Chaos Better: Fall 2023 Cowley Magazine

CHAOS

BETTER

1.

STRIFE

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STRIFE Violence

and the promise of God visiting Jesus in

Prison

Conflict

Jesus in our midst

Breaking Apart A Painful Legacy to be confronted

The Black Christ

of Stamford, Connecticut

BETTER

CHAOS

in this issue

Fall 2023 Volume 50 • Number 1 SSJE.org/cowley

about the series Chaos Better tries to sit with what is hard: those places where we are struggling, whether on a personal, interpersonal, or global level. It recognizes and offers ways to navigate the very real chaos within us, between us, and around us – from reckoning with America’s racial past, to dealing with community conflict, from asking questions of theodicy in light of global violence, to wrestling with mental illness.

cover

“Crucified Everywhere,“ by Luke Ditewig. This image was taken at Campus by the Sea on Catalina Island, California, on August 5, 2021. “On a trail up to the central ridge of the desert island, the fence reminds me of life beyond the remote canyon’s Christian camp. As on trails at Emery House, the crucifix startles at first.

Wherever we are, amid wondrous beauty, carrying deep pain, and in any kind of strife, as on the cross, Jesus holds all.”

My dear friends, Growing up in the 1960s, one of my favorite television shows was “Get Smart.” I loved seeing what Maxwell Smart and his partner Agent 99 got up to week by week. To my eightyear-old mind, it was about good guys, doing battle with the bad guys, and always coming out the winners, with the aid of Max’s shoe phone and the inevitable cone of silence. To this day, as guests arrive for retreat, and we invite them into a time of silence and prayer, I tell them that the cone of silence is about to descend.

While the show was about the battle between good and evil, it was no accident that this battle played out between the agents of Control and Kaos. While that subtlety escaped me at the time, I can’t help but reflect, sixty years later, on how universal is the desire for control, as well as the struggle against chaos.

Like many of you, I recently had my own experience of chaos in my life, when I lost control. In August, I finally came down with a mild case of Covid-19. While my symptoms were not severe, what I did experience was a loss

of physical control of my body, as the very real experience of Covid fatigue set in. For nearly two weeks, all I seemed to be aware of was how tired I was. Everything I would normally do in a day, I could not, as I lay in bed, or fell asleep in my chair. It was clear I was not in control and had to submit to the chaos of feeling unwell.

While my personal battle between control and chaos lasted, I was profoundly aware that what was happening to me was a microcosm of something much larger. The question for me – as I experienced this deep fatigue – was not “How do I regain control,” but “How can I be faithful in the midst of this chaos?”

It is, I believe a question all of us ask countless times throughout our lives. It is a question this issue of Cowley explores as we ask in different ways: What is God’s invitation to us in the midst of the mess and chaos of life? It is our hope that as you reflect on these articles, you will be able to identify moments in your own life when you were aware of Jesus saying to the wind and waves battering you, “Peace, be still.”

This issue of Cowley comes to you with our gratitude for your abiding friendship, and the assurance of our prayers.

A Letter from the Superior

These last several months have been busy ones for the Brothers. At the end of July, Brothers Jonathan, Jack, and I spent a weekend in Bracebridge, Ontario, which was once the home of our Canadian Congregation. We were there to rededicate our community cemetery and were joined by nearly ninety people who traveled from many parts of Ontario, witnessing to the personal transformations that continue to be the fruit of our Canadian Brothers’ ministry in that place. Over the late spring and summer, we also said farewell to Sean Glenn and Michael Hardgrove, both of whom concluded that God was not calling them to a life in our community. At the same time, we welcomed Jamie Nelson to test his vocation with us as a postulant. As Jamie settles into this life, please pray for him, as well as the gift of vocations to our Society.

Faithfully in the One who speaks peace into the storms of life, James Koester, SSJE Superior

Brs. James Koester, Jack Crowley & Jonathan Maury, along with The Most Reverend Anne Germond, Archbishop of Algoma and Moosonee, and nearly ninety Canadian friends, at the rededication of the SSJE cemetery in Bracebridge.

Navigating the Strife of a Ubuntu: I am because you are.

– Southern African Proverb Imagine a world where one sees another and identifies that there is a sacred interconnection albeit mysterious with that person based solely on being equally created in the image of God. I long for such a world. Conversely and sadly, we live in a racialized world, one that does not emulate the dream of God. The need for racial reconciliation and healing is a journey and what I call our “lifetime work.” Julian of Norwich’s popular optimism (“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”) will start to come true as members of the human family lean into ubuntu, which is translated as “I am because you are.”

Navigating the strife of a racialized world comes naturally for me, a Black Episcopal priest who is a native Mississippian serving as the rector of a large, predominately White parish in Memphis, Tennessee.

Indeed, I bear myriad stories, experiences, and observations about the sin of racism. Fortunately, I am not polarized by them as I choose daily to see the image of God in all people. This navigation path was imparted to me by my

Racialized World

parents, grandparents, and an array of wise mentors who could talk about race, hope, and the dream of God for hours.

The realities of hatred, bigotry, exclusionary behaviors, microaggressions, inequity, injustice, and beliefs by some of White supremacy are revealed in diverse ways across all spaces. In some circumstances, the confluence of these forces has resulted in violence and death that are horrific parts of our past and present. I believe such unrest will be in our future if the Church fails to act proactively concerning the last two vows of the Baptismal Covenant:”Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?” We energetically respond, “I will, with God’s help.” We also unknowingly or knowingly either minimize or disregard what comes with racism despite the hurt and harm it causes the human family.

Thanks to an omnipresent God, community, an unwavering faith

A Letter from the Fellowship and prayer life, and a discipleship grounded in my affiliation with SSJE, I manage “chaos better” as I follow Jesus, the way of Love. The wisdom of SSJE blesses my pilgrimage with practices to better navigate the questions and challenges of strife, particularly matters of race, which I believe are the “elephant in the room” almost everywhere.

My hope concerning race matters re m a i n s c o n s t a n t , a n d I a m encouraged when I share in and see commitments to the courageous work of racial reconciliation and healing. This I see closely in the parish I serve, where increasing numbers of parishioners are participating in “Sacred Ground.”

A program of “Becoming Beloved Community” – the Episcopal Church’s promise to racial healing, reconciliation, and justice in our personal lives, ministries, and

society – Sacred Ground reflects on chapters of America’s racial history, while weaving in threads of family story, context, class, politics, and more that are parts of the tapestry of one’s own life. It is one example of the transformation that comes with intentionality.

Followers of Jesus are called to walk by faith and not by sight, which I know makes navigating the strife of a racialized world possible and hope-filled. With God’s help, dedication to the concept of ubuntu, and prayerful action, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

The Rev. Ollie V. Rencher is Rector of Grace-St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Memphis, Tennessee, and a member of the Fellowship of Saint John.

we stand on

SACRED GROUND Learn more about “Sacred Ground,” a film- and readings-based dialogue series on race, grounded in faith, from The Episcopal Church.

www.episcopalchurch.org/sacred-ground/

How can we as Christians hold together a belief in a just and loving God, when throughout the world today we continue to see such suffering, cropping up in fresh conflicts every year?

violence and the promise of God

Geoffrey Tristram, SSJE

“What are you going to do about it?”

It was over fifty years ago. I was a child, but I still remember the week when it all started. Sitting in front of the television I watched the scenes of mangled buildings, ambulance sirens, dead bodies. The armed conflict, the “Troubles,” had begun in Northern Ireland. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, but I knew there were two sides, Republicans and Loyalists, sometimes called Catholics and Protestants, and they seemed to hate each other. And for the whole of the rest of my life in England, virtually every news program, every day, featured the Troubles. Every Sunday in church, for decades, we would “pray for peace in Northern Ireland. We pray for peace.”

The Troubles were for me a daily reminder of a world in chaos. Why did God allow such suffering, such bloodshed? What was the point of praying for peace? As I write these words in April 2023, Joe Biden is in Ireland, as part of the twenty-fifth anniversary commemorations of the Good Friday Agreement, which was signed on April 10, 1998, and which heralded the end of the Troubles. After so many long years of violence, and despite the sporadic signs of continued conflict, there is now much hope for a lasting peace and reconciliation. It perhaps makes one nod in agreement with those famous words, memorably quoted by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” Yet there are countless men, women, and children whose lives have been forever shattered by those years of conflict, and

who live with the dreadful consequences of loss and bereavement. How can we as Christians hold together a belief in a just and loving God, when throughout the world today we continue to see such suffering, cropping up in fresh conflicts every year?

Shortly after I was ordained, I started to struggle with this very question.

How could I, with integrity, preach about a God of love and justice when every night I watched heartbreaking pictures of death and destruction on the news? And it was not just Northern Ireland. It seemed that the chaos of war and brokenness extended right across the globe. In the Book of Genesis, God too seemed to notice this, for “he saw that the earth had become corrupt, and was filled with violence” (Genesis 6:11).

In my prayers I said rather angrily to God: “Well you made the earth God, so what are you going to do about it?” By way of reply, God, who rather scarily likes to answer our prayers, led me into the very heart of the violence! My bishop wrote to me and asked me to join a group of youth leaders who were organizing summer camps for both Catholic and Protestant young people from inner-city Belfast. So we flew to Belfast, and our first task was recruitment: we went into Catholic and Protestant schools, we met students, and we invited them to share a holiday with other students whom they would normally never have met, and whom they often either feared or despised. Some of them were suspicious, and said, “No!” And I soon found out why. I had never seen such a divided and polarized society! There was an invisible line right through the city; cross that road, and you were in Republican territory; cross that street, and the ubiquitous graffiti told you that you had entered a Loyalist street.

The children either went to a state high school if they were Protestants, or, if Catholics, to a separate, parochial school. Separate schools, separate sports centers, separate shops, separate lives. Young people, growing up, never met young people on the other side. Ever. Ignorance

I was angry with God and demanded to know how God was going to mend the chaos and violence of the world that God had created.

of the other led to fear, and then to hatred. Gangs would roam the streets stopping strangers and asking if they were Catholic or Protestant, and God help them if they gave the wrong answer. (The people of Belfast did, though, have a great sense of humor and were incredibly kind. They would relate the humorous, yet telling anecdote of the Indian who was stopped on the street and asked, “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”

He answered, “I am a Hindu.”

To which they replied, “Yes, but are you a Catholic Hindu or a Protestant Hindu?”)

To bring these young people from such a divided society out into the countryside to attempt to spend two weeks together was a risky experience. For most of them, it was the first time they had ever spoken to someone from “the other side.” At first, kids from the two schools would stare at each other with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. But then, slowly, they began to talk and share with each other, to have fun together at the swimming pool, to discuss their experiences and learn from each other, to organize birthday parties, to pray together, to fall in love with each other. Their lives were changed, and so was mine. I believe that, by the grace of God, our summer camps made a difference, however small, to the conflict, and helped mend some of the brokenness.

The experience of those camps made an enormous difference to me.

Before I went to Northern Ireland, I was angry with God and demanded to know how God was going to mend the chaos and violence of the world that God had created. I suppose I wanted God to come down in power and glory and suddenly make everything alright – a kind of deus ex machina! But during those years in Northern Ireland, I realized that that is not how God works. God prefers to use us, to work with us, to bring healing and reconciliation into our broken world. In a small way, God used those summer holidays, which we organized with immense care and with lots of faith, and then worked with us through them to change lives. This was the most important lesson I learned from Northern Ireland, which I believe is of fundamental importance for each of us who seek to follow Jesus and who long to help mend God’s broken world.

It is a truth expressed so memorably by Saint Augustine in words which are very close to my heart: “Without God we cannot. Without us God will not.”

I encountered during my sojourn in Northern Ireland so many men and women who were doing heroic work of reconciliation. They often took huge risks, putting themselves in personal danger, crossing lines to try to mend what was broken. In particular, I have huge admiration for two seemingly ordinary women, Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan Maguire, who together started a peace movement, “The Peace People,” which inspired men and women from both sides of the conflict to demonstrate against violence and terrorism. After six months, the violence had declined by 70%. Williams and Maguire won the Nobel Peace Prize for this remarkable achievement. All these years later, as I watch the ceremonies to mark the anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement, I think of such courageous men and women with great thanksgiving. God was working with them and through them. Just one person filled with courage, faith, and valor can not just make a difference, but can turn the world upside down. And that person could easily be us!

Each one of us can make a difference. Each one of us can light a candle to help lighten the darkness. Even small things (like a simple, two-week summer camp) can make a huge difference.

My three years working amidst the Troubles helped me to preach again with integrity. I learned that God is not absent from the chaos, but is right in the middle of it. God was there, without any doubt, fully present and working with and through men and women of good will, to bring healing and hope. God is not a deus ex machina, who enters the scene with an explosion of power to make everything better. That is not how God works. In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius of Loyola describes God rather as a deus operarius, which means a God who is “working” or “laboring.” David Fleming SJ writes, “God is an active God. He is ever ‘at work’ (operarius) in people’s lives, inviting, directing, guiding, proposing, suggesting.” I saw this time and again. I witnessed Christ’s presence inspiring and guiding and strengthening those who gave their all. I saw

God is not absent from the chaos, but is right in the middle of it.

it in their eyes and in their hearts. The way that God can work with us and through us is a great mystery, but for me it is beautifully expressed in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem “As Kingfishers Catch Fire”: “for Christ plays in ten thousand places / lovely in limbs and lovely in eyes not his.”

Newly ordained and faced with a world of chaos and violence, I spoke angrily to God: “You made the world, God. What are you going to do about it?” In truth I still feel anger and incomprehension at times. The ongoing sight of such pervasive human suffering still leaves me bewildered and silent. When I watch the news now and see the terrible suffering of the people of the Ukraine, when I hear the heartbreaking tally of victims of gun violence, when I see and feel all around me the consequences of our voracious abuse of the environment, it still leaves me feeling bewildered and silent. But that I can still preach about a God of love and justice is largely thanks to my time in Northern Ireland. I learned many things there, perhaps most fundamentally that I was asking God the wrong question: not, “What are you going to do about it?” but rather, “What are we going to do about it?”

Lord make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred let me sow love; Where there is injury, pardon; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light; And where there is sadness, joy.1

1

Prayer attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi.

explore whmyonks we love being P R AY E R SILENCE WORSHIP SIMPLICITY PA S S I O N COMMITMENT S TA B I L I T Y COMMUNITY ADVENTURE SERVICE

all are welcome

I came to realize that Christ had gently been calling me all my life, patiently waiting until I had exhausted the efforts and plans which I could not make happen on my own. The time had come to look around, see, and accept the invitation God had been making all along.

– Jonathan

catchthelife.org

An invitation to a vital ministry.

Curtis Almquist, SSJE

visiting Jesus in

prison The keepers are uniformed, professional, and follow an exacting protocol. Every visit I am greeted with pages of instructions: what I may not do, may not wear, may not bring. I submit paperwork and my ID. I am physically inspected head to toe and under my tongue, then scanned.

A massive steel door slides open. I am stamped with ultraviolet ink, to be verified on my exit. I await another steel door to slide open. I walk 100 yards to a family meeting room where I await yet another steel door to be opened. Guards oversee. I am instructed where I may sit, in a chair whose location is framed by a painted square on the floor.

The prisoner whom I meet is escorted in through another door. I stand.

We greet briefly. We smile. We sit, he, too, in a designated square. After some welcoming conversation, I suggest we share silence and stillness for some moments, and then either the prisoner or I will pray aloud. And then I listen. I mostly listen. The time is precious, and we talk earnestly about important things. We often share some gentle laughter and slow tears. We stand to say goodbye very briefly, and then he sits to await his escort. And then I depart, a repeat process.

Jesus shares an arresting allegory about meeting him, oftentimes quite disguised: “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

– Matthew 25:37-39 We may hear Jesus’ words in two complementary ways: •

Descriptively, insofar as we experience a face and form of Jesus among the poor and imprisoned, a Jesus whom we will miss if we seek and meet Jesus only among those whose lives are privileged.

•

Prescriptively, insofar as we are called to bring an intervention of love to those who are otherwise among the least, and the last, and the lost, to whom Jesus is passionately and preferentially inclined.

My own heart has been particularly broken open to those who are imprisoned. Listening to prisoners’ stories, I am so aware that many of them did not have much of a chance for good. By what was present or by what was absent, they were deeply wounded, maybe even before they were born.

Not I. I was raised in a family full of love, provided with good education and opportunities to study music, play sports, and travel. My health has been good. I do not recall being afraid while I was growing up. I am a white male, so aware of my unearned, privileged life. More poignantly than ever before, I hear Jesus’ words directed to me personally: “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required” (Luke 12:48). To paraphrase Saint Paul, I am working out my salvation (Philippians 2:12).

Some years ago I shared a number of conversations with a young man who was awaiting sentencing. He told me that his greatest fear about his impending imprisonment was that he would be forgotten. For prisoners, their most meaningful, yet most complicated relationships may be with those to whom they have belonged – their family members, friends, and colleagues. These loved ones (or former loved ones) may create distance from their imprisoned relative, friend, or colleague as a way to redress their own grief, anger, revenge, complicity, or shame. Not always, but often. So many who live behind bars do feel forgotten. Likewise, prisoners may themselves forget or try to forget their former life as they deal with their own grief, anger, revenge, depression, or shame in their imprisonment. They are also liable to forget meaningful things about themselves – what had made their life distinctive, enjoyable, and helpful; how freely they formerly could exercise their own will to make decisions; where they would choose to be, and with whom. So much of this can be lost on a prisoner. Many prisoners also feel lost in the trauma of the judicial system while they face trial, await sentencing, and endure their incarceration. Many prisoners feel lost from whom and what had given their life meaning, and lost from hope for the future. And this loss surely becomes a second form of imprisonment.

Visiting prisoners does not redress the injustice that may have conspired in their incarceration, nor does it address all their personal needs. Far, far from it. But visiting a prisoner out of love, not out of duty, may give them a rare experience of being greeted, even rescued, as a child of God whom God loves.

When Jesus begins his public ministry, he says he has come “to proclaim release to the captives” (Luke 4:16-21). Some prisoners were physically set free; however for far more prisoners, the internal corollary is their own release from self-sentencing, finding freedom from living in self-damnation with the belief they are beyond hope, or help, or love.

Love, and love alone, heals. Love is what makes us most fully human, and yet the penal system colludes in squelching this most core need.

Every prisoner will be assigned an identification number which designates their penal institution identity, classifies their daily regimen, and connects with the reasons and restrictions for their incarceration. For many years I corresponded with a prisoner. For the return address on his envelopes, he always included the title, “Mr. _______,” as did I in my responses to him. “Mr.” was a toehold into his fuller identity. He knew himself to be more than an inmate, more than an ID number, and he was clinging to that.

Bryan Stevenson, the charismatic attorney and ambassador for the imprisoned, writes that “each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. If someone tells a lie, that person is not just a liar. If you take something that doesn’t belong to you, you are not just a thief. Even if you kill someone, you’re not just a killer.”1 And yet, a prisoner left alone may be powerless to claim their fuller, higher identity. Their soul is starving.

That a prisoner is a child of God – still a child of God – is a truth that may elude them. Prisoners especially need an intervention of love.

For us who profess to be followers of Jesus, this great need among prisoners is a great invitation for those of us not incarcerated. We don’t enter the prison to adjudicate or arbitrate; we are not family systems counselors or psychotherapists. We enter prison to bequeath personhood to prisoners by our presence, by the light teeming from our face, by our being interested friends and loving listeners. We can fix almost nothing, yet we can convey such a bounty of love, dignity, 1 Bryan Stevenson in Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2015), 289-290.

Prisoners especially need an intervention of love.

kindness, simply through our respectful interest in this all-too-forgotten prisoner, who is a child of God. Saint Teresa of Avila, the 16th-century Spanish nun, said “Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion is to look out to the world. Yours are the feet with which Christ is to go about doing good. Yours are the hands with which Christ is to bless all people now.”

In Christ’s love, your coming into the presence of someone who is imprisoned may help liberate them, from the inside out, from their own hell, and help them claim Jesus’ gift of healing and hope, even amidst their incarceration.

In such an encounter, we will also be taught. We are missing Jesus if we are not meeting poor Jesus. We experience a powerful and necessary revelation of Jesus’ presence and power among the poor and imprisoned. Not only do we serve Jesus there among the poor and imprisoned, but we also see Jesus there among them. An old insight about prayer is that you cannot pray if you are too full – bloated by too much food or drink, or bloated by too much privilege. We in the West can become glutted by our own privilege, and the truths of the Gospel can become dulled or pale in our plenty. Again and again in the psalms we read of a thirsting after, hungering for, longing toward God. Through work serving among those who are less privileged, we may get in touch again with this longing and hunger. In my experience, the poor – including among them the imprisoned – can give witness to a need for and openness to God that is oftentimes so transparent. God’s presence to them is powerful. I have certainly discovered this in the witness of prisoners, so many of whom are otherwise powerless. Prisoners often cling to Jesus’ promise of his presence and power because they have no other options. I find prisoners’ testimony uniquely credible. In meeting with them, my own faith has been reawakened and made more real.

The need for this kind of ministry among the imprisoned is significant, especially in America. The United States today has the highest incarceration rate in the world: 629 people imprisoned per 100,000.2 The United States comprises 5% of the world’s population, and we imprison 25% of the world’s prisoners. In the United States, our prison population in l970 was 300,000; in 2020 our prison population was 2.3 million. I highly recommend the book Waiting For An Echo: The Madness of American Incarceration, by Christine Montrose, M.D. Prisoners are largely hidden and easily feel forgotten, because they often are. Here is a huge need for us to bear the beams of Jesus’ light, and life, and love to those who often live in the valley of the shadow of death: both prisoners and their families. And there is also an equally-huge opportunity to listen and learn from prisoners who understand, from the inside out, what Jesus meant when he claimed his mission “to bind up the broken hearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound” (Luke 4:16-21).

2

World Prison Brief (October 2021).

When I return to the Monastery, Brothers often ask about my visit to the prison. Brothers know I will not speak of any details whatsoever of my prison conversations; however they are kindly, caringly asking about me and my time away. My recurring line is that I am so grateful for this opportunity. I am deeply grateful. What I do not often name are my tears about how appallingly bad this is. Heartbreaking. Prisons can be hell.

Hell for prisoners, hell for their families and friends, hell for those who have been hurt along the way. Prison can also be hell for the prison staff, who suffer high rates of post-traumatic stress disorder and a suicide rate twice as high as police officers. Life expectancy for corrections officers is 62.4 years compared to 74.2 years for the general population. Everyone is suffering in prison.3 I encourage you to inquire locally about opportunities to know prisoners, parolees, their families, or corrections’ staff. Where could you visit, how could you help, with whom could you correspond, how can you pray?

You will be blessed in this, and you will be a blessing. If you are afraid to go into a prison, I don’t think you need be afraid. Everyone but you is imprisoned; everyone else is under guard. You will be safe; and who knows but that you may bring salvation with you.

You may find helpful information and inspiration from the Equal Justice Initiative’s “Re-Entry Program.”4 If being involved with the imprisoned seems daunting or overwhelming, just remember how Jesus was so attentive to individuals. He showed us how meaningful it is to do small things with great love.

Edward Everett Hale (1822-1909), an historian and Unitarian minister in Boston, facing overwhelming needs in his own day, said: I am only one, but still, I am one.

I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.

3

National Institute of Corrections

4

https://eji.org/projects/prep-reentry-program.

a letter from the

Editor

Lucas Hall, SSJE

We have experienced a great deal of chaos in recent times. The Church has seen upheaval and disruption, human societies have undergone war and pestilence, the environment around us gives rise to fire and flood, and our own individual lives are marked by pressing external and internal concerns, from housing prices to mental health crises.

These shifts and instabilities can feel deeply alienating, strange, and disheartening.

But the reality of the Church’s history is one marked by a great deal of perseverance in the midst of chaos, survival, sometimes even thriving, as an anchor and refuge in the midst of the storm that life often brings.

This shifting and instability can even be the breaking open that leads to greater or deeper encounter with God, for individuals, communities, even the world writ large.

With this issue, the Brothers have sought to explore various aspects of this experience of chaos, felt individually and communally. In particular, we have desired to express how the strife and difficulty we have encountered might actually be a path to a fuller experience and

knowing of God. As you read and pray with this issue, we hope you will see paths forward in your own life, to discover God more fully even in the chaos of the world.

Strife

watercolor (2023) – Luke Ditewig, SSJE

Conflict Jesus in our midst

How the inevitable tensions of community life convert us.

Jack Crowley, SSJE

It was about 5:15 in the morning, and I was in the shower. There was shampoo in my hair, and my eyes were closed. I was busy imagining an argument with a Brother, which probably wouldn’t even happen.

The argument was over dried fruit. You see, I had been getting the impression that a particular Brother of mine didn’t think I was replacing the dried fruit often enough. (This all happened back when I was a postulant, and my job was to be the pantry monitor. One task of being the pantry monitor was making sure our supply of dried fruit in the pantry never ran out.)

Now, this particular Brother, in my experience, was the biggest consumer of dried fruit in the whole Monastery. One day, that Brother walked over to a piece of paper we kept clipped to a cupboard in the pantry. That piece of paper had a list of tasks the pantry monitor was supposed to do. I noticed my Brother giving the list a long look, then looking at me, then looking back at the list. Finally, he walked over to me and said that refilling the dried fruit was on the list of tasks for the pantry monitor.

Then he walked away. It was a simple enough exchange.

And yet, there I was the next morning in the shower, unable to stop thinking about what I should have said to him or what I would say if he mentioned something about the dried fruit again. I can’t remember how long this went on or how it resolved, but here I am, about five years later, and I still remember that moment.

There is no denying the fact that life in a community can be tough. Back when I was an inquirer, it seemed like every single Brother warned me about the difficulties of life in community. Of course, I believed them, but there’s a massive difference between hearing about something and actually experiencing it firsthand. Try to imagine thirteen men of all different ages and backgrounds living together in one large house.

They all share their meals together, run a church collectively, operate a non-profit business as a team, and sleep in bedrooms the size of walk-in

closets. Most of these men have committed to doing this for the rest of their lives. This may sound like heaven, hell, or purgatory to you. I would say it’s a little bit of all three!

Life in a community can be challenging, but it is also incredibly rewarding. Living at SSJE with my Brothers has been one of the most profound experiences of my life. In particular, life in community has taught me the value of conflict and how it is an unavoidable yet potentially meaningful and transformative aspect of life.

In all our various roles and time together, inevitably we will grate against one another. We are spending so much time together and making so many decisions, that conflict is bound to happen. This is not an occasional occurrence, it is a day-to-day reality.

The chapter in our Rule of Life entitled “The Challenges of Life in Community” states that, in community life, “tensions and friction are inevitably woven into the fabric of everyday life.” This is one of my favorite lines from the Rule, and I find myself repeating it like a mantra on some days. I’m always struck by the choice of the word “everyday.”

Personally, I might have preferred “weekly” or “monthly,” but such terms might not accurately reflect the reality.

Consider how God has used the conflicts in your life for your own conversion.

Consider your own day-to-day life. Have you ever experienced a day without any tension or friction? Think about all the roles you may be playing in your life: as a family member, as a coworker, as a citizen, as a partner, or as a Christian. When have you ever gone a whole day without experiencing some conflict in at least one of those roles? (Now, if you want to know what it’s like to be a monk, imagine experiencing all of those roles simultaneously with the same small group of people).

Whether you’re a monk or not, tension is inevitable in relationships.

That same chapter from our Rule of Life goes on to say, “tensions and friction are not to be regarded as signs of failure. Christ uses them for our conversion.” For me, this is a very powerful and important statement.

It argues that conflict can be transformative.

When you experience conflict in a relationship, do you consider it to be a sign of failure? Do you think that the presence of tension means that a mistake has been made? Do you treat it as something to be remedied or overcome? Try to imagine what it would feel like in your own life if your answer to all of those questions was “No.” Imagine what it would look like if you experienced conflict as an opportunity. What if God really is using the tension in your life as a means for your own conversion?

Consider how Jesus responded to conflict within his own community during his earthly ministry. One of my favorite anecdotes from the Gospels comes from the ninth chapter of Mark, where the disciples are engaged in an argument about who among them is the greatest. I find it both comforting and humorous that the disciples, despite being in the presence of God incarnate, are preoccupied with themselves and constantly comparing their status with one another. You would think that being so close to the only-begotten Son of God would result in permanent bliss and solve all human problems, but the disciples prove that wrong! We, like they, remain human.

One of the many reasons I love this passage is that Jesus immediately addresses the conflict. I imagine that he can feel the tension in the air and knows it needs rectifying. Jesus asks his disciples, “What were you arguing about on the way?” Notice how Jesus doesn’t ignore the conflict, nor does he start addressing it by pointing fingers. He simply asks a question to initiate a dialogue between himself and his disciples.

His question is an invitation to transformation, an invitation to address the conflict and make something out of it.

So, the next time you find yourself reeling from an argument, try to imagine what it would be like if Jesus asked you a similar question as he asked his disciples. What would you say if Jesus walked in and asked you what you were arguing about? Try to envision what he would respond to you as well.

I firmly believe that Jesus is right there in the midst of our most serious conflicts. In fact, I also believe that Jesus is present in the midst of our

most petty arguments as well. During times of conflict and arguments, it is easy to push Jesus aside or think that we will simply have to wait to reconnect with him after the problem is over. However, when we do this, we miss the chance to discover Jesus right in the midst of our struggles and to allow him to help us grow through them.

Think back and consider how God has used previous conflicts in your life for your own conversion. In my time living in community, I have seen this happen many times. I have seen my community get closer together after going through conflicts. I have seen many Brothers disagree over something but have their relationship improve from navigating through that disagreement.

After all, conflict can force us to communicate. This may not always be pleasant, but it is usually helpful. I have been a participant in many difficult conversations during my time as a monk in this community.

These discussions can be excruciating and draining, but from my experience, they are worth it. Some of the best changes I have witnessed in our community have arisen from such dialogues. The challenging conversations that may emerge from conflicts aid us in gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves and the state of our relationships.

I find that one of the best feelings in the world is being able to look back upon difficult times of conflict in the community and have a laugh, knowing that the storm has passed, and things are better now. The Brother whom I thought was admonishing me about the dried fruit has been resting in heaven for about three years. When I look at the dried fruit now and remember the brief time we shared together, I both laugh and cry, reflecting on the full range of experiences we went through as Brothers in community. I can’t help but think that in heaven, when we are reunited with our loved ones, we will be able to do the same together again.

Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, did not lead a life free of conflict.

He freely and fully entered the maelstrom that is humanity at large. He did so with grace and tact beyond measure. We are called to follow his example every day of our lives. We cannot evade conflict; instead, we must embrace it. When we do so, we also welcome the transformation it brings.

letters from

Thought you would like to know how our “Lenten Study Group” went.

Due to the lively discussions we went until June 15 instead of May 4. Everyone loved the topic, agreed they hadn’t looked at the prayer in such depth before, and praying it now meant so much more. The sharing was deep at times, light hearted and way off track at other times, new bonds were made, and they all want another “Study Group” in the fall! Thank you for providing us with such a wonderful guide. – Karen S.

I have so enjoyed the Cowley magazine on the Lord’s Prayer. I have found this prayer over the many years of my life to have felt somewhat ubiquitous to say the least. I would recite it in church and wonder what it was I was saying. At times it felt meaningless, which indeed made me sad because I know this is the prayer that Jesus taught his disciples and it’s a prayer that I believe is prayed worldwide by many different kinds of people. So your booklet gave me a lifeline back to this prayer.

I savored it to make it last all of Lent. I did something with it every day and I didn’t want to let it go. I didn’t want Lent to be over because I wanted to continue savoring it, which, of course, I know I can do at any time; it doesn’t have to be restricted to a season.

What did I do with it? Here are just a few examples of how your booklet inspired me. I wrote my own version of the Lord’s Prayer. I now have a completely different understanding of what my daily bread is. I’m so grateful for the inclusion of R S Thomas’ wonderful poem The Coming.

I’ve put into practice substituting someone’s name as I recite the prayer: “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name in Brady.” My intention is to continue to do this by inserting the name of someone I love or someone I find difficult to love for a whole week at a time.

As you can see, I could go on and on and I probably will with this little booklet, reviewing it and refreshing my memory of my time in Lent with it. Saying the Lord’s Prayer has taken on a whole new life in me.

As always, my dear Brothers, you have given me something to treasure, something timeless, something holy. – Barbara K. Thank you to all those who shared feedback on the latest issue of Cowley.

Your comments inspire, bolster, and challenge us. We invite your thoughts at SSJE.org/cowley.

our Readers

I have used this offering with my parish throughout Lent. We gather for simple soup and bread and share our fears, hopes, and wonder through the thoughtful questions. Thank you. – Jane B.

breaking apart Lucas Hall, SSJE

It was November 2011 when I began to plan my suicide.

No particular event prompted it. My grandmother had recently died, which was sad, but not unexpected, and she had lived a long life. I had, just a few weeks prior, lost a local election, but I never really expected to win; I was thrilled that I simply hadn’t come in last place, that I’d convinced thousands of real-life people with jobs and lives to vote for me. To be honest, the personal and professional busyness was probably a distraction from the deeper problem.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety (like many of us), and I took pills, and they worked well, and I basically agree with the diagnosis. But leaving it there doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel true to what I lived. I certainly experienced depression and anxiety to a degree that would register on a clinical level, but I do not think that’s the full story. I’m convinced that these were the psychological damages wrought by a deeper, fundamental problem.

I felt awash, adrift, and alone, isolated from people, from the world around me, from any sort of meaning or purpose. Everything was consumed by an unshakable nihilism, a beholding of the world and seeing a bunch of stuff happening, much of it awful, all of it chaotic, and none of it seeming to point to any coherent meaning. And this nihilism sprung from a particular philosophy, involving but not limited to a disdain for religion, wrapped up in a heavy, heavy individualism.

This perspective was somehow the apotheosis of the free human

being: no gods, no masters, no bonds unbroken, no fetters to impede the possibility of it all. There was a cold, heady rush to it, which was deeply alluring to a young man with an active mind and an attraction to argumentation.

And yet, rather than making me feel free, this viewpoint left me so isolated that I wanted to die – not to hurt myself or to stick it to others; simply, to slip the bonds of an existence I found so devoid of meaning.

This was not resolved until I was brought so low, so desperate, that I began to question my fundamental philosophy, including its disdain for religion. Striving after and encountering God – a God simultaneously with relational personhood and identified with the principle of existence itself (“I am that I am,” explains Yahweh to Moses); a God simultaneously transcendent Alpha and Omega and immanent Christ in-the-flesh – was for me the necessary antidote to that corrosive nihilism.

Finding this God, and this faith, solved the problem. But, of course, it didn’t solve the problems. This is not some story about how everything was made better and perfect and lovely because I found religion. I was – I am – still prone to experience the strife of any living person, strife both internal and external. This strife can lead to places of extreme pain and loss, even to the point of death. My encounter with God, and my cultivating of that relationship, was vital to my surviving that strife. But the clamor did not cease. God did not just give me perfect clarity, calm, and contentment to serenely abide in the midst of trouble, blissfully unaware of the chaos around or within me. Of course, the Father did not give the Son this, either, and if we are to walk that Way of Christ, we will need to pick up and face the strife again. The path we are called to walk is not away from strife, but through it. We must take up our cross, put on the mind of Christ, and keep stepping forward.

Inward Strife If we wish to talk about the strife of our communities, cultures, and societies, I believe we need, at some point, to talk about the strife people endure internally. Ideas of social sin have become justifiably more popular in some Church circles, but without a connection to something inward, it risks becoming a simple political agenda. The Letter of James describes this well: “Those conflicts and disputes among you, where do they come from? Do they not come from your cravings that are at war within you? You want something and do not have it, so you commit murder. And you covet something and cannot obtain it, so you engage in disputes and conflicts. You do not have because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive because you ask wrongly, in order to spend what you get on your pleasures.”

I think a corollary idea here is that the heart of sin is fear, and specifically, the fear that a desire will go unmet. God is regularly described as a God of provision, in whom we can trust. When we begin not to trust in that provision, we seek to seize things for ourselves. This inappropriate

seizure is a reasonable way to describe most individual acts we call sin, whether it’s around food, money, sex, power, acclaim, or anything else. The twin maladies of vainglory and despair are mirror images of each other, and like many paired ideas, are only a brief distance apart.

Vainglory places us at the pinnacle where we ourselves are the provider in whom we trust. But a pinnacle is a precarious place to stand, and when we inevitably tumble down, despair denies any ability to attain what we want or need.

Trust, then, is necessary. How do we attain it? I think it’s crucial that we look within ourselves starkly and honestly, again and again, to discern what our desires are, why we may have them, and how they’re related to God and the likeness of God that we have been called to grow into. In the gospels, we see Jesus proclaiming things such as “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” We see him lamenting in Gethsemane in one gospel account, while spurning the idea of desiring a different outcome in another. So with Paul, we see a consistent description of conflicting desires, doing what he does not want, failing to do what he does want, desiring God to remove the thorn in his side and not receiving it, so finding a way to boast in that weakness.

We may see these examples simply as the struggle to submit one outcome to the other, the flesh to the spirit. That’s a valid way to interpret it. But I believe this risks starting with the conclusion. We know the answers we’re supposed to have, so we can tend to jump to them without genuinely struggling and striving. We’re left confused that things haven’t shifted, that prayer feels dry, or that we’re not making the progress we thought we should. Instead of embracing the full logic of the Incarnation – this idea that divinity and humanity, spirit and flesh, do belong together and are reconcilable through the weakness, death, and triumph of the cross – we jump straight to the ending, expecting triumph.

I am reminded of our founder, Richard Meux Benson, and his words to monks about the “lifelong novitiate.” The stage of struggling, striving, taking steps forward, and being formed never really stops until the very end. We “graduate” to the next stage only at the end of this life, not

The path we are called to walk is not away from strife, but through it.

before. This approach – which both expects and embraces the lifelong work and struggle of being formed in the image of Christ, of listening to that voice that speaks with the full harmony of divinity and humanity – is the cross to take up daily.

This idea also appears in our Christian understanding of discernment.

Fundamental to the idea of discernment is that we discern between goods. Put another way, if Option A is holy and Option B is sinful, no discernment is needed; pick Option A. Discernment only comes into play if Options A and B are both good, and both can speak with different but holy voices. This might seem daunting – and it can be. But the ability to encounter multiple experiences within ourselves and our encounters with God – to embrace them all and trust that they are reconcilable, even if we can’t yet see how – is an exercise of the fundamentals of the Christian faith and of the Christ in whom all things hold together. All things – even you.

Becoming Whole I have noticed something about my own prayer. When I don’t pray, I feel easily distracted, caught up in one thing or another, fixated on things in ways that are not always helpful. The thoughts can become picky, nagging, or consuming. They distract from God. But when I do pray, and tend to that prayer wholeheartedly, I begin to see new treasures of God in everything – even the struggles. No longer nagging inconsistencies, they become the distinct little pieces of glass making up the stainedglass window, the little broken pottery tiles that make up the mosaic.

They have their own shapes and textures, but they build a broader whole. They do not do this by sacrificing their individuality, but the skillful artist – in the case of prayer, God – orients them in such a way that their distinctiveness builds on one another, until a vision more glorious appears, and the many voices of the choirs of heaven, though dim, might be heard.

spotlight on

Br. Keith You went to Navajoland this summer; how and why did this come about?

This opportunity came about as a direct invitation from our diocesan bishops in Massachusetts, for me to participate in a new component of formation for ordinands that will take effect in 2024, a period of cross-cultural ministry. Though I was ordained a transitional deacon in June of this year, they asked that I also participate. It’s aimed at building deep relationships and facilitating essential hard conversations about race. It asks white ordinands in particular to immerse themselves in the experience of church communities who are majority Black, brown, or indigenous within the Episcopal Church.

I spent some real time in prayer about it, and the prompting that emerged from the Spirit was a strong desire to spend time learning from and collaborating with Native Christians. I returned to our bishops, and we began a conversation from that request.

I have been moved and troubled by the histories of indigenous peoples, Christian missionaries, and the Doctrine of Discovery since first learning about it as a teenager. Those feelings and thoughts have been reignited in the past several years. A passionate spiritual need to enter true intimacy and synergy with the entire creation has been forming my sense of priestly calling. That has found intersection with deepening care and concern about those who have, historically, centered their whole way of life upon that intimacy and synergy: the indigenous peoples of this continent.

Finally, within the last year I read the book Unsettling Truths, coauthored by Mark Charles, who is Diné (Navajo) and a Christian Reformed pastor. I wept and sometimes screamed in outrage and, by the end of the book, was convinced I needed to seriously ask: What is the invitation in the midst of this anger and sadness? Then this opportunity came along.

How do you think this experience will have expression in your vocation (both monastic and ordained) going forward?

The first thing I can say about vocation is very personal and concrete: one of the most humbling gifts of this experience has been being put directly in touch, in radical new ways, with the inner dynamic of our vow of poverty. There were days and circumstances when I felt, “I’m not sure I have what it takes to be of benefit here, or to this person.” So many realities require direct confrontation: the weight of such historic oppression, the ways the white Church has caused or colluded with it, so much suffering. In a place of such woundedness and so many ghosts, I confronted the question: What can I possibly do to help?

Br. Keith Nelson and Miles, Saint Michael’s Church

A real part of the answer was simply looking into the face of the Navajo Jesus, who was all around me, and listening from a place of crucified helplessness.

My ministry there was primarily listening, continuing to listen and stay put at the foot of the cross wherever I found it in people and circumstances, and not to turn away. And to be shown by Navajo Christians how this could be, and is, the place of Resurrection. The primary posture that many white male missionaries have brought to that place in the past has not been that posture. It’s been triumphalist: “I will come in and do, I will come in and build, I will come in and save, organize, plan, et cetera,” which is the essential posture of colonization.

I am eager to begin a deep listening process about how our ministry as a community, perhaps specifically at Emery House, might engage with the history of Native presence on the land entrusted to our care, and in the New England area more broadly, here in this very different part of the country. I’ve learned from indigenous Christians who truly live in right relationship with earth, as a natural and instinctive dimension of their faith. It’s deeply felt and ancestral, and it’s a ritually strengthened connection. Navajo stories and spirituality really inform their interpretation of Christian scripture.

It’s a living tradition that reminds me in many ways of ancient traditions in the West, reading the Book of Nature alongside the Book of Scripture. This relationship with the land, old stories, and the ancestors that gives expression to Christian faith in fresh (but very old) ways – I am eager to explore all that in our context on the other side of this journey.

Read further about Br. Keith’s reflections on his experience in Navajoland in the online version of this magazine: ssje.org/cowley

Fr. Charles Neale Field, SSJE and the Johnstown Flood of 1889 Chaos: a state of things in which chance is supreme, especially: the confused unorganized state of primordial matter before the creation of distinct forms. This scientific definition of chaos might hearken us back to the very beginning of the creation account from Genesis: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” The Hebrew word for “the deep” is tehor, which scholars think might be related to a Babylonian divinity associated with oceanic chaos. We gather from ancient writings, including our own Judeo-Christian background, that to the ancients, (especially those who lived in desert habitats), the sea was “chaos” and therefore something to be feared.

With the help of science, we have a better understanding of watery chaos in our modern times and have systems in place to navigate it.

Still, we can be caught off guard when we are blindsided by natural and human-made catastrophes. In 1889, such a catastrophe occurred when a defective dam in the Conemaugh Valley of Pennsylvania burst without warning and destroyed the city of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in an instant.

Records of the tragedy indicate that 2,209 people died in the flood that ensued – 99 entire families – 396 of which were children. Bodies from the flood were found as far as Cincinnati, Ohio, as late as 1911.

At that time, there were Brothers from our Society ministering at St. Clement’s Church in Philadelphia including Fr. Charles Neale Field. Fr. Field volunteered to go and help in the relief efforts being organized by the American Red Cross. Joined by three men of the Guild of the Iron Cross (created by Fr. Field for working men and boys at St. Clement’s), they set off towards Johnstown. In a small book published by the Guild of the Iron Cross entitled After the Flood, Fr. Field recounted the story of the devastation and the heroic efforts of many who came to Johnstown’s aid. In this memoir, we hear him marvel at the devastation. He writes: It is true that reflections are generally unsatisfactory, dreamy and transient. But reflections in a railway car, not of oneself but of the events of the first week after the flood are exceptional. Had I been dreaming? I felt more than half dead, as Dante might have felt coming out from writing of purgatory. I had seen Johnstown shortly before a flourishing city; where was it now? A name, a shell of a city.

Where were the waters that had ruined it? Gone thousands of miles.

Where were the people that had made it? Heaps of them dead,

and those living, half dead, wounded in body and soul. Why had it happened to Johnstown?

Here we see a man of God clearly affected by the magnitude of human suffering he encountered. The question Fr. Field prayerfully asked was “Why?” How many of us ask this same question of God in prayer amidst the chaos we experience in our lives? Yet, Fr. Field was a man who knew that sacramentally he had entered into the waters of chaos in his Baptism and had risen from its depths into the promise of resurrection as a child of God. He knew that in spite of all the chaos he might encounter in his life, his Baptism gave assurance that God has brought and will bring order out of chaos. And so too for us, as we navigate all the uncertainties of our earthly life. He closes his initial reflections by writing that there were many good people in Johnstown: Why God allowed men to build, and the State not to condemn the weak dam is a mystery contained in the deeper question how God can allow evil. The end of our reflection is that in spite of the carelessness and sin of men, God can and will bring good out of all this evil, and most good to those who have suffered most.

Jim Woodrum, SSJE

A Painful Legacy to be confronted

David Vryhof, SSJE

In late November 2022, Br. Curtis Almquist and I undertook a nineday pilgrimage to the South to visit sites related to the Civil Rights Movement in the United States during the 1950s and ‘60s and beyond. Among the places we visited were the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama, which trace the legacy of slavery in this country from the early 1600s to the present day by examining four eras: (1) the Era of Slavery in America, (2) the Era of Racial Terror, (3) the Era of “Segregation Forever,” and (4) the Era of Mass Incarceration. In what follows, I would like to record some of what I learned, share some powerful imagery of what we saw, and name some of my reactions to the experience.

What follows is an excerpt. For Br. David’s complete reflection, check out the online version of this piece in the digital issue of Cowley: SSJE.org/cowley

The Era of Slavery in America We are standing before a large screen in the first room of the Legacy Museum, watching the terrifying waves of the Atlantic Ocean rise and crash before us. The scene prompts us to imagine the terrors of an ocean crossing in a wooden boat, a journey made by millions of African people who were kidnapped, enslaved, and shipped across the Atlantic to the Americas in cramped vessels under horrific conditions. It also calls to mind the nearly two million people who died at sea during the agonizing journey.

I had, of course, read about and studied America’s history of slavery over the course of my life. But I was still shocked and stunned by what I encountered at the Legacy Museum. I realized that I had not thought deeply about the daily life experience of enslaved Africans in this country or come close to comprehending the full extent of their misery. “Slavery is the next thing to hell,” wrote Harriet Tubman, and the museum helped open my eyes to its appalling realities. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be kidnapped and taken away from one’s homeland, from all that was familiar and loved, to face the terrifying passage across the seas, to be treated as property to be bought and sold at will without any regard to one’s needs or wishes or basic human rights. I learned about the vulnerability of enslaved peoples who could be subjected to abuse, physical torture, and violence at any time with absolutely no recourse. Any protest or cry for justice was futile and was bound to go unheeded by agents of law enforcement or criminal justice. There was no hope of a fair decision in a court of law, and enslaved people soon learned that they would always be faulted for whatever befell them. An enslaved person could be raped by a slave owner at will or lent out to his friends for their pleasure; burned or whipped for any perceived offence, no matter how slight; deliberately separated from children or spouse or family at any time; subjected to the cruelest working conditions – always working under the threat of violence – from dawn to nightfall; and never receive a single paycheck, the chance to get an education, enjoy a family, or purchase land, a home, or a business.

I could only try to imagine the despair of living with conditions like these as one’s daily reality.

But the most shocking thing for me was the revelation of how racism continued to shape lives even after slavery supposedly came to an end with the Emancipation Proclamation of 1865.

At every juncture when there was a moment of hope, some new form of racial oppression emerged to replace the previous forms. The Civil Rights Act of 1866 and the 14th Amendment in

1868 gave African Americans full citizenship and equal rights and led to a brief period in which newly freed Black Americans began to hope for real political and economic opportunity. But this hope was crushed in 1877 when federal soldiers were prematurely withdrawn from the South and control of Southern state governments was returned to former Confederates. The result was that the narrative of racial inferiority was restored to justify the continued dehumanization of Black people. As W.E.B. DuBois put it, “The slave went free; stood a brief moment in

the sun; then moved back again toward slavery.”

The Era of Racial Terror

The truth is that slavery did not end. It evolved.

What followed the Emancipation Proclamation and the brief period of Reconstruction were a series of practices that kept African Americans in a state of subjection. The rights of Black people were widely violated, and the laws that protected them were rarely enforced. They were denied land ownership and economic advancement, and forced into sharecropping, where they worked on White-owned land and were dependent for food and shelter, with tools and seed advanced by the landowners, all of which trapped them in cycles of debt and poverty that lasted generations. Denied the right to vote through law and violence, the formerly enslaved were governed by allWhite legislatures that passed “Black Codes” and authorized “convict leasing.” African Americans were criminalized, imprisoned, or fined, and then sold to private citizens or companies to work off their “debts” for state profit. Thousands of prisoners were re-enslaved in mines, on farms, and on plantations, where conditions were horrific, where they once again lived without rights, unable to protest the injustices committed against them.

Many lived and died in these appalling conditions.

How had I, growing up in America, learned so little about the oppressive practices of sharecropping and convict leasing?

How had I failed to see that these practices perpetuated the unjust conditions established in the era of slavery and were simply new expressions of racial exploitation and oppression? I realized how much I had yet to learn.

Racial violence aimed at re-establishing White supremacy was widespread throughout the former Confederate states following Emancipation. In the eight decades between the end of the Civil War and the end of World War II, White people publicly tortured and killed thousands of African Americans in “racial terror lynchings” designed to terrorize and intimidate the Black community.

Black communities forced to witness brutal killings of friends or relatives by bold, undisguised White mobs were warned that the same fate awaited them if they protested, sought justice, or even openly discussed lynchings. It was an era characterized by fear and silence, and the trauma of it endured for generations.

The Era of “Segregation Forever” The Legacy Museum recounts the bravery of many Black (and White) people who fought for the civil rights of African Americans in this country in the 1950s and ‘60s. It tells the stories of “freedom riders” and lunch-counter protesters, of organized resistance in boycotts and demonstrations, of speeches and actions that had international impact.

As civil rights victories mounted, violent opposition became more frequent and deadly. In 1963, four young Black girls were killed when a bomb exploded in the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. In the same year, Medgar Evers, a military veteran and NAACP field organizer, was shot and killed in his own Jackson, Mississippi, driveway. The criminal justice system emerged as an effective tool for suppressing efforts to gain civil rights as activists regularly faced arrest and prosecution. Between his emergence as a leader of the Montgomery Bus Boycott in 1955 and his assassination in 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was arrested more than a dozen times for leading nonviolent civil rights demonstrations, repeatedly threatened with violence and hanged in effigy, and covertly targeted by FBI officials who labeled him “the most dangerous and effective Negro leader in the country.”

Against overwhelming odds, the Civil Rights Movement successfully disrupted the legal structures that had sustained Jim Crow, but the narrative of White supremacy that fueled segregation and White opposition to racial equality persisted.

It is easy to romanticize the Civil Rights Movement and sentimentalize figures like Dr. King and Rosa Parks, but the reality is that the challenges they faced persist to this day. No doubt they would have disturbing things to say to us today, and it is

questionable whether we would heed their voices any more readily than their contemporaries did.

The Era of Mass Incarceration Slavery’s “legacy” continues to plague us to the present day.

Its latest manifestation is in the mass incarceration of African Americans and other people of color.

At the close of the civil rights era (and continuing to the present day), politicians seized on “law and order” as a winning campaign platform and used thinly veiled racial appeals to win elections. Since the start of President Nixon’s racially biased war on drugs in 1971, the American prison population has increased from 300,000 to more than 2.3 million. The overwhelming majority of prisoners are people of color. (President Nixon’s domestic policy chief, John Erlichman, later admitted, “Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.”)

Even after serving their prison sentences, thousands of American citizens face significant collateral consequences that bar them from voting and serving on juries; restrict their access to public housing, food stamps, and other social services; subject them to discrimination in the search for employment; and impact nearly every facet of daily life.

* It’s not easy to confront the legacy of slavery woven into our country’s history and narrative. I often felt overwhelmed by the horror and misery we witnessed in display after display at the museum. Each day on our pilgrimage, we stumbled away, asking ourselves: How could such horrific treatment of human beings have happened and how and why has it persisted to the present day? How could these atrocities have gone unchallenged by so many, including people of integrity working in legal, political, and religious institutions? What dulled their consciences? How did they come to believe the narrative that said this was how things were supposed to be? Why did they settle for the status quo? How did Christians specifically learn to turn away from the appalling injustices that were so blatantly apparent for all to see, to participate in and benefit from the system?

Then, there was the realization that this legacy continues to the present day. I had not recognized this strong connection before, and it came as a shock to me. It raised more difficult questions, such as “What are we to do about ongoing racial injustice?” We like to think that if we had lived during the era of slavery, we would have been staunch abolitionists.

We like to think that had we lived in the era of racial terror, we would have spoken up and tried to stop the lynchings. We like to think that, had it been possible for us, we would have joined in the civil rights demonstrations of the 1950s and ‘60s and fought against the ensuing racist backlash that continued to deny Black Americans equality under the law. But the truth, I suspect, is that most of us would have remained silent. Most of us would have seen the problem as too big, too complicated, too multifaceted to even begin to address, and would have settled into the status quo, particularly if we were its beneficiaries rather than its victims.

Visiting the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice leads to a necessary soul-searching. How have I

been complacent in the face of injustice? How have I benefited from racially biased systems? How have I lived with the knowledge that racial injustice continues in our day? What have I done, what could I do, what must I do, in response to the awareness I have been given? What will I say about the mass incarceration of people of color? What will I do about the fact that African Americans lag behind White Americans in every measurable area: education, housing, employment, annual income, personal wealth, and more? Whom can I influence, what can I do, that will lead to a better future?

I try to take some small steps. I now correspond regularly with a prisoner, a small thing that hopefully impacts at least one life.

I support the work of the Equal Justice Initiative and other justice-oriented efforts. I write and preach about injustice, hoping to awaken and stir the consciences of others, as mine has been stirred. I pay attention to the racism that I recognize within me and around me, and work to change it. Visiting these museums was for me a first step, an opportunity to learn from the lived experience of generations of Black folk in this country. But it is only a first step. There is much more to learn and so much more to do.

Jesus taught us to pray and to work that God’s kingdom might come “on earth as it is in heaven.” For Christians, this is a

gospel summons that has clear implications for us living still in an era of racial inequality.

How You Can Take Action 1. Provide Support: Help others stand up for racial justice. Pitch in, lend a hand, stand by a friend, or cheer them on!

2. Raise Your Voice: Bring visibility to problems of racial injustice.

Make a sign, amplify your voices, attend a rally!

3. Change the System: Change unjust rules and policies at school or in your community. Start a petition, talk to leaders, or promote the VOTE! 4. Share Your Vision: Work with others to create a community that’s just for all. Create a vision board. Enlist others. Start small and keep going!

5. Share the Truth: Use words, art, music, and dance to share the truth about injustice.

For resources on how to be a changemaker, visit: www.emmitttillexhibit.org

Recommended Resources Books: •

Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (New York: The New Press, 2010, 2012).

•

Nikole Hannah-Jones, The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story (New York: The New York Times Company, 2021). [This profound collection of essays won the Pulitzer Prize.]

•

Lee Sentell, The Official United States Civil Rights Trail: What Happened Here Changed the World (Birmingham: The Alabama Media Group, 2021).

•

Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2014).

Websites: •

The Equal Justice Initiative (Montgomery, AL) www.eji.org

•

The Legacy Museum: From Enslavement to Mass Incarceration (Montgomery, AL), and The National Memorial for Peace and Justice (Montgomery, AL) www.museumandmemorial.eji.org

•

Birmingham Civil Rights Institute (Birmingham, AL) www.bcri.org

Video: Bryan Stevenson TED Talk: “We Need to Talk About an Injustice” https://www.ted.com/talks/bryan_stevenson_we_need_to_ talk_about_an_injustice

Legacy of Racism Pilgrimage

led by Brothers David Vryhof and Curtis Almquist Thursday, February 29 - Sunday, March 3, 2024 Participants in this program will meet in Montgomery, Alabama, on Thursday afternoon, February 29. Over the next few days, we will learn more about the history of slavery in this country and its ongoing legacy.

Much of our time will be spent at the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Each day we will gather to reflect on what we have learned.

Registration is limited to 20 participants. There is no fee for this program.

Participants will be responsible for their travel expenses, their hotel accommodation, and their meals. We ask that participants make a donation to the Equal Justice Initiative.

Spring Retreats at the Guesthouse

Upcoming Self-led Retreats February 6-11 February 13-18 March 7 March 12-17 March 19-24 March 26-31 April 9-14

April 17 April 30 - May 5 May 7-12 May 21-23 June 18-22 June 27-30

learn more & register at ssje.org/retreat

Upcoming Program Retreats Embodied Prayer

January 18-21, 2024 Led by Br. Luke Ditewig

Bright Sadness

A Journey into Lent

February 29-March 3, 2024 Led by Br. Lain Wilson

First Time in Silent Retreat March 8-10, 2024 Led by Br. Geoffrey Tristram

“Come Away and Rest for a While” A Time of Renewal for Clergy and Other Church Workers

April 3-7, 2024

Neurodiversity and Prayer April 18-21, 2024 Led by Br. Jim Woodrum

Patience & the Crucible of Life May 16-19, 2024 Led by Br. Curtis Almquist

I first encountered the work of Richard Mammana back when I was researching the Society of Saint John the Evangelist — a community of monks that had captured my attention and of which I eventually became a member. His website, “Project Canterbury” (anglicanhistory. org), contained an incredible amount of archival material not only about SSJE, but also about other out-of-print Anglican books, pamphlets, documents, and historical records. Richard is an author, archivist, and book reviewer, as well as a member of Saint Clement’s Church in Philadelphia — a church of the Anglo-Catholic tradition that was once under the care of SSJE in the late 1800s. His essay, “The Black Christ of Stamford, CT,” recently captured my attention as it highlighted the work of SSJE in Boston’s Beacon Hill, as well as our relationship with artist Allan Crite. The following is an excerpt from that piece.

You can read the full essay at medium.com/@richard.mammana/ the-black-christ-of-stamford-connecticut-2da99603c86a Jim Woodrum, SSJE

The Black Christ of Stamford, Connecticut

Richard Mammana

In my early twenties, just after college, I happened upon a small urban Anglo-Catholic church in New England where I worshiped for a necklace of Sundays over two years that were happier than I ever knew. A handful of dedicated Poles and WASPs were nearly invisible in a congregation of people of deep faith and strong hearts from the West Indies, and I was invited onto the vestry to break the tie among grandmothers from Jamaica, Barbados, St. Kitts, British Honduras, and the Virgin Islands.

With my Bahamian American wife, I knelt week after week with tears in my eyes after communion because we were already worshiping in the heavenly Jerusalem.

Although I live in a theological world, I am not a theologian. I am a bibliographer and a worshiper and an historian, and so it is through books and kneeling that I have sought over two decades to know more about the Anglo-Catholicism of people of African descent. I wanted to know how their Anglo-Catholicism in the Boston-Washington corridor came to be in the many referential poles of Anglicanism, so I set about listening and reading.

One pole that emerged quickly is the work of the Cowley Fathers — the Society of Mission Priests of S John the Evangelist or SSJE— long the most doctrinally severe, the most abstemiously poor, the most abjectly Prayer Book-loyal marines of Anglican monasticism. They memorized the Coverdale Psalter, fought malaria, and went virtually anywhere they were called to teach that the Incarnation of the Son of God had obliterated race as a category of human division.

The Cowley Fathers are misunderstood as a conservative order in the diverse constellation of Anglican communities. They have always instead

been both profoundly traditional and bafflingly radical. Some sign of this is one of my favorite photographs of Anglo-Catholic life, taken in Boston in the late 1890s, when Richard Meux Benson was about to lose his sight. He is seated, surrounded by African Americans ready to play ball, a rood screen and two of his Cowley brethren in the background.

Everyone in the photograph is his own best self: Fr. Benson glowing with prayer and presence, the boys about to begin their lives in a precarious century in which their very rights to personhood would be challenged at every step. They are unsullied by a world that cannot break any of them.

It was in this milieu of Bostonian Anglo-Catholicism that Allan Rohan Crite was born, and where he showed generations of waning Brahmins a Black Christ surrounded by seraphim and apostles of the same color.

Crite’s series of Black Madonnas at local mass transit stations and retellings of stories from first century Palestine in urban African American settings are among the most exciting things to come out of Englishspeaking religious art in the twentieth century.

Episcopalians did not know what to do with Crite, but the Cowley Fathers did. The Protestant Episcopal Church instituted its own sacramental drinking fountain segregation through the propagation of intinction rather than a shared cup with increasing frequency as parishes were racially integrated after the Second World War. It looked and felt like congregational inclusion, but actually sipping from the same drinking vessel was a bridge too far, and so polite people opted for a dip rather than a sip. It was more hygienic; it had been approved during the Spanish Flu; there are all sorts of germs out there, people said.

Against such a background, the SSJE put Crite’s work everywhere they could: in missals, prayer cards, postcards, service leaflets, tracts, books, posters, birthday cards, Christmas cards, ordination cards, woodblock prints. They forced the white eye to see the Black Christ from about the 1940s to the 1970s with a kind of intensity one does not expect for the places and the periods. But they themselves were in awe of Crite’s Christ because he had caught the same vision they guarded with holy jealousy.

If a history of Anglo-Catholicism can be written, it must claim again these peculiar and powerful expressions from Boston’s South End and from the Afro-Caribbean. It must know about them at all to begin with. It must wrestle with the truth that the books are not in footnotes, that the art is out of circulation, that the history right now is still largely oral and notional, and that the transatlantic dimensions of it have not begun to be explored.

Some of this work is archival, and I am committed to that in little ways.

In archives as elsewhere, the dismantling axe for racism — of omission or commission — comes from the forest itself. Some greater part of it is I suspect relational, and that is the fun of it: sitting next to women of a certain age in hats at coffee hour (and it is almost always women) and just listening.

Fr. Benson glowing with prayer and presence, the boys about to begin their lives in a precarious century in which their very rights to personhood would be challenged at every step.

All Glory Be to Thee: Meditations on the Prayer of Consecration brush drawings (1947) – A.R. Crite

The

Legacy Society of SSJE

Almighty and everlasting God, we were created for relationship with You, and with one another. As a sign of those relationships, our friends have entrusted us with the fruits of their earthly life. Grant us the wisdom to steward these gifts according to Your will. We ask these things in the name of Christ Jesus, who with the Holy Spirit, is alive and reigns with You, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

The Brothers are grateful to those who have included SSJE in their estate planning.

If SSJE’s ministry has impacted your life, please consider a legacy gift to ensure future generations may encounter the timeless monastic wisdom and perspective the Brothers offer.

For more information, please contact legacy@ssje.org

Annual Fund

“God calls us to live with a posture of open hands. Open hands can receive and be filled, just as much as they can release and let go. This posture is one that both recognizes our own needs and does not cling to things that we no longer truly need, trusting all the ways that God will provide. It is a posture of gratitude without expectation, a recognition of the humility to which we are called in the example of Jesus, and a fulfilment of the Eucharistic bonds of fellowship with one another in Christ.

We receive many gifts, and in thanksgiving, we can humbly offer our gratitude and the promise to continue in the life God has called us to live. We hope you will join with us through a gift of support.”

– Br. Lucas Hall “I plan to continue to give as I continue to search for ways to practice my belief system in a devaluing society. I work with children and parents who cannot see any future beyond continuing to just cling to the fringes of society. SSJE keeps me going.”

– Carney

friends@ssje.org | (617) 876-3037 x 55 | ssje.org/donate

Br. Geoffrey Tristram continues to work with the Spanish-speaking religious community, “The Episcopal Missionary Order of the Epiphany” (Orden Misionera Episcopal de la Epifania). Earlier this year, he had the honor of leading their annual retreat in Quito, Ecuador.

of the week, Lucas and Jim were available for casual conversations with seminarians, listening to their fears, hopes, and desires. Jim and Lucas closed their trip by visiting Christ Church, Alexandria, for worship followed by lunch with local members of the FSJ in Virginia.

Br. Jack Crowley has been living at Emery House since January. He joins the Brothers there in doing lots of work in the garden and around the land.

In March, Br. Jim Woodrum went on mission to St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Vestavia Hills, AL (a suburb of Birmingham). While there, Jim gave a talk to the Intercessory Prayer group, led a men’s retreat at Camp McDowell, preached at two Sunday services, and presented “Discover SSJE” at the parish’s Sunday Forum.

Br. Curtis Almquist continues to meet with individuals, online and in person, for spiritual direction, leads retreats, and visits in prison. One week each month he is in silence and solitude at Emery House.

At the beginning of March, Brs. Lucas Hall and Jim Woodrum traveled to Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, VA. Br. Lucas gave a reflection and then a sermon for a Quiet Day for students and faculty.

Br. Jim presented “Discover SSJE” as a part of a new initiative by SSJE called “The Seminary Project.” This new initiative introduces seminarians to SSJE as a place of respite, prayer, and renewal as well as a resource for their future ministries. The rest

Br. Keith Nelson was ordained as a transitional deacon on June 3 at St. Paul’s Ca t h e d r a l i n Boston.

I n J u n e B r.

J o n at h a n Maury joined Br. James Koester in leading a retreat for clergy of the Episcopal Convocation of Churches in Europe at Bogis-Bossey near Geneva, Switzerland.

Br. David Vryhof attended the annual convention of the Episcopal Conference of the Deaf (ECD) near Seattle, July 24-27. The ECD is planning a pilgrimage to the Holy Land for members of Deaf churches in the U.S. in February 2025, and has asked David to serve as chaplain on the trip.

Mission in action In July, Brs. James, Jack, and Jonathan journeyed to Bracebridge, Ontario, for a rededication of the cemetery at the former SSJE monastery site, where members of the Canadian Congregation of the Society are buried. Bracebridge was the home of SSJE in Canada from 1927 until 1983. Also attending were The Most Rev. Anne Germond, Archbishop and Metropolitan of Ontario, along with ninety friends of SSJE in Canada.

For six weeks in June and July, Br. Keith Nelson participated in a period of cross-cultural ministry on the Navajo Nation as a dimension of his diaconal formation. Learning from and collaborating with Navajo Episcopalians was a profoundly rewarding experience. Keith hopes much of what he learned from this living tradition of sacred relationship with God’s creation will infuse our ministry and relationship with land at Emery House, where he continues as Senior Brother in residence.

First-year students at the Virginia Theological Seminary met via Zoom with Br. David Vryhof on August 28 for an introductory session on creating a personal Rule of Life.

This year, Br. Lain Wilson has worked alongside Br. Lucas in weekly young adult ministry at our Student Tuesday offerings. The two will be traveling to

the University of the South’s School of Theology in Sewanee, TN, in November to introduce seminarians to SSJE. Appointed Novice Guardian last fall, Br. Luke Ditewig’s ministry focuses on the formation of our new men.

Luke, Lain, and our new postulant Jamie plan to gather with formators, novices, and postulants from the Order of the Holy Cross, Sisters of St. Margaret, and the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine this October in Duxbury, MA. Luke is co-leading it with colleagues from the other communities.

Br. Lucas Hall will be leading an online discussion group on the Old Testament later this year.

The gardens at Emery House have been yielding great harvests. All the lettuce and tomatoes for the salad bar have come from the garden for the last months.

Th e p i c k l i n g and preserving are ramping up too, with about six quarts of pickles and three quarts of pickled turnips already set aside for the colder months.

Formation in practice We hope that in reflecting on chaos as an invitation from God, you will find it meaningful to share in discussion of these questions with others.

How does your inner life and experience impact your view of God? Think of the most significant instances of prayer, or awareness of God, in your life. What were you feeling or thinking in those moments, or in the time leading up to them?

In our Rule, the Brothers speak repeatedly about how our daily worship will not always be a deep and meaningful experience on a personal level, and that we must rely on our Brothers to bear us along. How do you cultivate and express faith in your life, independent of emotional or intellectual highs and lows?

Think about your own communities. How have they formed you? What have they revealed about you?

The Church is not merely an individual or local experience, but is concerned with a broad scope across Creation, including human societies. How does your personal, day-to-day life feed into that broader whole of the Church’s mission and witness?

How are your neighbors — the real, tangible people in your midst — and the love you show them tied to the greater whole?

When it comes to major issues around things like race and imprisonment, how can you express the witness of God’s love?

In this issue, Brothers share some concrete steps that they have taken to educate themselves and make a difference in issues that have touched their hearts. What issue is calling out to you?

What concrete step, however small, can you take toward helping create meaningful change in that domain?

Regularly Retreats & Spiritual Direction: for your renewal.

We offer retreats and workshops for individuals and groups throughout the year. Go to SSJE.org/visit.

Seasonally Cowley Magazine: longform essays to deepen your faith.

Cowley is published seasonally in print and online.

Read the latest at SSJE.org/cowley.

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