Episcopanglican by Alliee DeArmond

I love John-David. Although he can blow hot air as much as anyone else, I’ve heard him preach when there was so much Holy Spirit anointing, you hardly had to breath to stay alive. He presided at the marriage of my second son. He’s a sponsor of The Word Shop. Once, after he heard my confession, my heart was aflame for hours– a burning in the center of my chest. That night when I prayed for various people, I put my palm on their chests and tears splashed onto my hand. It was nothing I did. It was nothing he did. It was something God did. Himself.

I’m not much of a denominationalist. In the last month I’ve worshiped at Anglican, Lutheran, Roman and Episcopalian Churches. I’ve done a quiet day with Evangelicals. (Yes, they CAN be quiet for a day.) OK, I couldn’t eat the bread at the Episcopal Church, but that was a thing of the moment. I’ve eaten it before, I’ll eat it again. I’ve choked on it before, I will undoubtedly choke on it again. Siblings always get the least slack. Still, there remains a weight in my stomach, a pain in my heart. The churches didn’t care much when individuals left. The dioceses didn’t care much when churches left. Don’t see why a province would give a damn when a diocese leaves. Except about the property. Of course.

My eldest son once asked, “why aren’t there more guys like the Bishop and Fr. George?” I don’t know. When we were looking for a new Pastor I wanted four things: Someone who knew Jesus was Lord, who granted the authority of the scripture, who was conversant with the gifts and manifestations of the Holy Spirit, who liked me. Needless to say I didn’t get it. That last one can be a real doozey.

People talk as if this denominational re-alignment is over priestesses and sexual sin. It’s not. It’s about those four things: the Lordship of Jesus, the authority of scripture, the moves of the Spirit, unfeigned love. I’m grieved that we’ve been so appallingly inept at evangelizing our own church–not to even mention the world. I’m grieved because the response of those left behind is so often self-righteous justification when it should be a rending of clothes and covering of the head with ashes. I’m grieved because those whom I love are misunderstood and maligned.

I suppose in the long run it doesn’t matter much. Jesus knows his own. But in the short run–in this particular sprint on a cold December morn–I wish that the church, some day to be presented without spot or wrinkle, wasn’t once again back at the Laundromat.