one person at a time. Today, we are bombarded by constant streams of information that tell us our world isn’t quite as simple as we think it to be and that we need to move outside of our comfort zones faster than we might like or even be capable of doing. Consequently, we retreat to that which we know, that which is familiar and comfortable – and in due course reject and push away anything that seems foreign or outside of our experience.

It took a while for me to adapt to the ways of Ridley Hall. I observed how others brought their beverages to the dining hall, and I soon followed suit with my renewable purple water bottle. The heating problems were soon addressed once I found the proper authority to inform. And the conversations changed tone once a sense of identity and trust was built between me and the members of the student body.

So much of what seemed so dark in the early days of my experience transformed into a genuine sense of belonging and of community – so much so that it became difficult to bid farewell to many when the time came.

Sometimes, it seems, we must be subjected to a form of “shock therapy” to help us break out of a certain way of thinking – to open us up to new ways of seeing and perceiving what God is doing in our lives. What seemed so dark and dreadful in those early days, turned out to be the opening of a new vision, a new way of seeing, a new way of thinking. In the end, it wasn’t bad after all – it was the opening that I had sought all along.

It's just a pen.

The renewed roof of the south transept
of York Minster - from above having climbed 
the Great Tower.

One of the classic “tricks” of even the most noble religious sites one can visit in Great Britain is to channel visitors to a designated exit. Exiting is not the trick. The trick is that to get to that point you must first pass through the gift shop, which is filled with everything from labelled jams and jellies to high-end crystal models of the edifice you are trying to leave! I have never been one for souvenirs of my travels and my sabbatical treks were no exception. There was one thing, however, that caught my eye. I stopped and considered its cost and whether it was worth my time and money. I decided not and left through the proper gate.

But once in the courtyard, it nagged at me. That one item had triggered something in my imagination, perhaps because it touched an element of my life that is so important to me. So much so, that I returned to the shop through the “exit” (which was an entrance from this side!) and reconsidered. I decided finally to inquire and ultimately bought the one real souvenir of my journey.

The collapsed roof of the south 
transept at York Minster - 1984
(photo © PA downloaded from BBC.com)

On 9 July 1984, York Minster suffered a serious fire in its south transept during the early morning hours. Firefighters decided to deliberately collapse the roof of the south transept by pouring tens of thousands of gallons of water onto it to save the rest of the building. Tests concluded the fire was “almost certainly” caused by lightning striking a metal electrical box inside the roof.

Few of the timbers that crashed to the floor could be salvaged. From these timbers came the one souvenir I will treasure – a fountain pen sculpted from the ancient English oak that once held the mighty roof aloft.

As you know, I love to write. For many years, I have kept a journal of my thoughts as I made my way though the twists, turns, and challenges of life. These journals are handwritten. I have periodically tried to keep a journal electronically, but this was never a successful endeavor. There is something about the process of literally “putting pen to paper” that sparks my imagination and thought process. Often, a few sentences turn into pages. I have always had a love of writing – not only composing – but the actual writing – whether it be thank-you notes for gifts or letters of support and care to friends and family. Regrettably, stationery stores are few these days so quality papers are hard to find. But I can always rely on the quality pens I have collected over the years – and the inks that fill them.

Beth Yocum discovered this one day. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, my collection both of pens and inks has grown. These gifts, like my newest souvenir, are not only functional, but carry memories with them, memories that are touched each time one of these instruments is used in service of my thoughts.

 

The pen made from the 
oak timbers of York Minster

There is something about the writing that is consistent with our understanding of sacraments. One of these days, when my mortal remains lie in the dust, someone may open one or another of these journals and discover something about my innermost thoughts. Paper, ink, and pens will speak thoughts that no longer can be expressed with breath. They are, unlike the whisps of corruptible and forgettable electronic document files, a permanent, stable reminder of something that was alive and true – a physical presence of a spiritual reality - a sort of sacrament.

That pen, spun on a lathe and formed from a charred piece of ancient English oak, not only held up a roof, but also held witness to countless monks' prayers, the cries of infants at the baptismal font, the ordinations of deacons, priests, and bishops, the joining of couples in wedlock, souls being laid to rest, sermons preached, souls shriven, and more in the centuries old saga of York Minster. Each of these I hold in my hand as I put my own thoughts to paper, and, I pray, form a connection with those holy souls that I may be the priest I ought to be.

More than a cathedral

The south face of Canterbury Cathedral

We who claim affinity with an Anglican way of life deeply revere Canterbury as a symbolic center of faith and tradition. But as Episcopalians, we sometimes have a tough time describing this relationship. Some described it as a sort of parallel “Vatican” for Anglicans (as Rome is for Roman Catholics). Some even see the Archbishop of Canterbury as a kind of “pope” – a chief or prime bishop for all who claim an Anglican heritage. 

None of this is the case in our church, which is fully independent from every other part of what we have come to call the “Anglican Communion” (AC), except in those things that we, as an independent church, decide to associate and align ourselves. (The basis for our relationship with the Church of England is set out in the Book of Common Prayer in the section called Historical Documents. It’s worth a read.)

The whole notion of the AC is an historically recent phenomenon that appeared, in part, from the break-up of the British Empire. Others see it, along with the British Commonwealth, as among the vestiges of Great Britain’s once worldwide political and military dominance. As it turns out, most of the churches that claim the title “Anglican” (or align themselves with Anglican tradition as part of the AC) are in the same circumstance. Canterbury holds a place of first honor and has no jurisdiction or legal authority over any of the members of the AC. In that, the AC is a genuine “communion” – an invisible union with God among believers that is made manifest – visible – in membership in the Church. This idea of communion is lived out at the most basic level (in the parish) and at the highest level (among the many independent churches). It emerges not from the work of humans but from the work of the Holy Spirit.

The entrance to St. Martin's
Priory - ca. 597 A.D.

Take away the grandeur of medieval architecture and the pomp and circumstance of high church ceremonials, and one is left with that basic reality.

This came home to me in a visceral way in Canterbury – not in the shadow of the great cathedral but on an overcast afternoon on a trek eastward, out of the city walls. Tucked away in a modest residential zone is St. Martin’s Priory, itself having origins not in the Middle Ages but in what historians mark as the Dark Ages. Established in 597 A.D. by St. Augustine of Canterbury – a Benedictine monk sent by Pope Gregory to Kent to convert Britain to Christianity and who became its first bishop and archbishop – St. Martin’s is oldest church in the English-speaking world. It is surrounded by a massive churchyard. 

A small portion of the churchyard
at St. Martin's Priory

This pilgrim pauses before
entering where so many
entered before.

All this gives witness to this idea of communion – that holy union of souls among believers: a tiny chapel-size church that has consistently housed worship for over fourteen centuries, the burial stones of believers of every rank and strata of society, the posters in the narthex calling parishioners to participate in the newest outreach project – none constructed as part of a museum artifice but manifesting a living, active, working parish community that extends back longer than one can imagine. This is the real heritage of the Anglican Communion: a union of holy souls that trekked the way of Jesus in their own and unique manner, employing their language and customs to proclaim that the kingdom of God has no boundaries and is subject to no earthly ruler – only to Christ, the King of Kings.

Irony

Just one of the many queues experienced
in two months' time. 

Irony usually describes a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result. It may take some time for it to seem somewhat amusing, but I do see irony in the circumstances surrounding my return from my time in the United Kingdom.

For more than two months, I travelled and lived under circumstances that, in our post-pandemic world, would make even the least germophobic person cringe. Crowded airports, queues/lines, shuttles, standing-room-only underground train cars, buses – and that was just getting there. Then came constant use of public transportation, large group dining, lecture and concert halls, and frequent chapel worship both on and off campus. Not to mention overnight stays in hostels with six to eight strangers in a room, sharing toilet and shower facilities. Shall I go on?

Despite all this, I left the UK in good health. A sleepover in Terminal B of Heathrow Airport, the queues and transfer shuttles were all repeated again on the journey home. Because of scheduling and a desire just to get to my own bed again, rather than Amtrak I rented a car to drive to Harrisburg the evening I landed at Newark International Airport. I was tired and would suffer jetlag to be sure. But I was home again.

Here is the irony. Within days of arriving home and beginning the R & R part of my sabbatical time, it hit. Somewhere, somehow, I contracted a respiratory infection that would lay me low for over a week. It turned out not to be the dreaded COVID virus (I tested negative for over 5 days). Whatever I had put me in a sort of fog and drained me of any real energy. It might have been RSV or something else. I was, as usual, too stubborn to go to the doctor – and what could they do about it anyway. I would just follow the accepted protocols – and drink lots of fluids, get plenty of rest, etc. etc. etc. If the cough worsened, or the congestion persisted, then I would seek medical help.

Finally, I’m over it. I have my wits about me. I think I am back. That bit I wrote about a week ago on radio silence was eerily prescient. But it’s time now for some deeper thinking and I am finally able to do it. Sorry for the delay. I’ll be sending some of those thoughts your way very soon.