On October 29, 2010, I was ordained as a deacon in the Episcopal Church.
At the time, I thought I was what the Church problematically calls a “vocational” deacon. This is a problematic adjective for two reasons. First, “transitional” deacons, that is, deacons who are ordained on their way to their later ordination as priests, are also vocational: to become a deacon is to stay one. Holy orders are … sticky. (The ten-dollar word is “ontological.”) It’s the idea (which I believe is a good one) that something fundamental about a person changes, or is revealed, or is fulfilled, when she is ordained. Something indelible happens when she is set apart for a particular ministry in the Church. But the second reason is even more important: all baptized Christians are called to a diaconal vocation. Holy Baptism is the ultimate ontological change, and in Baptism we all become “vocational deacons.” Christ himself comes among us as one who serves, and so in Baptism we join his servant ministry, his diaconate.
And so I was correct! Ten years ago today, I was ordained as a vocational deacon. But I was mistaken in thinking that that was the end of my ordination story, the singular ‘moment of moments’ in my call narrative. I truly thought that. I truly believed it. And I was wrong.
Well, okay, I wasn’t wrong. I was just incomplete in my self-understanding. Unlike many priests, I needed ten years as a deacon, not six short months. Unlike many deacons, I am not as clearly set apart as they are for the prophetic work of a deacon. Unlike many laypersons, I needed to do a lot of study and discernment to figure out the shape of my own particular baptismal calling. I was … high-maintenance, maybe. That’s a fair hit.
I also needed to get sober. My life story took a sharp turn for the better on May 13, 2013, when I asked for help, chose not to drink, and began my recovery. I am sometimes a little hard on the person I was from 1998 to 2013, the main years of my problematic drinking. Like a lot of alcoholics, I had plenty of amends to make, and still try to take personal inventory on a daily basis. But my sobriety carried a surprise among its many gifts and challenges: a call to the priesthood.
My sobriety informs and empowers my priesthood in many ways. It gives me deep empathy with others who struggle with substance abuse, both the addicts themselves and their friends and family. It awakens me to the immense human need for reconciliation, borne on the wounded hearts of practically everyone. It humbles me in ways that are hard to talk about, not because of shame, but because I do not know the whole story, and because it is not only my story.
In the first four months of my priesthood, I have reflected a lot on what it means to be a priest, what it does not mean, and what “priesthood” looks like, or maybe should look like, in a time of global plague, deepening struggles for racial justice, and economic crisis. If we were not coping with a pandemic, I would be able to go to church every week and be surrounded by a couple of hundred people. They would communicate to me in ways large and small that I am one of their priests. I would say things like “Lift up your hearts,” and they would reply, “We lift them to the Lord!” Their words and actions would communicate to me, “You, Stephen, are one of our priests.” I don’t have that experience, yet. I feel sadness about that. But maybe it’s a good thing, because all this reflection is good for me. And most importantly, the life of the community I serve is not about me.
What, or who, makes me a priest? Well, God does. I am a Christian priest: Christ himself makes me a priest. I believe God gives me the words God wants God’s people to hear. I believe God takes care of the people when I care for them, and also when I fail to live up to my calling. And like every single other baptized Christian, God does everything without any need for me at all. God gets us all involved in the work of faith because God simply delights in human beings, and relishes calling them into relationship. Finally, I can say with gratitude and relief that everything I do is connected to the priesthood we all share, lay and clergy alike.
Here’s another possible answer to the question of what or who makes me a priest. In a previous job as one of the clergy at an Episcopal church in Virginia, a parishioner called on me for some one-on-one conversations. Their concerns are confidential of course, but I can say this about my own experience of those conversations: I realized with surprise that I was that person’s priest. Suddenly it all came together in my mind and heart. The identity I had with this person was given to my by this person. I didn’t assert that identity, or declare it. I was simply given, for those few weeks, the privilege to walk a few miles with one person in their lifelong walk with God. They allowed me to listen to their concerns. I was their priest.
I am glad that I met that person, and am fairly sure I got as much from our encounter as they did. I continue to pray for the people I served at that church, and the people I serve now at Grace Church. I say many prayers of gratitude that I have been given the gifts of sobriety, health, and discernment as one of countless priests in the Church of God.
And yes, I am still a deacon, ten years later. It’s just been an interesting ten years. My spiritual director many years ago, the late Rev. Wray MacKay, used to say, “I enjoy our ongoing conversation.” He was one of those priests who seems to be equal parts oak tree and human being, so I always assumed he meant that our “ongoing conversation” will go on for years and years, even after we’ve both died. I think he is still in the conversation, though he’s currently out of view.
I think Wray might be interested and more than a little delighted to know about the great and good people I am serving these days as a priest in God’s Church.
Ordination days: October 29, 2010 (left); June 30, 2020 (right).