Beginning in the 60’s, accelerating in the 70’s, and becoming professionalized and institutionalized ever since, a revolution in leadership style has been taking place among American ordained ministers. Hierarchy and the-pastor-knows-best are ugly ideas for the up-to-date. So now clergy read books and go to workshops and conferences to hone their collaborative leadership skills.

This paper is based on the observation that the changes we ordained leaders seek to make in our parish leadership style are often contradicted by our most widely observed activity—our leadership of worship. Adopting collaborative leadership in meetings, consulting fully and openly about parish decisions, welcoming and encouraging wide lay input—changes of these sorts—are often unconsciously gainsaid by our Sunday face in worship.

Let’s start with two theses:

I. Our Sunday worship expresses not only theological beliefs, but leadership and relationship beliefs.

II. Sometimes the realities of our lives are congruent with these expressions of belief and sometimes they are not.

It’s always easier to see something like this in other times and other people. Let me give an illustration from my own heritage as an Episcopalian. When I was a child in the 30’s and right up until the mid-60’s, money was taken up during worship and offered to God only by males of recognized substance in the congregation, almost always members of the vestry, and frequently the same men every week—the men who called the shots. First they went from pew to pew taking up the collection. Then they formed in solemn procession, the organ boomed forth the doxology, the congregation leapt to its feet, and the men strode forward, stopping at the altar rail, where they handed the collection basins to the acolytes, who in turn handed them to the ordained minister, who then offered them to God, holding them high until the doxology concluded.

Talk about hierarchy! That procession spoke loud and clear. Nobody was in doubt about the pecking order. These men, said this ceremony, were in charge of the money, they had the power, but they could go only so far. Only the ordained and his acolytes could enter the holy space around the altar. Lay authority stopped at the rail.

That was the public expression. Women could not take part. Children could not take part. Non-established men could not take part. Only the well-established and the ordained could do so.

We know, of course, that in fact women called many of the shots in parish life. Many a joke has been told about the behind-the-scenes activities of the senior warden’s wife or the rector’s wife, the humor rooted in the gap between public face and private reality. It was also not uncommon for the warden to wield more power in parish affairs than the ordained minister.

This public ceremony acted out the publicly acknowledged power relationships among us. Sometimes it was reasonably true to the realities, and sometimes it was not.

Congregational leadership has a Sunday face. Sometimes that face is truthful; sometimes it is not.

Now I offer a third thesis:

II. Pastors who wish to change their leadership style have a powerful tool in the way they lead worship. By changing their Sunday face they can broadcast the change in leadership style they are trying to make.

I remember vividly the pivotal change in my own Sunday face, the one that publicly signified my own adoption of a collaborative leadership style. It was in the mid-60’s. I had become rector of a high-church Episcopal parish. Liturgical reform was all the rage. For reasons I do not now remember I decided to introduce the passing of the Peace. (You know, that ceremony in which we liturgical types greet our neighbors with the peace of God, shaking hands or even hugging.)

Now this was before we Episcopalians had begun officially working toward changes in our worship, before we had books of experimental services, the “green book” or the “striped book,” and well before we had our new Book of Common Prayer. When I set out to make this change, I was getting ahead of the crowd.

It was also still a time when women wore hats in church, or, if—God forbid!—they showed up without one, the ushers provided little doilies to pin on their heads. It was still a time—nearing its demise—of formality and hierarchy.

I started preaching about the Peace—what it meant, and why we should do it, and how we might go about it. I started getting negative feedback almost immediately. There were some unhappy people out there. My stomach began to tie into knots. I recognized the symptoms and knew that if I didn’t do something different from what I had done before, I was in trouble. My first ten years of ordained ministry had been painful years of hierarchical style leadership that I knew would not work anymore.

So I tried something new. I had recently been at a conference in which the leaders used flip-charts to lead group discussion. They wrote down what participants said and posted the sheets on the walls. I decided to call a parish discussion-meeting and do the same.

It was my first serious attempt at listening to a group and seeking some kind of group agreement. And it worked! Before the morning was over we had reached an agreement that wrought a parish revolution!

I really hadn’t known much about passing the Peace. The only model I had was one in which the presbyter stood at the altar steps and said to the congregation, “The Peace of the Lord be always with you,” and then passed the peace to acolytes who then went down the aisle passing it to the persons at the ends of the pews, who in turn passed it along their pew. The presbyter stood in place, benignly watching over it all.

In our discussion, after the walls were covered with flip-sheets of comments pro and con, of complaints and wishes, of suggestions and counter-suggestions, we discovered two fundamental concerns—did everybody have to take part? And why wasn’t the rector taking part, why was he just standing there watching, why wasn’t he taking part like everybody else?

The first concern was easy. We wouldn’t insist on passing the Peace from one person to another. Instead we would make it free form. When the presbyter said the Peace, instead of having the acolytes pass the Peace down from him to the pews, neighbors could turn and shake hands with neighbors and give the Peace if they wished. But nobody had to.

The second concern really got to me. What! They didn’t want me to stand up there in my cocoon, my protective shell! They wanted me to come down among them! I hadn’t realized up till this moment how much being “up there” at the altar, in that holy place, meant I was separated—even protected—from the congregation. If the Peace was going to be instituted I was going to have to change my relationship to them.

I gulped and agreed. It was a major turning point—for me and for them.

What is important here is to notice the congruence of the change in worship style and the change in leadership style. I led the parish into a new way of making decisions and the parish led me into a new way of worship congruent with our new relationship. We still had a long way to go, but this one change set us on our path.

This step marked a revolution in several ways. Previously our physical arrangement had been clearly hierarchical and formal. Parishioners sat or knelt in rigid rows—pews—facing one direction, toward the altar, at which the ordained minister stood with his back to them. It was very much like an army—the officer in front, the troops at his rear. The relationship was troops to officer.

Now the “troops” paid attention to each other. Now they were a community, not just soldiers following a leader; and their leader was having to come down among them, be one of them.

The hats and doilies soon went. Handshakes frequently became hugs. The formal words of the Peace were soon joined by informal words of friendship. The moment became one of friendly chaos.

And now the rector was in the midst, not up front. Now he was part of the community, not the austere remote figure up there next to God.

This Sunday face expressed the new collegial decision-making method. This Sunday face was congruent with the new leadership style and with the new communal relationships.

But old habits die hard. Old clergy-centered ceremonial actions persist, even with the best of collegial intentions.

An important liturgical reform introduced in the 60’s and 70’s was to move Baptism into the center of Sunday worship. Baptisms were no longer to be seen primarily as individual or family events, but as actions of the community. So they were moved from private celebration to Sunday communal celebration.

It amazes me how long it took me to discover a major incongruity in the way we did these Sunday baptisms. Communal they were in many ways. But when the candidates were presented for baptism, we did it the way it had always been done. I stood in the aisle, in front, facing the congregation, and the baptismal party stood with their backs to the congregation, facing me. For this communal act the candidates were presented to the ordained minister!

This went on for several years until one day, at a rehearsal, somebody pointed out the incongruity. Why were the candidates being presented to the ordained minister? Why were they not being presented to the community?

So we reversed the order. I stood in the middle of the congregation. The baptismal party stood at the head of the aisle facing the congregation. And the presentation now clearly expressed what we thought we were doing.

That’s the kind of incongruity that still frequently occurs among us. We believe in collegial leadership, but we still unconsciously act out our old styles.

Each denomination has its own ways. My comments are being made in terms of the tradition I know best—my own. But I will try here to look at actions that are common to many traditions, and I hope my readers will be able to examine their own traditions and be able to apply what I am saying to them.

Announcements, for example—what is the ordained minister’s role? How, if at all, do lay persons function in this event? Does the pastor make all the announcements? Or does the pastor moderate announcements made mostly by lay folk? This Sunday face dramatically proclaims leadership-style beliefs. If the pastor is preaching collegiality, if the pastor is trying to make collegial-style changes, and yet continues to make all or most of the announcements, both pastor and congregation get the message.

The same holds true for leadership in prayers. In my tradition the Book of Common Prayer italicizes the Amen at the end of some prayers and not at the end of others. In the first case the minister is to speak the text and the congregation to say the Amen. In the second case the entire prayer is to be said in unison. It seems a small point, but I find myself annoyed with ministers who say the Amen in the first type of prayer. As I see it, the prayer is to be an instance of partnership, of difference in roles, each completing the other. The minister acts articulates the text and the congregation ratifies it. When the minister says—or, even worse, leads—the Amen, that important partnership is disrupted.

In traditions of pastoral prayer in which the ordained minister not only speaks the prayer but composes it either in advance or extemporaneously I hesitate to intrude. But I do wonder if there can be some way to express partnership in this act? In my own tradition I know that more and more prayers are being said in unison—even those printed with an italicized Amen—and I take this to be an expression of collegial leadership beliefs.

Offerings are commonly taken up these days by all manner of folk—even children. And that strongly speaks collegial belief. But at the same time I wonder if it is truth-telling. Who controls the money in congregational life? Who decides how it is raised, how it is spent? Ought not these people to be the ones who take up the money? And if we don’t like who that turns out to be, ought we not to do something about that?

That’s my basic thesis—in our Sunday face we want to be telling the truth we really intend to carry out. And if there’s an inconsistency, we ought to be doing something about it—either changing the Sunday face to tell the truth as it is, or change our leadership behavior to fit our Sunday face.

There are many details in the pastor’s Sunday face—the pastor’s use of voice (We all know what a “preachy” voice sounds like.), where the pastor stands and sits, the pastor’s body movements, vestments, etc. What message do these details send?

And there are lay behaviors that also speak loud and clear. In my tradition it is common, for example, for lay persons to want to know what they are “supposed to do” during the service—when are they supposed to stand, sit, say responses, etc. The standard of behavior is often set by some firm-minded person up front who sits at a certain point, and then everybody sits; stands, and everybody stands.

I am not saying that lay and ordained persons are to behave alike, that for the pastor to take a key role, and for his or her actions to express that role, is somehow wrong. No. Not at all. The pastor is the elder. The pastor’s role is eldership—presiding over the life of the congregation in pastoral care, in preaching, in worship, in decision-making. The Sunday face of both lay and ordained needs to express these differences in role.

Many parish clergy these days are trying to change the leadership patterns in their congregations. They want collegiality, active lay participation at every level of parish life. They want a vestry, for example, that not only manages money and buildings, but in conjunction with the clergy seeks to discern matters spiritual. They want a vestry that prays, that seeks the leadings of the Holy Spirit in decision-making.

But, sadly, many clergy focus just on the steps in deliberation, the methods used in meeting, the collaboration of clergy and laity in making decisions. Unconsciously, in the most powerful “tool” in parish life, they act out a very different message—we clergy are the leaders and you lay persons are the followers.

I am referring to the Sunday liturgy, that powerful sacred act at the center of parish life. Sadly, many clergy act out, Sunday after Sunday, their unconscious (or conscious) belief in the superior status of the ordained.

In this paper I will describe what I see as leadership patterns commonly expressed in the Sunday liturgy. I will begin with the “old” liturgy, the liturgy of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, and then move on to the liturgy of today. From time to time I will suggest changes that express partnership of clergy and laity, rather than simply leaders and followers.

I do not wish to be simplistic about this. There is a very important sense in which clergy are called to be leaders. I believe they are called to preside, to watch over, to play a central role in discerning the leadings of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps the best way to make the distinction that I believe is to be made is to deny that lay people are simply followers. The role of lay people is to form a local community of the Holy Spirit, of which the clergy are presiders and teachers and discerners.

The old liturgy

It was very clear who was in charge. The Sunday liturgy spoke it loud and clear. That man in vestments, up at the altar with his back to the people, like a general leading ranked troops, surrounded by assistants (all male), that man specially consecrated for the enclosed area around the altar—the “sanctuary,” it was called, the holy of holies that only certain people could enter—that man was our leader. Everything we did proclaimed his central role.

The other center of power—lay power—was proclaimed in the taking and presenting of the offering. Sober, substantial seniors of the community (again, all male) collected money from the pews and carried it in procession to the rail around the sanctuary, where it was received by assistants and carried to the priest at the altar. The organ boomed forth the doxology. All leapt to their feet and sang in acclamation. These men were our power-brokers.

The 1928 Book of Common Prayer assumed this structure of power, and we expressed it Sunday after Sunday in our habits of worship.

Thus a first principle—

1. The Sunday liturgy expresses the leadership structure of the parish.

Notice, further, that there are two centers of power in that structure—priestly at the altar and lay in the handling of money. Priestly power from things sacred, lay power from things economic. Notice also that the lay power is in some degree subservient to the priestly, for the money is handed over to the priest and the lay power-brokers do not enter the sanctuary.

2. In the presidency of the priest at the altar we express priestly power in things sacred.

3. In the exclusion of lay persons from the sanctuary, other than assistants to the priest, we express exclusion of lay persons from things sacred except as authorized by the priest.

4. In the collecting and presenting of money by lay persons we express lay power centered in things economic.

5. In the presenting of the money to the priest to be blessed and offered to God we express some degree of subservience of lay power to priestly.

The subservient role of women is glaring in the old liturgy. They had no liturgical function other than in the pews or as members of the Altar Guild. In expression of this position they were expected to wear hats or veils, and often gloves.

Children were either not present, kept in Church School throughout the liturgy, or kept quiet and well behaved. The liturgy was well ordered.

Now let’s do a thought-experiment.

Suppose that in those days a woman had tried to take part in collecting and presenting the money. What would have happened? Resistance, incomprehension, rejection. Why? Because it would have been an assault on the established leadership structure. It would have been a claim to lay power, a rebellion against the exclusion of women from that power.

And when, in the ’60’s, with the feminist movement, women did begin to claim such power, they insisted on changing the way we did liturgy. They insisted on liturgical roles hitherto confined to men. Women could usher as well as men. Girls could be acolytes. No longer was the priest to be surrounded just by males. And, of course, it was not long before women had to be admitted to the ordained ministry.

6. The exclusion or inclusion of kinds of persons from liturgical roles expresses their exclusion or inclusion in parish leadership roles.

7. Whenever we want leadership patterns to change in the parish, changes in the liturgy are a part of changing those patterns.

Our present-day liturgy

Let me describe what I see in many mid-size Episcopal parishes (those with a Sunday attendance of 100–200). I will assume that the parish is using Rite II, but most of what I say will apply to Rite I as well.

First of all, the most striking characteristic, in contrast to the old liturgy, is that today’s liturgy is messy and disorderly. It’s noisy. Gone are the old rituals of silence and private prayer when you enter the building. Gone are women’s hats and gloves and veils. Almost everyone is dressed informally, some in blue jeans. Children run about. Most parishes still have pews, but gone also is the sense of carefully controlled space.

8. A sense of freedom and informality is now apparent in Episcopal parishes.

But that’s not the whole story. A powerful element of the old order remains. It is still true, that given the choice, most people decide to sit in the rear of the church rather than up front. They want to be followers, not leaders.

Our congregations behave like sheep. If someone up front stands or sits or kneels, those behind tend to do the same. A wave of changing posture surges from front to back. We are deathly afraid of doing something “wrong” or different. The attitude of “correctness” in Episcopal parishes is breathed in the air, stitched into the vestments, cultivated in every action. We may disagree about whether to stand or kneel, for example, during the eucharistic prayer, but we agree that there is a “right” way to behave.

I sing in our parish choir. Recently someone asked whether we shouldn’t turn toward the altar during the creed. What was the “right” thing to do? The choir director responded that it was ok to stay facing sideways or to turn toward the altar, either one, but that turning to the altar was “traditional” and it was probably better for us all to do the same thing.

That conversation has been replayed over and over again down the years in Episcopal parishes—and still is—concerning every detail in the service. We are the people who do the liturgy “right.”

9. Whereas freedom and informality characterize certain moments in the liturgy—notably at the gathering and dispersing of the congregation, at the announcements, and at the passing of the Peace—there remains a strong sense of conformity, a strong fear of doing something “wrong.”

The old service began with a quiet organ prelude, followed by a hymn, a solemn entrance of priest, acolytes, and choir in procession, and then a prayer voiced by the priest. The prelude still exists, but people talk through it. The service does not open with prayer or hymn, but with an informal greeting from the priest—“Good morning!—and instructions about how to follow the service, about signing the newcomers’ book and coming to the coffee hour—that sort of thing. Then come hymn and procession and opening prayers. The priest no longer goes to the altar. He—or she!—goes to the side, and sometimes you are not quite sure where she/he is. Most of what follows is done without the priest—readings (by lay persons, both men and women, and sometimes children), psalms, short hymns—until the reading of the gospel, when the priest or another ordained minister goes down to the middle of the congregation.

What do these actions say?

Clearly, not only has the power balance between male and female changed, so also has the power relationship between ordained ministers and laity. The priest still has a central role, but lay persons have taken new leadership positions. The power structure has profoundly changed. No priest can expect to run the show as did his/her predecessors. The liturgy now proclaims that everybody has a part to play.

10. Lay power is now evident in roles previously restricted to the ordained.

11. Persons previously excluded from power—women and children—are now included in the leadership of the parish.

12. A partnership of priest and people is now more evident than before.

One important expression of partnership is found in both the old and the new liturgies—the give and take between priest and people of versicles and responses, and prayers and Amens. The priest says, “The Lord be with you,” and the people respond, “And with thy spirit” or “And also with you.” The priest voices a prayer and the people say Amen.

The Prayer Book very carefully expresses this give and take. Sometimes it labels versicles and responses Celebrant or People. Other times it puts the Amen in italics. Unfortunately some clergy violate the partnership intended by the Prayer Book by leading lay responses and by saying lay Amens. This may seem a small matter. One may even argue that for priest and people to say Amens together is more a sign of partnership than for one to say the prayer and the other the Amen. But there’s a difference of roles involved. Priests and lay persons have different roles in parish life. There are certain responsibilities for priests to take and there are others proper to lay persons. A clear give and take in the liturgy helps express both partnership and difference of role. A priest who takes the risk of not leading Amens is clearly saying that she/he expects lay persons to carry out their responsibilities. For the priest to say the lay person’s Amen is an intrusion, and betrays at least a small lack of trust. “If I don’t say it, it won’t get said.”

Versicle and response, prayer and Amen— we have here a vivid interplay of roles, a dramatization of what we expect from partners in parish life.

13. The way in which a parish says the responses and Amens expresses the partnership and distinction of roles between priest and parishioner.

Leadership in matters spiritual is the foremost role of the priest. In the old liturgy this authority was symbolized not only by the priest’s standing at the center of the sanctuary, but also by his standing above the people in the solemn enclosure of the pulpit. Today many pulpits go unused. Many priests are reluctant to claim the authority implied in standing above their flocks. Some preach instead from the floor of the church, implying an equality of authority. Others preach from the lectern—still above the people, but shared with lay readers.

Here there are likely to be strong differences of opinion. I believe strongly that clergy today must explicitly share spiritual authority with lay persons. But I also believe that to be the rector of a parish means to be called to discern the spirits in that parish, to discern its spiritual state and to distinguish the calling of the Holy Spirit from the spirits of this world, and then to share that discernment with the parish, to lead the parish in corporate discernment. This is a calling of high responsibility and authority. I do not believe in a priest’s downplaying this role. But I am sensitive to the view that a priest can lead from a position of “equality,” from standing among the people and seeking to lead corporate discernment in group-centered ways. What seems to me unacceptable, however, is an “equality” that says the priest is “just one of the guys/gals,” that denies the priest’s distinctive calling.

14. The location of the sermon proclaims the spiritual leadership role being claimed by the preacher. From the pulpit he/she proclaims high authority. From the floor of the nave she/he proclaims “equal” authority. From the lectern he/she proclaims authority somewhere in between, and shared with lay persons such as those who read from there.

After the sermon come the Prayers of the People—prayers led by a lay person, prayers with a formal structure, but one that provides for people in the pews to add their own prayers at various points.

Here is another assertion of lay authority. These prayers replace the old Prayer for the Whole State of Christ’s Church, which was voiced by the priest and which had no room for lay persons to do anything except say the Amen. Now lay persons can pray for themselves; no longer must they depend upon clergy to say their prayers for them.

In some congregations lay persons add petitions and thanksgivings freely and plentifully. In other congregations only a few voices are raised. In still others the new form of prayer sounds very much like the old—the leader says it formally, does not pause for additions, and nobody adds anything extemporaneous.

15. The number and freedom of lay additions to the Prayers of the People give an indication of the quality of lay leadership in the congregation. The more additions made, the more lay responsibility revealed. The fewer additions, the more a sense of lay hesitancy.

The General Confession that comes next has been rewritten. It does not call upon us to “bewail our manifold sins and wickedness,” but we do say that we have sinned against God and that we humbly repent. This milder language is the only change from the old structure. We all still kneel—we are still humbled sinners—and the priest still stands to pronounce absolution.

Now there’s authority for you!—this person pronounces forgiveness of sins! Just like the old days! But somehow it doesn’t feel the same. The sense of solemnity and littleness that used to accompany confession and absolution just aren’t there.

The confession is often omitted, sometimes by suggestion of the Prayer Book, sometimes, I suspect, inadvertently. And I’ve never heard anyone complain about the omission. It just doesn’t seem to have the importance it used to have.

Perhaps this is because it has been preceded by the lengthy and sometimes messy Prayers of the People, and is followed by the most messy moment of the day—the passing of the Peace. Maybe it’s the constant movement—the sitting for the sermon, the getting up for the Prayers of the People, the getting down for the confession, the getting up for the Peace. It used to be that we were down on our knees for a long time before the confession and absolution, and we stayed there afterwards. That gave this moment a prominence it no longer enjoys.

The structure of confession and absolution is the same, if the context is not. Humble people, authoritative priest—but the old message is not there. Why? I wonder if it’s our psychologized sense of sin, the fact that therapists have taken the place of confessors. But that is so large a topic, I must simply leave it and note the change.

16. The General Confession and absolution seem to have lost their authority, and with that, some priestly power.

The Peace, of course, with its messiness and informality and length, says a great deal. It was the introduction of this act that destroyed the old culture of the Episcopal Church. We used to keep a respectful distance from one another. We used to be side-by-side neighbors led by the man up front. But once we started passing the Peace, shaking hands all round, talking to our neighbors, we were saying something different. We were a community!

Perhaps it was also a power-grab. Perhaps for lay folk to turn around—or even walk around—and shake hands or embrace and wish each other the Peace of God meant that they were taking, or starting to take, control of the community. Their relationship in the church would be with each other as powerfully as with the priest. And the priest mingles in this community. The priest comes down into the midst. The priest does not remain within an enclosed sacred space surrounded by assistants. The priest is one of the community.

In the early ’60’s, when I was rector of Church of the Redeemer, Chicago, and was seeking to institute the passing of the Peace, we had a long parish discussion about it one Sunday. I had planned a formal passing of the Peace modeled after that done in monasteries, in which I passed the Peace to the acolytes at the altar and they in turn passed it to the congregation. “No way!” said the parishioners. The only condition under which passing the Peace was acceptable was that I would come down from the altar into the congregation and do it with them.

That was a turning point in the relationship between priest and people at Church of the Redeemer (and among parishioners as well). The rector could not institute a liturgical change without their consent and without their ideas, the rector had to listen to them as well as they to him, and they had to listen to each other. And the way we did the Peace expressed our changed relationships.

17. The passing of the Peace is a powerful expression of community. Its inclusion of the priest in the midst indicates a communal, rather than a hierarchical, relation between priest and people.

After the Peace come the announcements in some parishes. (Others put them at the beginning or the end.) Here the role the rector sees for herself/himself is acted out clearly. Some rectors make all the announcements. Some do their best to make none at all, leaving it to lay leaders to make them. Most do a mixture of the two. The rector’s behavior here may also be a sign of lay expectations. Sometimes lay persons strongly resist making announcements, demanding that the rector make it for them. In any case, parish leadership roles are acted out here.

18. The way in which announcements are made clearly reveals the leadership structure of the parish. If the rector presides over them, but does not do them, he/she is shown as watching over parish life. But if the rector makes most of them, she/he is shown as doer in parish life.

Offertory processions are very different from what they used to be. Women take an equal part with men, and occasionally children do so as well. There are often two processions. A first procession brings up the bread and the wine while the money offering is being collected. Then a second procession brings up the money. Sometimes this procession is done in the old style of acclamation—the organ booms, the procession marches, the congregation leaps to its feet in praise. There are two messages—

19. Offertory processions now proclaim the sharing of lay power between men and women.

20. The procession with the bread and the wine shows increased lay leadership and authority in matters spiritual.

21. The money offering and procession continue to proclaim lay power through money.

This emphasis on lay power through money may seem crass, but it is a fact and to proclaim it is good. The raising and spending of money is at the center of human leadership structures. The Gospel is full of messages about the giving and spending of money. But perhaps we need to ask ourselves here whether our processions are telling the truth. Do those who bring up the money—these particular persons—really represent those whose voices in fact determine how parish money is raised and spent? Perhaps the procession should be made up of just vestry members, and especially of the finance committee. And if that turns out to be mostly senior well-to-do white males—aha! Our true leadership structure is clearly expressed!

22. The membership of the money offering procession may be disconnected from the realities of parish life.

Sometimes these processions go right to the altar. Sometimes they stop at the rail around the sanctuary to be carried to the altar by acolytes. Shades of the sacred space too holy to be profaned by ordinary lay folk! Shades of priestly hierarchy!

In either case lay power is to be blessed by the priest. (See point v above.)

23. A procession that goes right to the altar expresses a degree of lay-clerical community. A procession that ends at the altar rail is more expressive of hierarchy.

Our methods of taking communion are a curious mixture of individualism, hierarchy, and community. The lines of people going up toward the altar and returning are wonderfully communal. The moments of receiving the bread and wine seem private and individual, each person and Jesus. The actions in receiving seem at least semi-hierarchical—the priest gives lay persons the Body of Christ, and, frequently, a lay person gives the Blood. Most of us kneel and the ministers stand.

24. We have not found a communal method of sharing the Body and Blood of Christ for the Sunday liturgy. Communion is physically a one-to-one action and feels one-to-one rather than communal.

25. It also feels, even when a lay person is the giver, hierarchical. The bread and the wine come from the altar and only such bread and wine, consecrated by the priest, will do.

26. In weekday communions or on retreats and the like, sometimes the communicants stand in a circle and pass the bread and wine to each other round the circle. That comes closer to expressing and binding community.

The Prayer Book provides that lay people may say Amen on receiving communion. But few do. And why would you do this? What does it express? I believe it signifies partnership, communion between priest and people. The priest puts the bread into the people’s hands; they say Amen. It’s a corporate act.

27. A wave of Amens down the communion rail, as parishioners receive communion, is a clear sign of community and partnership.

After the final hymn a lay person usually dismisses the congregation (e.g., “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord”), to which the congregation responds with a final and hearty “Thanks be to God.” More lay authority. More community.

28. The dismissal is a further sign of lay authority and of community.

Then comes a slow departure. The priest stands at a door and greets people, holding brief conversations. Once more we are priest-centered. Occasionally lay people act as additional greeters, but that usually doesn’t last very long. It’s hard to get laity to do it regularly. “What’s wrong with the priest? Why can’t she/he take care of it alone? People want to talk to the priest, not to you or me.”

Most clergy are people-centered. They like one-to-one relations with lay folk, and most lay folk appreciate this characteristic in their pastor. So this practice feels good to a lot of people.

But if we are to build community and share leadership, we need somehow to have it become natural for lay folk to take part in these exchanges as a matter of course. That it is not yet so in our parishes indicates how much we still look to the priest as pastor (which is fine) to the exclusion (which is not fine) of the community as a pastoral community.

29. Our greetings between priest and people at the church door express our priest-centeredness in pastoral care.

It is curious that there is not much in the liturgy that is strongly expressive of pastoral care; that is, of parishioners seeking and receiving help in their personal troubles. Most such troubles are cared for privately, outside the liturgy, except in the Prayers of the People. And in the latter we usually hear a name (and sometimes just the first name) without knowing what we are being asked to pray for. Does this person have cancer or a cold or financial problems or what?

I know one parish in which the Prayer Book rubrics concerning the ministry of healing are followed—

When the Laying on of Hands or Anointing takes place at a public celebration of the Eucharist … it is recommended that it take place immediately before the exchange of the Peace. (BCP, p. 453)

Those wishing to receive this ministry go to the altar rail and kneel. Other parishioners gather behind them. The priest moves down the rail, pausing briefly at each person just long enough to anoint them, saying the prayer of anointing as he/she goes. Then the standing parishioners lay their hands on the heads of those kneeling. Someone says a prayer of healing for them all. And the group disperses. It takes about five minutes and is a powerful expression of pastoral community.

Another sign of lay pastoral care found in some parishes is the taking of communion from the altar by lay persons to the sick and shut-in. Some parishes provide a short ceremony of sending these persons out, and sometimes the names of the sick or shut-in are given.

30. A corporate ministry of healing at the time of the Peace is a powerful expression of pastoral community. So also is the corporate sending of lay persons with communion to the sick and shut-in.

Priests differ in whether or not they give directions throughout the service—page numbers and hymn numbers, indications for standing or sitting or kneeling. Such directions are helpful for newcomers, but, once again, they tend to build priest-centered dependency.

Now that we have computers to help us print up service leaflets, we could print special ones designed just for newcomers that include absolutely everything and lots of directions and helps. But even better, just as we need to nourish our parishes as pastoral communities in which we support one another as an ordinary matter of parish life, we need to learn how to mobilize parishioners to recognize, welcome and help newcomers during the liturgy.

31. For priests to give directions during the service tends to build dependency and priest-centeredness.

During the Lord’s Prayer especially, but occasionally at other times, I observe a few people holding their arms up and out in prayer. Usually this posture is quite modest. You may not even notice it if you’re looking from behind the person. I see it from a choir pew up front; so it’s more obvious to me.

I find this a welcome change. I read this posture to express an opening of the person’s heart to God. But in a recent parish conversation we got to talking about differences in posture and one woman said that she had been thinking about holding her hands out in prayer during the service, but was afraid to do it because that would make her different from those around her. The group encouraged her to go ahead. Maybe she should sit in the back, they said, where she would feel less self-conscious.

I am not sure what we should do about the problem of “correctness” and conformity. As a priest I am glad to advocate standing, for example, during the eucharistic prayer. And in this paper I am certainly advocating certain practices as “better” than others. But now that I’ve come to see this problem of conformity, I want to add to my advocacy the hope that there are a lot of contrarians who will not follow my advice.

We have children running in and out of the service. We have people dressed both formally and informally. We have a lot of talking and noise. Now I hope we can add diversity of posture to the mix.

32. Our atmosphere of conformity tends to intimidate differences. But there are signs of change. Some persons are daring to be different. Others are wanting to be.

And the music! It’s important. In some parishes it’s a matter of performance: the parish takes pride in having good music that people come to hear for itself. There’s our good taste and correctness once again. We Episcopalians have the right ceremonial, the right décor, the right music. Poison!

33. Parish music as performance tends to entrench the Episcopal sense of “correctness” and conformity.

A new and lively spirit has begun to move in our music over the last twenty years or so. To our traditional body of hymns many parishes have now added various “popular” styles of music—“praise” music, African-American and “gospel” music, Taizé chants, and many new compositions.

Singing together builds community. Breath is spirit—in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek “spirit” and “breath” are the same word—and in breathing together we share spirit. You can see this fact vividly in the behavior of social movements. Demonstrators march together chanting slogans, singing together, moving in rhythm together.

We Christians are not, of course, a movement as was the church of the first years, but we are called by our Lord to move forward in mission. We are a called people. So we must sing together, breath together in the one Spirit. We must voice our convictions, our mission, our solidarity. That means music that people can sing and want to sing.

34. Our music needs to be by all of us, and to express conviction, mission, solidarity.

The difference size makes

My observations above concern what I called “mid-size” parishes, those with a Sunday attendance of 100–200. Parishes in the lower range of this size are sometimes called “pastoral” parishes. Parishes in the higher range are said to be on the verge of becoming “program” parishes. These terms designate, among other things, a leadership style. In a “pastoral” parish it is possible for many parishioners to have a one-to-one relationship with the priest, and most people want such a relationship. The priest’s leadership style needs to reflect this reality. But as a parish gets larger this kind of relationship is not possible for everybody. There are just too many people for the priest to have one-to-one relationships with them all. And the leadership style needs to change. That’s one reason—and a powerful one—for seeking the kinds of changes I talk about in this paper.

The other reason, also very powerful, concerns the breakdown of the old hierarchical model in American life and the deleterious effects of that model. I have written on that topic elsewhere¹ and will not expand upon it here. But I do wish to enunciate a general principle in regard to the form of the liturgy as expressing the leadership structure of the parish.

35. Just as parishes vary in leadership structure and needs, so also the structures expressed in the liturgy should vary in accordance with those needs. Just as there is not one leadership structure appropriate for all, there is not one style of liturgy appropriate for all.

The apostle Paul

Paul’s letters discuss the first gatherings of the church. His remarks are still relevant—

When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation. Let all things be done for building up. (1 Corinthians 14:26, NRSV)

Encourage one another and build up each other… respect those who labor among you, and have charge of you in the Lord and admonish you; esteem them very highly in love because of their work. Be at peace among yourselves. And we urge you, beloved, to admonish the idlers, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with all of them. (1 Thessalonians 5:11–14, NRSV)

Teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. (Colossians 3:16, NRSV)

Should I Leave?

A Letter from One Priest to Another

Warner White

Dear Harry,

I’ve been mulling over our phone conversation and I’ve decided to write you a letter. I want to speak as clearly, as systematically, and as theologically as I can to the question you’re asking yourself, “Should I leave my parish? Should I be seeking a new rectorship?”

What struck me most was your telling the vestry at the time they called you to be rector, “I do not want ever to be the center of controversy the way Father Jones was, and if such a time arrives, then I will leave.” I believe I understand your reasons. The parish was split apart over Father Jones. It appeared to you that very likely he should have left earlier, on his own, without being pressured into going. You vowed to yourself that you would never be the source of such discord, but today it seems that you are. You find yourself attacked by some parishioners and defended by others. You say to yourself, “Here it is. Just what I feared. I want no part of it. I will leave.”

We talked well together the other day, you and I, because we trust each other, because, despite your newness in the priesthood, you are a mature man with much experience of human nature, and because you are also humble and want to “pick my brains,” to learn from my years of experience. So here goes—let me tell you the principles of judgment I have come to and the experience that led me to them.

Principle 1:
You are a symbol to your congregation

For your congregation you are not just Harry Woolman, you are The Priest,ⁱ you are a walking image of something deep in the human soul. To understand what is going on in a parish you must be very clear about the difference between you, the rector, as a person and you as symbol-priest.

For example, from time to time I call on someone in the hospital who is from out of town. Almost always they greet me with warmth and trust. I do very simple things for them. I enquire about their health, we talk a little, I say a prayer, I anoint them—the ordinary things that clergy do. Yet they often react with immense gratitude—and admiration for me. I swell inside, I have a sense of great power, of being bigger than life for them. I also have a sense of unreality—I’m just me, what I’ve done is very ordinary, and yet they are reacting as if it were very extraordinary.

What has happened? Is it me, Bill Hampton, they are reacting to? I think not, for the reaction is far out of proportion to what I in my real personhood have done. No. They are reacting to The Priest. What they are seeing is not me, but me-as-symbol. I feel larger than life because this person sees me as larger than life. To be a priest is to be singled out for others as a symbol of divine power and caring. Priesthood is not a property belonging to you or me; it is a clothing we put on for others.

After you have been in a parish for a while, and parishioners begin to see your humanity as well as your priesthood, you can begin to notice how at times they see other clergy differently from the way they see you. For example, have you ever felt a twinge of jealousy at the fuss and bother, the seeming excess of regard—the adoration almost—you perceive in laypersons as they prepare for the bishop’s visitation? How do you react to the admiration laypersons show for the visiting priest who has just said something you’ve been trying to tell them for years? I find myself thinking, “I know him. He’s just an ordinary guy like me. Why are they turning such cartwheels? They don’t do that for me!” They are seeing The Priest, where you and I see just another of our peers.

From time to time parents laugh telling me of ways their children confuse me with God or with Jesus. The children hear that I’m going on vacation and they ask their parents if there will be church, since “God is going away.”

We laugh. Isn’t that just like children! But down deep it’s also like adults! The priest-symbol triggers deep hopes and fears and longings. Clothed in priesthood, you and I evoke the longing for a loving parent, for the perfectly caring one who will make things all right. We evoke fears of wrath, of failing to please. We evoke deep hopes of being understood and valued by one who really matters.

Principle 2:
The priest is always the center of controversy in a parish

In a parish the priest is not only a symbol, the priest is also a human being. The priest’s mere humanity shows. The tension between these two factors, the priest as symbol and the priest as human being, is probably the most difficult problem for priests and parishes to live with. It means that at all times there are disappointed parishioners, parishioners who long deeply for The Priest, for the larger-than-life holy one of God who will rescue them, who will care for them—and what they find instead is Harry Woolman or Bill Hampton. Make no mistake—the large gap between The Priest and our personal reality is a serious scandal to many persons. They hope for much more than we are able to be for them, and their disappointment is deep.

Some parishioners never get over their disappointment. They become deeply angry at us and remain so. I have found such anger and disappointment very difficult to deal with. I have sometimes been tempted to leave a parish in order to escape it. But that’s a mistake. Only if your judgment is that your weaknesses are so severe as to invalidate your sense of call, and only if your judgment is confirmed by observers who care for you, should this be a reason for leaving.

Principle 3:
Pay attention to the character of the pastoral bond

When you and I accept a call to a parish, we and our parishioners commit ourselves to a pastoral relation. We exchange vows in a ceremony much like a wedding.

That step establishes the pastoral relation, but it is only the beginning. From that moment on what matters is the process of bonding between priest and parish. What matters is the way in which priest and parish become attached to one another in spirit, emotion, and behavioral pattern. The priest’s pastoral task in the early years is the building and nurturing of that pastoral bond.

There are several elements in the pastoral bond—trust, caring, regard, power, centering, and the like. In a healthy process of bonding these elements go through various stages until the bond is established. I shall discuss three of them—regard, power, and centering.

The marriage encounter movement teaches that marriages go through three stages—illusion, disillusion, and realistic love. The illusion stage is the honeymoon stage, the stage in which the partners see each other through rosy glasses, in which the partners are on their best behavior. She is wonderful! Everything I ever dreamed of! She is the answer to all my longings. . . . Thus I see her more in terms of my own longings than in terms of her reality.

Then comes disillusion. I begin to see her humanity, and I am disappointed. This is a very painful stage, in which the partners can be very cruel. All too often they become so disillusioned they seek divorce. But if all goes well, the partners begin not only to see each other realistically, they begin to accept and respect each other as they are. When this happens the partners find great joy. Now she loves me for who I am! Now I love her for who she is! We love the real person, not the illusion. Now I am able to reveal myself to her without fear of losing her, and she is able to reveal herself to me.

I would expect the honeymoon between priest and parish to last a year or two, disillusionment to last three or four years, and realistic love to arrive thereafter. Any decision about leaving or staying must take into account the stage of the bonding process. Where are you in that process? What should be happening at the present time?

These stages can be applied to the bonding elements of regard and power.

Principle 4:
A healthy bonding process goes through three stages of regard— adoration, disappointment, and respect

“Adoration” is a very powerful word to use for the regard shown a priest at the beginning of the pastoral relation. Perhaps it is too strong. I choose it, nevertheless, because it expresses the particular nature of the “rosy glasses” with which the priest is viewed in the honeymoon stage.

I heard a priest once describe how he was greeted in his new parish as “the messiah,” “the one who was going to set all things right.” “And the trouble was,” the priest added, “I believed it! I thought I really was going to do all those things.” He went on to describe his own disillusionment with himself, as well as the disillusionment of his parish when they discovered that he couldn’t do everything they had hoped for.

“Adoration” suggests—accurately I believe—that the priest is viewed in divine terms. The priest-symbol is superhuman. When we start a new ministry that’s where we begin. Larger-than-life hopes and longings are stirred up and are focused on us by parishioners. And we, too, are likely to have larger-than-life fantasies of what we will accomplish, of adoring crowds coming to hear us preach, of large numbers of converts through our ministry, of great social action programs being carried out, and the like. This is especially true early in our priesthood.

Then, of course, comes disappointment. We and our parishioners become painfully aware of our mere humanity. We and they are faced with the necessity of accepting a merely human rector instead of a messiah. If that task is successfully completed, and both priest and parish move on to the stage of respect, in which the priest respects himself or herself, and in which the parish respects the priest in that priest’s humanity, a healthy bond of regard is established.

I do not believe that The Priest ever vanishes, however. Even when you and I are known as the human beings we are, we still remain, somehow, the image of The Priest. We still are walking symbols of God’s care and love for his people. In a healthy pastoral bond the tension between humanity and The Priest is resolved, not by banishing The Priest, but by accepting the human being.

I have come to understand the meaning of clerical dress and of vestments in this fashion. These special forms of clothing are a concrete sign that the person who wears them is functioning as a symbol, even though he be merely Harry Woolman or Bill Hampton.

Notice that in the progression from adoration, through disappointment, to respect, there is also a progression in perception. At first parishioners know little about the rector as person, they see the rector mainly as priest-symbol. Later, if all goes well, they become able to perceive symbol and real person in harmony. They respect the person who plays the symbol and they accept that person’s offering of the symbol to them.

I speculate that in many of those cases where parishioners become stuck in the stage of disillusion, the rector as real person is never perceived. Instead, the rector becomes the symbol of anti-Christ. “We thought she was the messiah, but she is just the opposite!” The rector becomes the symbol of betrayal at the most profound level.

Just as “adoration” may seem too strong a term for positive regard at the beginning of a new ministry, so “anti-Christ” may seem too strong a term for the negative aspect. And perhaps it is. Yet I have received letters from disillusioned parishioners couched in negative language so strong as to suggest depths of evil far beyond my limited capacities!

In these cases parishioners flip the superhuman coin. They flip from perceiving the rector as beneficently superhuman to seeing the rector as maleficently superhuman. They never perceive him or her as truly human at all.

Principle 5:
A healthy bonding process goes through stages of power settlement

Group formation theory distinguishes three stages in power settlement— dependence, counterdependence, and interdependence. In a new group the members at first wait upon the designated leader to give direction. They depend upon the leader to get things going. Later they begin to see faults in the leader’s performance and begin to rebel against the leader. Finally, group and leader develop patterns by which they depend upon each other.

These stages can be distinguished in the process of bonding between priest and parish. At first parishioners wait to see what direction the new rector will take. They look for clues to the new rector’s intentions, and their general tendency is to cooperate. Later they begin to find fault, and finally they work out a pattern of decision making that is a balance of the forces within the parish.

PRINCIPLE 6:
The bonding agenda is set by the character of the previous pastoral relations of the parish and of the priest

It is well known that parishes tend to call priests as rector in reaction to the character of the previous rector. If the previous rector focused on social action and neglected spiritual life, the parish is likely to look for the same in the new rector if they were happy with the previous rector and to look for the opposite if they were unhappy. This sets the parish’s agenda with the new priest.

Similarly, the priest seeks to establish the same or different characteristics in the new pastoral relation in accordance with the priest’s previous experience. This sets the priest’s agenda with the new parish.

So two agendas set by past experience come together to form the details of what must be worked through in the bonding process. In my present parish I am very conscious that parishioners have been testing me on matters made important to them by their experience with my predecessor. I noticed that in the early months of our relationship they tended to interpret my actions in accordance with the character of my predecessor. I am also conscious that I have been looking for the likenesses and differences between this parish and my previous parish. The bonding process is not complete until the past agendas have been dropped, and new agendas based on present realities have been adopted.

You must ask yourself about the present controversy surrounding you, “What agenda is it? Is this controversy a leftover from my predecessor, or does it realistically concern me and this parish?”

Principle 7:
Of special importance for the new rector are the bonding agendas of your predecessor’s in-group and out-group

Your predecessor undoubtedly had an in-group, a group of people to whom he was especially close and who felt supported by him, persons whose needs he met in a way satisfying to them. He also had an out-group, people unhappy with him in various ways who felt distant from him. When a new rector arrives each group has a special agenda. The in-group hopes that they will have the same relationship with the new rector, and the out-group hopes for something better. The in-group will seek to continue the set patterns. The out-group will seek to change them.

Chances are that neither group will be completely satisfied. The new rector is a different person and will not satisfy the same needs as the previous rector, so some of the in-group will become unhappy. The new rector is likely to continue many of the same policies and practices as the previous rector, so some of the out-group will remain unhappy. The bonding process cannot be considered complete until the relations with these two groups have been worked out. Successful bonding requires that both groups perceive the new rector for the unique person that he or she is, and that they cease to perceive the new rector in terms of the previous rector.

Principle 8:
The healthy pastoral bond is centered in Christ

One of the grievous ills of priesthood is the temptation to the cult of personality. A parishioner says of us, “What a great priest!” and we believe it. We must be clear that we are not The Priest; we are the symbol of The Priest. This means that both we and our parishioners must find our center in Christ.

In behavioral terms this means that the center of parish life must be worship, and in worship you and I as persons must be transparent—we must be symbol to the parish. Our persons must be subordinate to our office. Our vestments must signify more than our persons. Both we and parishioners must focus on Christ.

Principle 9:
Listen to the heart of the parish

The heart of the parish is that group of parishioners who center in Christ by faithful worship, faithful giving, and faithful support and nurture of one another. They are the heart of the local body of Christ and he is at their center. They are bonded to one another in him and it is your bonding to them in him that is crucial. Listen to the heart. What do they tell you?

Principle 10:

The parish must be viewed not only from the perspective of the pastoral bond, but also from a long-term perspective, in terms of parish history and norms

You spoke of how parishioners were in conflict about your predecessor when you arrived, and you spoke of the harm you saw them doing to each other. What you were observing were the established norms of the parish for dealing with conflict, and if they were harmful, then you were observing patterns that need to be changed. Any decision you make about staying or leaving must take into account its effect on parish history and norms. Will your staying or your leaving help those norms be what they ought to be?

Principle 11:
You yourself have a history and a calling

You are yourself at a particular stage in your relation to God. God has brought you to where you are and God is calling you to take the next step, whatever that may be. Any decision about leaving or staying must take into account your own history and calling from God at this stage of your life.

Illustrating the Principles

Let me now illustrate these principles in two controversies from my own experience.

I have been the focus of two parish conflicts in the past eight years. In one case I decided that I must leave. In the other I decided that I must stay.

Last year was my sixth at St. Richard’s. At the end of our annual meeting a parishioner moved that the vestry be charged to evaluate the rector’s performance and to report back to the parish with a list of changes to be made or with the rector’s intention to resign. The motion was amended to include the possibility that the vestry might give the rector high marks, and then it passed. I asked for a vote of confidence and received it. As you might imagine, the meeting was very upsetting to me and to a lot of people.

I discovered later that the parishioner who made the motion had gathered a group ahead of time in support of it. I was not surprised by his hostility. Nor was I surprised that there were others who were hostile. Some had personal disappointments. Others were angry about some of my policies. My attempts at understanding and reconciliation had not borne fruit.

The vestry, which included both supporters (the majority) and critics, spent many hours doing the evaluation, basing it on the criteria of the Book of Common Prayer and the canons. It was very painful for them and for me. They were able to agree unanimously, however, on a written evaluation which said, in summary, that I was adequately fulfilling my duties, and they appended a list of specific perceptions, favorable and unfavorable, of my performance. I responded in writing, and then we circulated the documents in the parish. That took care of the charge given us by the annual meeting, but it did not end the controversy. Vestry meetings were painful. I dreaded them, because at every meeting the critics harassed me about something. Two persons complained about me to the bishop. And during all of this I was filled with self-doubt. What had I done? How could I reconcile the complainers? And worst of all was the sinking feeling, the knowledge, that I couldn’t do anything, that it was me they didn’t like—me the way I am—and that my basic convictions were what led to the disagreements in policy.

During this time I received lots of support. I felt confident of the large majority of the parish. But I was aware of critics who had stopped coming to church and of critics who had withdrawn financial support. It was clear that we were going to run a large deficit.

At vestry meetings I kept trying to respond to the critics. I kept insisting that we work on reconciliation and that we strive for consensus within the vestry. But finally it became evident that the dissenters would have none of it. They were going to oppose not only me, but anything I proposed. This sort of strife was familiar in the parish. Some of the same people who were angry at me had circulated a petition seeking to get rid of my predecessor. Others had been angry at his predecessor. Power politics had been the parish norm.

I finally made two decisions: (1) I was going to stay; and (2) I was going to work with those who were willing to work with me, and not allow the dissenters to bring that to a halt. From that moment everything got better. Our energies were no longer consumed by attempts to reconcile the irreconcilable. Vestry meetings became easier. We began to get things done. One of the dissenters resigned. Another rotated off. And at the annual meeting the dissenters failed to win any seats on the vestry.

During all of this our Sunday worship and our sense of fellowship went well. There was no sign that dissent was growing; indeed, it was quite the opposite. We gained a few new families, and—most striking of all—our pledge canvass resulted in a marked increase in giving.

The controversy at St. Peter’s was different. It erupted in my fourteenth year as rector as a result of one action I took—I fired the music director. I can still see in my mind’s eye the coffee hour after the news got out. People stood around in isolated groups, and when I entered the room I felt cut off. Our music program had been a source of immense parish pride, even though it had also been the source of immense problems.

In this case a lot of my friends were angry at me. We called a parish meeting and decided two things: (1) the parishioners and I would hold a series of small group meetings to see if we could air out and work through things, and (2) we would get an outside consultant to help us find our way.

The small-group meetings were excruciating for me. They became garbage-dumping grounds. Parishioners heaped on me complaints that were years old and of which in many instances I had had no awareness. Vestry meetings were also painful. Friend was pitted against friend. Vestry members who had loved me and supported me were now my critics.

Parish life went on pretty much as usual in terms of attendance and giving and activities, but it hurt a lot. We were having a hard time with each other. The consultant talked with parish leaders individually and had a session or two with the vestry. Finally he advised me that in his judgment I had lost the confidence of the key parish leaders and should leave.

This had been my parish for many years. I had chosen to come to the neighborhood as a young man. I had been ordained from the parish. My wife had been born there and had grown up in the neighborhood. We had raised our children there. I felt a very strong sense of identity with the parish. I had never considered leaving. I wanted to stay, and I told the vestry so. We negotiated an agreement. We would have a parish vote of confidence and allow that vote to be our guide.

When the vote was taken I won by 60 percent to 40 percent. That night I decided to leave.

These two controversies came to different conclusions, and, I believe, the right ones.

First, the two controversies occurred at different stages in parish life. Here at St. Richard’s we were still engaged in the bonding process and were at the disillusionment stage. At St. Peter’s we had long before established the pastoral bond. Here we had been deciding whether or not to go on to the stage of mutual acceptance. There we were experiencing a trauma to the established bond. I had struck a violent blow to that bond, and the question was whether we could survive it.

Second, at St. Richard’s there was a division between the heart of the parish and the dissenters. At St. Peter’s everybody (with but few exceptions) was my supporter. Here it was the heart who wanted me to stay and persons outside the heart who wanted me to go. There it was the heart who said, “Bill, you’ve got to go.”

Third, here the bonding process was proceeding successfully with the heart of the parish. I became aware as the controversy went on that I was in danger of abandoning that heart in order to appease a power-politicking group committed to other values and persons.

Fourth, St. Richard’s has a history of divisions and of settling them by a power struggle—in short, a history of unhealthy conflict. St. Peter’s had no such history; the conflict was carried out with a deep commitment by the leadership to the welfare of everybody involved. Here the dissenters sought to coerce others by withdrawal of support. There support continued throughout.

Fifth, I felt overwhelmed at St. Peter’s. I remember those months as months of muteness. Whereas normally I am voluble, then I was subdued. Whereas normally I am filled with ups and downs of emotion, then I was overwhelmed with sadness. In contrast, my years here at St. Richard’s have been years of blossoming. I have done a lot of writing and new thinking, and have received a tremendous response. A flood of creativity has broken forth from me.

As I see it now, my firing of St. Peter’s music director was not only an attempt on my part to solve a deep parish problem, it was also (although I didn’t realize it at the time) a blow for freedom, both for me and for the parish. As I see it now, I had become too identified with the parish and the parish with me. Rather than being two equal partners in a marriage, we were a merger of personalities. I was drowning and didn’t know it. I needed to get free and didn’t know it. Moreover, the parish needed to be free of me. They needed a rector with a strong sense of himself or herself as a person in his or her own right, a rector who would be more able to see them as they were and to confront them where they needed confronting.

Here at St. Richard’s I am conscious of a different relation to the parish. I am conscious of a difference in me, of my ability to see them more objectively. Here I am much more conscious of the parish’s needs as distinct from my own.

The crucial difference in the two cases is signified by the tactics of the critics and their relation to me. At St. Peter’s the critics were my friends, they cared about me and sought to see to my welfare, even while they criticized. At St. Richard’s the critics were foes, they withdrew support of both me and the parish, and engaged in power plays. They valued the Lord’s Table so little that they withdrew from it in an attempt at coercion. They had so little sense of bonding to the rest of the parish that they abandoned them as well. St. Peter’s had healthy norms of conflict; St. Richard’s had unhealthy ones. My staying would not have helped St. Peter’s; my leaving did us both good. My leaving St. Richard’s would have done harm, for it would have reinforced the unhealthy norms of conflict—it would have strengthened the tactics of withdrawal and coercion, and it would have undercut the tactics of support and consensus seeking.

There is much more to be said, of course. But perhaps the above will be of help.

Your brother in Christ,

Bill

Originally published in Action Information 12, no. 1 (January/February 1986): pp. 14-19.