My senior year of high school my friends Breanna and Rachel (they are sisters) and myself and my brother would spend every Tuesday night eating a meal with unhoused people. There was a local non-profit that provided food for people experiencing homelessness. What I loved about it, is that everybody who came would all eat a meal together — erasing the lines between who was serving and who was being served. We would sit with the same guys every week and play Jenga. One of the guys was named Wolfman, a name one does not forget!

I think there was something about those Tuesday nights that was formational for us high schoolers. After all, my brother is now a civil rights lawyer and my friend Breanna works at a community center in Ireland that supports Travellers, an economically challenged and vulnerable population.

Jesuit priest, Gregory Boyle, once said this: “When the gospel connects with our hearts and we find ourselves on the “outskirts,” those on the margins may wonder what we’re doing there. They aren’t accustomed to our presence in their space. In the end, though, the measure of our compassion with what Martin Luther King calls “the last, the least, and the lost” lies less in our service of those on the margins, and more in our willingness to see ourselves in kinship with them.”

I think what Father Boyle is getting at is this idea of incarnated solidarity. Less of a service to approach and more of a service with, recognizing that our lives are bound together and so is our liberation. And this could be fun, like eating a meal and playing Jenga together on a Tuesday night.

Some of you may have heard that the Mission & Outreach community here at Epiphany is in a season of discernment about where God might be calling us to next. We are taking some intentional time to hear from the greater parish community and exploring new partnerships in our community.

I have come to learn of the ways that M&O and you all helped start the Blackstone Library in the South End when you realized the school there didn’t have its own public library. Some of you have faithfully companioned the Rawan family as they have resettled here from Afghanistan. There is a group of you that has gone to help out at San Lucas in Chelsea every Friday morning for the past 13 years to organize food for the food pantry. Many of you have been involved in Haiti and Honduras and are doing good work here locally in the community as well. And as a parish we have been generous with our resources — these are just a few examples!

As part of our discernment, we would like to include as many voices as possible together as a parish to brainstorm all the possibilities. This is an exciting time and I believe we have the people and resources to really allow ourselves to dream big as we follow God’s call.

We want to hear your voice! Please consider filling out this survey today as an act of compassion and justice.

With hope,
Rev. Janelle

Mission and Outreach Survey

When I was seventeen years old I went bungee jumping. I'm not certain what waivers I had to sign, but what I remember quite clearly is my looking down at the bungee cord and thinking: Do I trust this thing? It was intense, scary, thrilling, and I am pretty sure my mom didn't "sign off" on it.

A couple weeks ago, I had a "bungee jumping" kind of conversation with a young person not from church. They knew I was a priest and they asked me: What happens to us after we die? I'm familiar with being asked such questions, but looking down at that little one, as they looked up at me, I started to sense just a touch of that vertigo of uncertainty. "Oh, here I am, talking about something I trust and believe in, but I can't prove with any certainty!" It is unsettling and exhilarating — it can be fun to step into the mystery. Maybe you know what I mean. 

Well, I told that young person what I believe and trust in: When we die we will be greeted by God's big and warm embrace — it'll feel like coming home, because we will be. I said: "And you know what, it really is a big and exciting mystery." They gave me a nod of approval and said, "Let's keep walking." And, we did.

You and I live in a world that is increasingly suspicious of, not just faith or trust, but of mystery itself. If we just have enough time and enough technology and enough brilliant minds, we'll figure it all out. It's a scientism and materialism that is both truthful and sterile. I'm not arguing against such things in any final way (I mean, if the Webb telescope doesn't bring you awe and wonder, I'm not sure what will!). Rather, it's to say that there is something very human-making about mystery. Mystery and wonder make us more human, not less so. Mystery and wonder, especially when it comes to religion and faith, is the fuel of spiritual growth. It's about moving us to experience those "bungee jumping" realities of life and asking ourselves: Do I trust this? Maybe it's the decision to trust someone with your vulnerability; maybe it's a choice to walk away from the safe and explore the unknown; maybe it's admitting your limits and asking for, clamoring for, crying for "help." 

As we enter this new year together, I invite you into the mystery and the wonder that is all around you and within you — the strength, the openness, the possibility of honestly asking: Do I trust this? And then, maybe, taking that leap of faith.

See you Sunday, 
Rev. Nick 

My dear friends,

I have the privilege of crafting the final newsletter intro of 2022, which gives me the choice of looking ahead (an article on New Years resolutions, perhaps?) or back (a “year in review”). Some of you know that many years ago, I was an actual card-carrying, tweed-wearing historian. While I don’t miss that career at all (I mean come on, I get to finger paint here in ministry!), it did rather shape me, so looking back over the year is the natural choice. But then again, now I work with children, who are the most fantastically hope-filled, forward-looking creatures imaginable, and they are shaping me too.

I’ll split the difference by sharing two notable moments at Epiphany in 2022, that stand out so brilliantly in my heart when I think about the past year, and one resolution for the next. 

Midwinter. Last January, Omicron was in full swing. We were all—to use the words of my late grandmother—not amused. We decided that here at church we couldn’t have indoor meals together for a while. Of course, this was deep midwinter, also known as not picnic season in New England. Were we to isolate again? Give up on fellowship time? Rather than cancel Midweek, we pivoted over to Midwinter, where we ate (the most amazing ever) grilled cheese sandwiches and gathered around firepits in the Cloister Garden. It was a spot of blazing warmth, love, and community in the middle of another long, dark pandemic winter. 

The Parish Weekend Away. For me this was a resolute bookend to the shutdown, and the realization of a deep desire of my heart. Not only did we gather, but we shared meals, memories, and afternoons lazing in the sunshine. We square danced our hearts out. We created bonds of friendship. We treasured each other and the gifts of time, laughter, and community. 

So, what’s my resolution? To meet and truly know more of you during the coming year. I know many of you well already; but I have a lot of room in me for more true friends. 

And if I may be so bold as to suggest one resolution for you for 2023, it’s this: Invest yourself here. Come to Midweek. Come to the Parish Weekend Away. Come to Bible Study, to Church School. Stay for fellowship hour. I know how busy we get. I know how many pressures are on us. But church community is different from everything else out there. Time in communal worship; in prayer; in studying the Word of God; and in fellowship with our family in Christ—these are things for which we are truly intended, made in the image of a loving, present God. This will bring you joy in 2023.

With love and hope,
Bryn

When I was growing up, my favorite Christmas tradition was… going to the Christmas Eve services at my church. (Seriously, I am not making this up. I suppose this means I am in the right vocation!)

All that to say, there was something magical about gathering together as a church family the evening before Christmas. There was joy and excitement in the air, even if it had been a really hard year. We dressed up, sang "Silent Night" in the dark with our candles, and drank hot cocoa in the slightly cooler San Diego winter air. Those who were there all the time and those who came occasionally always came back to the church for Christmas. It was like the family was all back together again. The Christmas Eve services at my home church became even more meaningful when I myself had left for college and then eventually moved quite far away. Often I had not been back in a whole year and when I walked through the doors of that church that raised me, it was like no time had passed. I was always welcomed back with embraces and eagerness to hear new life updates.

Those memories are the ones that made me feel that I was back home again.

I am looking forward to celebrating Christmas with all of you this weekend. I hope that it feels a bit like a homecoming whether this church has been your home for many years, or like me, for just a few months. Whether you are involved in every committee there is or haven’t been back in quite some time, this is your home. We gather together at the end of each year to make room for Christ and to celebrate a God who would make home with us. That is good news that helps us to enter the new year with strength and hope.

With gratitude,
Rev. Janelle

Last week, after having run errands all morning and returned to the house with arms full, I realized that my keys were safely nestled in the zipped pocket on the inside of my winter jacket. I stared at the doorknob, felt the pressure of the keys on my chest, and said to myself, "Of course." And, like nearly everyone else in this situation, I tried to unzip my coat, hold the storm door open with my knee, and retrieve my keys. It didn't go well. Right before the grocery bag tore down the middle, I wisely decided to put all the bags down and step away from the door. I needed to let go of what I was holding.

This is a full week. From the exciting news of a breakthrough in the study of nuclear fusion or the celebrations of the World Cup, to the mournful remembrance of the shooting at Sandy Hook in Newtown, CT ten years ago or the more intimate moments of challenge or sadness (which often happen during holiday seasons). 

This is a full week. On Tuesday, Rev. Bob invited us into a space to care for one another as we experience such grief. Wednesday night the vestry gathered to discern our ministry and mission for this coming year and approve a budget. This Saturday the Parish Choir and Chorister gather to practice and prepare for the Christmas celebrations ahead. In Atlanta, at 2:00 pm on Saturday, Janelle Hiroshige will be ordained a deacon, as she responds to God's call in her life. On Sunday, we welcome the American Friends of the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem at the Adult Forum to explore the homeland of Jesus and our longing for peace and home in this world. At 5:00 pm on Sunday evening we celebrate our festive Lessons and Carols service, in a sanctuary adorned by the Flower Guild and prepared by the Altar Guild; after the service we have a festive reception together — a wonderful way to enter more deeply into Advent, towards Christmas. Just sharing all that is happening this week makes us realize, our arms are full. Full of wonderful and beautiful and, maybe, heavy things.

I'm reminded that it is good to carry such things. And, there comes a time to set these things down. Maybe when the work is finished, the songs are sung, the relationships tended, the call heard. To let go, reminds us that we can't do everything ourselves; indeed, we are not the center of it all. We need help opening the door or are invited to set something down to take another up. This Advent season, this week, is full — but let it not be about busy-ness or distraction, checking-lists, or getting wrapped up in the worry of a perfect "whatever". Advent and the celebration of Christmas is about this: we are not alone, God is with us, this sacred life rests in God's embrace — no matter what we carry.

Happy Advent friends. See you Sunday,
Nick

“And God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work." 2 Corinthians 9:8

This past Sunday afternoon, members of our vestry, our Property, Creation Care, Planned Giving, and recently formed Capital Campaign committees met to have a strategic planning conversation about our campus. It was the first of what I expect will be many conversations with this group. We met out of a desire to integrate the many discussions over the past several months and develop a sense of alignment on the big picture for our campus: what the significant issues and decision points will need to be to move forward. And we had a conversation about our values.

We enjoyed lunch and fellowship during the first 30 minutes of our 3-hour session. We had a simple meal: soup, salad, and bread. I made my mother’s carrot soup. I have her recipe scribbled on a piece of paper in my own writing; I recalled years ago, she read it to me over the telephone. The recipe doesn’t make much – it calls for a pound of carrots, an onion, and two and a half cups of vegetable stock. So, most of the week leading up to the meeting, I was obsessing about how many multiples of the recipe I should make; it looked like we might have anywhere between 20 and 30 attendees. Ultimately, I settled on 10 pounds of carrots and went from there. It didn’t stop me from second-guessing myself, fretting that it might not be enough, laughing at myself for being so worried; you get the picture.

Part of our effort in parish life together involves shifting our culture to move away from the binary view that our building and our mission are somehow separate items. In my mind, we need to talk about the property for a while so that we can stop talking about the property. And what I mean by that is our vestry has developed a vision to self-fund our property needs from our endowment so that our pledge dollars are entirely focused on our people and our mission. To achieve that vision, there’s work to do, and it involves talking about our property.

At the end of 2021, the vestry charged the Property Committee with helping us get a comprehensive view of our campus maintenance needs so that we could do a better job of longer-term planning and financial forecasting. That work resulted in an engagement with Commercial Construction Consulting (C3) out of Boston.

C3 reports that while overall, the properties are well maintained and are in good condition, there are items nearing the end of their expected life and needing immediate attention. The accumulated cost to address repairs, spread over ten years, is estimated at $5.7 M. It’s essential to know that this figure is to maintain our campus and doesn’t include renovations or additions that we may want to do as we consider other uses for the campus.

Our afternoon was filled with several 15-minute sessions, through which we developed a set of property categories and core values that we’d like to apply to each topic to help us discern what will be next. We’ll be sharing more of this work with you in the coming months.

As you might imagine, our conversations veered into the “how in the world will we afford this” territory, and the room was mixed with both optimism and concern. I was reminded of how I was worried about whether there would be enough soup for lunch (granted, on a much smaller scale). In the end, there was enough soup; I even took home leftovers for lunch on Monday. While we don’t know where we will end up in this strategic conversation about the property, I know that God is able to provide us with every blessing in abundance. For now, I need to trust that we’ll have enough.

Dave McSweeney, warden

Once again we have entered into the penitential season of Advent, the beginning of another liturgical year. These four Sundays and the days surrounding them give us a time of spiritual preparation for the upcoming celebration of the birth of Jesus at Christmas. Tish Harrison Warren, an author and priest in the Anglican Church in North America, summed up this season of Advent in one of her weekly New York Times articles last year, amidst the ongoing pandemic. She wrote: "Advent is a season of hope, and part of practicing hope is noticing where we need it. In church, congregants sing a well-known Advent hymn that begins, 'O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.' We recall that we require ransom and rescue. Another year has gone by and we still live in a world in need of mending. We have learned anew through these long years that a virus can suddenly change our lives, that our illusions of control and predictability are fragile and faulty, that lies are often mistaken as truth, that we cannot keep ourselves or those we love from pain, that the wreckage of poverty, injustice and darkness persist. This is the very world of heartbreak, Christians say each year, into which Christ came and will come again.”

Indeed, this staple of our Advent hymnody “O come, O come, Emmanuel” is an adaptation of the Great O Antiphons which have been sung in the Roman church since at least the 8th century. They are seven Magnificat antiphons used at Vespers on the last evenings of Advent (December 17-23), leading up to the December 24 Vigil on Christmas Eve. The ornate antiphon for each evening would be sung before and after the Magnificat (Song of Mary), the high point of the Vespers liturgy. These texts likely originated in Italy in or before the 6th century, when Boethius refers to them in The Consolation of Philosophy. The Latin titles are:

17 December: O Sapientia (O Wisdom)
18 December: O Adonai (O Lord)
19 December: O Radix Jesse (O Root of Jesse)
20 December: O Clavis David (O Key of David)
21 December: O Oriens (O Dayspring)
22 December: O Rex Gentium (O King of the Nations)
23 December: O Emmanuel (O God With Us)

The first letters of the titles, from last to first, appear to form a Latin acrostic, Ero cras, meaning 'Tomorrow, I will be', mirroring the theme of the antiphons (Emmanuel, Rex, Oriens, Clavis, Radix, Adonai, Sapientia). Such acrostics were popular among early medieval writers. If you look at Hymn number 56 in our Hymnal 1982, you will note that the appropriate date for each stanza is listed. Though we don’t have daily services of Vespers or Evensong during the final octave leading up to Christmas, these antiphons might serve as a useful addition to a daily devotion or meditation as we approach the next celebration of Christ’s birth in the manger. In the meantime, all best wishes during this season of hope and preparation,

Jeremy Bruns

I have two big boxes full of Christmas story books—curated over forty years—and the day in late November that I drag them from the basement storage closet up to our living room is one of my favorite days of the year. A handful of these books tell the story of Jesus’s birth with scripture. The dozens of others? They invite me into the mystery of Christmas through poems and fables; through the eyes of mice and spruce trees; and even through cookies that come alive, or a strange green creature that discovers “Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” 

There are so many ways to tell the story of Jesus’s birth—perhaps the most famous story there is. Over the next four weeks, we’ll hear it in the holy scriptures read during worship and in the music we sing. We’ll see it as our spaces are adorned and transformed. We’ll experience the story as theater in our pageant. The children (in our aptly named Storymakers class) will explore this story in comics, in comedy, in art, and—if I feel brave—in stables made of graham crackers and sheep made of marshmallows and licorice. 

We say to our little ones, the mystery of Christmas is coming near and we don’t want to miss it. Imagine all of the ways you’ll hear this story in the coming weeks. Imagine of all the ways you’ll tell it. Through old worn story books; through foods and scents; through traditions and decorations; through the giving of gifts and the visits of friends. This beautiful, mysterious story—of a Creator so loving that God became human to walk among us—is all around us. I hope and pray that as we enter Advent this Sunday, we will all feel this story in everything and everyone around us. Know that this story is for each one of us. It is our story.

With love,
Bryn

My favorite part of my commute to Epiphany is when it comes time to drive up the Mystic Valley Parkway. The Mystic Lake is stunning, no matter the season. When I first arrived in August, the trees were green and full and often there would be little sailboats on the lake. Driving by, I would catch just little glimpses of the lake in between the fullness of the trees. When fall came around, the colors of the trees were vibrant and some mornings, the oranges, reds, and yellows would reflect on the lake.

These days, there are barely any leaves left on the trees and I am shocked how quickly it feels like fall turned into winter right about the time when we turned back our clocks. But with the falling of the leaves, much of the lake is now visible in ways that it was not before. I can now see almost the entirety of the lake and the homes that sit on the other side. It’s beautiful in its own way.

I’m going to risk a cheesy metaphor here and say that sometimes things get clearer in the winter seasons. What is covered up in other seasons is plain and bare in the winter. Almost painfully bear.

This coming Sunday is Christ the King Sunday which is the last Sunday before Advent begins. We are invited to reflect where it feels that Christ is present and alive in our midst and in the places where the reign of Christ feels absent. The hope is that if we choose to lean into this season and not just let it pass by, there might be that clarity we have been looking for.

What we know about the life of Jesus is that the reign of Christ is one of compassion, love, and deep solidarity. Even in the harshest of winters, we believe that those roots run deeper than the violence, hurt, and death. On this Christ the King Sunday we are reminded how Jesus chooses to reign—not by being this distant deity on a throne in the sky, but by being deeply present and embodied in all the moments of ordinary life.

With hope,
Janelle

This fall, we have been using the Godly Play curriculum with the younger children in the Upper Parish Hall on Sunday mornings. As we gather in our circle a few minutes after the 10:00 bells finish ringing, I look around and wonder how the story will unfold for this group of children and adults that has come together this morning. I have told these stories many times over the 32 years since I first taught Godly Play at Epiphany and it is never the same, just as it will be different today for each of the children watching to see which tray I will get from the shelf for today’s story. And so we settle in and begin… Over the course of the last three weeks in October, we told the story about Noah and Naamah, we traveled in the desert with Abraham and Sarah, we escaped Pharoah and his army. During the flood, the ark rose higher and higher above our heads as the waters rose. Abraham and Sarah traveled to new places across our desert box, wondering if God would be in these places too. And the children helped God’s people through the parted waters of the Red Sea.

At the end of each story we ask wondering questions:

I wonder what part of this story you like best?
I wonder what part is the most important?
I wonder where you are in the story or what part is about you?
I wonder if there is any part of the story we can leave out and still have all the story we need?

Each week, as the children listen to the story and retell the story to themselves afterwards or play with the Play-Doh or other materials that we put out, the far end of the Upper Parish Hall becomes this particular group of children and adults’ space for our time together.

I wonder how many spaces we each have at Epiphany? I wonder what we bring to our spaces and what our spaces bring to us? I wonder how God changes us in these spaces.

Nelia Newell, Warden