Why Pray?

Prayer can take many forms. There is the urgent plea for help or guidance, there is the quiet prayer of thanks whispered at day’s end or when family is gathered. There are prayers of confession, prayers of praise and adoration. Private prayers and public prayers may take the form of petition, praise or gratitude.

Some will ask, why pray? Is there really a God to pray to, or if there is, why do we imagine that God is listening? Does prayer make a difference in what happens in our lives and in the world?

For me, it is important to gather with others in prayer. I do not imagine that I am bringing my case before God in an attempt to change the mind of the divine or to coerce supernatural intervention. Participating in the public prayers of the church, however, is a way for me to bring myself into a deeper consciousness of what God’s own concerns may be for the human community in which I live. 

Mending Battered Sails

I discovered liturgical prayer at a time when I had been battered by circumstances and unsure of which way to turn. Ironically, it was religious life that had left me battered. I was a graduate of Golden Gate Baptist Seminary and had just completed a two-year missionary assignment teaching English at Hong Kong Baptist College.

During my entire four years of college and three years of seminary, my Southern Baptist denomination had been enduring its own “culture war” which some of my colleagues refer to as “the religious wars.” Those with a conservative fundamentalist orientation within the Southern Baptist Convention were highly displeased with the state of higher education, especially of what they viewed as liberal trends in seminary education.

By the time I returned to the States after two years overseas, the fundamentalists had successfully wrested control of the denomination. I found a church where I no longer had any hopes of making a spiritual home. Leaving meant severing possibilities of serving in the profession in which I had been trained, but staying would have created far too much dissonance. Since I had become acquainted with an Anglican priest in Hong Kong who had once been a Baptist, I decided to explore the Episcopal Church to see if there were any possibilities for me there.

A New Language

I discovered in the small Anglo-Catholic Episcopal parish of St. Andrew’s in Birmingham an ancient liturgy that opened up a new world of faith for me. Having been raised in a non-liturgical tradition, I saw the ancient liturgy of the church as a new language for worship. In order to learn all that I could, I committed myself to the liturgical life of the Church. I made the conscious decision to become a learner. I was committed to learn a new language of worship and to proceed as if I did not even know how to pray.

In the months that followed, I began to find some healing and inner re-structuring as I allowed myself to be shaped and guided by the liturgical prayers of the church. I would say that I found a spiritual formation by way of the 1979 Book of Common Prayer. The beautiful prayers I heard and took part in throughout the liturgical year increased my awareness of God’s own concern for those who struggle, those who suffer, and those who seek justice.

I heard collects invoke the presence of God, as in “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known and from you no secrets are hid.” Ancient prayers such as Phos Hilaron (O Gracious Light) became new and rich for me. When I sang the Gloria and the Sanctus with the congregation during the Sunday liturgy, I was praying ancient prayers that connected me with that “great cloud of witnesses” who have stood to say those words of praise for hundreds of years (and who continue to say them in all of the liturgical congregations today). 

During the prayers of the church, I was brought with the community into awareness of those in trouble or in prison. My heart was drawn to people who suffer in body, mind or spirit. I was reminded in the context of prayer to reverence the earth and to care for it. I became aware of the holy task of those who fight for justice, freedom, and peace. All of this happened within the community at prayer.

Throughout the liturgical cycle of the year, there were seasons of joy and seasons of sadness; times for repentance and times of affirmation. There were days of fasting and days of feasting. Community prayers were there in the midst of worship to guide us in our grieving, in our waiting, and in our moments of celebration.

Why do we pray? I learned that when I allowed the liturgy to pull me away from my limited frame of reference, I came into a larger awareness of what the presence of God means. I gained further insight into what the reign of God entails. My prayer life was expanded. By participating with the praying community, concerns I might not have considered were brought to mind. Even the cosmic presence of Christ as sustainer of the world became a cause for celebration. 

Praying with Grace

Last Sunday when I visited my friends at Grace Episcopal Church, I was reminded once again of why we pray. During the Prayers of the People, the worshiping community there made use of some intercessions from The Church of England’s Common Worship: Times and Seasons. In the Episcopal Church, there are six basic forms in the prayer book to select from for the Prayers of the People during the liturgy. Using a different form was an enriching change, but the beauty and the content of the prayer was a wonderful illustration of how prayer can draw us into an awareness of how we are called to participate in doing the things that God does. 
 
Here are the prayers as prayed at Grace last Sunday:

The Prayers of the People

Upon the rich earth send a blessing, O Lord.

Let the earth be fruitful

and its resources be hallowed.

we ask you to hear us, good Lord.

Prosper the work of our hands;

may all find dignity and just reward in their work;

free the exploited and oppressed.

we ask you to hear us, good Lord.

Guide us into a sustainable future,

and give us the will to share the fruits of the world.

we ask you to hear us, good Lord.

Teach us to cherish the water of the earth,

and to conserve the seas, lakes and rivers.

we ask you to hear us, good Lord.

Where the earth is parched and the well has run dry;

where war brings want, and children go hungry;

where the poor cry out for bread and for justice,

give hands to care and heal, and compel us to be generous.

we ask you to hear us, good Lord.

We ask you to hear us, good Lord,

for the sake of your Son, our Savior Jesus Christ.

Amen.

(Adapted from the Church of England’s Common Worship)


When you find yourself wondering why we bother to pray in this muddled world we live in, consider how we can be enriched, encouraged, and formed by the prayers that we engage ourselves in.

                                     

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Remembering a Remarkable Life

The Rev. Canon William Maurice Branscomb, Jr., at his 90th birthday celebration with longtime parishioner Frances Hinckell, also 90, at Grace Church Woodlawn, Birmingham, Alabama, where he was rector for many years. A parishioner writes, “Grace is what it is because of his leadership.” 

(From The Daily Office, Asia-Pacific, New Zealand, photo by Elizabeth Anderson)

My Memories of Maurice Branscomb

The life of the Reverend Canon Maurice Branscomb, or as most of us called him, “Father B,” was celebrated at Grace Episcopal Church where his funeral Mass took place on January 20. “A most remarkable man,” “one who stood with dignity,” “a priest whose concern for the poor arose from his prayer life,” were some of the comments heard during the service. At 92 years of age, his had been a life of joyful service that had touched many. He was an anomaly to some: a strong advocate for high Anglo-Catholic liturgy, he also had an undying motivation to reach out to the poor and the outcast. As I told one of my friends, “Even now, just remembering Father B inspires me to keep trying.”

That First Encounter

I will never forget my first encounter with Maurice Branscomb back in 1984. I was at a pivotal point in my life. At 29 years of age, I was a Baptist seminary graduate having spent two years on the mission field and involved in hospital chaplaincy, yet I found myself inwardly driven to break away from my Baptist moorings. Even in seminary, my church history studies had peaked my interest in the Catholic Church, and while serving overseas one of my friends was an Anglican priest who had converted from the Baptist faith.

I was considering a move toward what I was seeing as a more historic expression of the Christian faith and had spoken with a few people about my search. One Baptist pastor suggested I go find Maurice Branscomb and see what he was doing on Birmingham’s Southside. An Episcopal chaplain on another occasion had suggested the same thing, “Go see what Father Branscomb is doing at St. Andrew’s and see what you think.”

I had called ahead to arrange a visit. Father Branscomb welcomed me into St. Joseph's House, the parish house that is adjacent to St. Andrew’s Church. Dressed simply in a blue work shirt and slacks, his open countenance was warm and inviting. I had told him that I was interested in exploring the Episcopal Church. He was interested in hearing about my own journey. As I sat with him telling him my story, I could not recall a time when I had been listened to so deeply and fully.

A Rich Expression of Faith

Father B then told me a few things about his church. He picked up a 1979 Book of Common Prayer and showed me how to navigate it. He pointed out some of the founding documents included therein. “These documents show you our history and how we got to where we are now. They are not necessarily things that everyone has to believe to be part of our church, but they give you an idea of who we are.” He pointed out that I was coming at an opportune time – it was the beginning of Lent. “You will be able to witness the church’s preparation for Easter, our most defining season!”

During that conversation, he told me about the ministries that were happening there at St. Andrew's. There was the soup kitchen (Community Kitchens) that served lunch Monday-Friday to anyone who walked in. Southside Ministries operated from there to provide food, clothing and other types of emergency relief. St. Andrew's Foundation, founded by Fr. Francis Walter, provided independent living training for adults with developmental disabilities.

He then showed me around the sanctuary at St. Andrew’s, explaining every arrangement of that physical space and invited me to join them on Sunday. My goal was to enter in to the life of the church, to observe it long enough to find out if it was a place for me. He was more than happy to have me sojourn among them for as long as I saw fit.

St. Andrew's Church (photo from Church's website)

A New Paradigm

Thus began what would be for me not just a pivotal moment, but rather a complete paradigm shift and the opening to a new approach to life. I don’t think I had any other formal one-on-one meetings with Father B, but for the next three months I “sat at his feet” at Saturday morning Eucharist, Sunday worship, Stations of the Cross, etc. It was a small congregation, so anyone involved in the life of the parish had close contact with one another. Sometimes I would stop Father B to ask him questions about “why do we do this in the service?” or “what does this or that mean in the liturgy?” I even sat in on the confirmation class he led that spring.

Then he was gone. After 12 years as rector at St. Andrew’s he accepted a call to Holy Communion Parish in Charleston, S.C. I was sad to see him go, but he had ushered me into a happy communion. I would continue to explore the life of faith at St. Andrew’s Church for a few months before officially being confirmed in November of that year. 

I became involved in the life of the church, serving as acolyte at the altar and later singing in the choir. I found gainful and meaningful employment in social services with the St. Andrew’s Foundation, working with adults with developmental disabilities in group homes and supervised apartments. On a daily basis, I witnessed the work of the soup kitchen that Father B had started years before (and which continues to this day). In the meantime, I met the woman who would become my wife right there at St. Andrew’s (at the coffee hour – I remember it like it was yesterday when Vicki and I met). It was a most fulfilling time of life for me.

To my delight, a few years after Maurice Branscomb moved to Charleston, he decided to come back to Birmingham, this time to Grace Church in Woodlawn where he would continue his work of High Anglo-Catholic Liturgy and ministry to the people on the streets. I was deeply involved at St. Andrew’s and felt no urge to go to Grace (though I did visit on occasion to witness Father B in his element). I wrote him upon his return and told him that that it was a joy for me just to know that he was here in town.

Grace Episcopal Church in Woodlawn where Father B continued
his "altar and street" ministries (photo from Church's website)

Final Visits

In 1997, I got word that Father B would be retiring and moving to south Alabama. They had a big celebration for him at Grace. I composed a poem for him on that occasion and presented it to him at the retirement event. It would be another 16 years before I would see him when he returned to St. Andrew’s Church for their 100^th anniversary celebration. Three of their former rectors were present to celebrate the occasion. (I told people it was better than when the five Doctors came together on Doctor Who).

I was no longer at St. Andrew’s Church. I had been working in healthcare for a number of years and my family and I were members at St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church. I would not have missed the occasion to see Father B again – he would have been in his late eighties by then. I was glad to be there for the centennial service. As I walked out of the church where the three former rectors were greeting the people, I took Father B’s hand. The ageing priest smiled, looked into my eyes and reached out to touch my face, as if to say, “Is that really you?” All I could say was, “After all these years!”

I would not see Father B again. He was in fact living in an assisted living center in south Alabama at the time, though he still took part in priestly duties when he could. When word came in January that he had died, I went back to my files to find the poem I had written 20 years before. Re-reading it, I saw that I could change the first lines and it would be a suitable writing in memorium. I shared it on my blog and with friends who knew Father B. I was glad to have the poem to bring his life to mind, but I was so grateful that I had been able to share those words with Father B himself, while he was still a young 72 year old retiree.

In Remembrance

The Rev. Kent Belmore was the celebrant and homilist at Maurice Branscomb’s funeral. Belmore had been a curate under Father Branscomb at the Church of the Holy Communion in Charleston, S.C. In his homily, he mentioned that Maurice did not talk much about Heaven or dwell on it because living faithfully in the here-and-now was what was important to him. Father Belmore told us that instead talking about Heaven, he wanted to look at the biblical term, resurrection. “The word for resurrection in the Koine Greek literally means ‘to stand with dignity’,” he told us. “Maurice Branscomb was definitely one who stood with dignity in all that he did.” He then asked the congregation to stand for a moment to affirm the reality of standing with dignity as we remembered Maurice Branscomb.

Remembering Maurice Branscomb will continue to inspire me to keep trying. Now I have that sure image of the Christian hope and proclamation that we can and will stand with dignity in the presence of God – and that God’s presence is most surely found in the poor and the outcast as well as at the altar.

Here is the poem I wrote for Father Branscomb upon his retirement and then revised as a memorial to his life:

     In Remembrance of Father Branscomb

All good graces

And light eternal

To the one who has shown great compassion

     in all things.

Your boundless energy

With your endless capacity for caring

     has been a blessing from God.

Many have seen how your compassion

     made the liturgy come alive,

     brought sustenance to the needy,

     created a space for those who would rest

         and a ministry for those who would serve.

A true priest,

     a wellspring of joy

        and a midwife to the soul –

To name but a few traits

Of a servant with no regrets,

Whose magnanimity

Welcomed so many

     (and such a variety)

To the Lord’s Table.

Rest in Peace, Father Maurice Branscomb

~ Charles Kinnaird

And you don't have to take my word for it. You can read a wonderful and insightful article from the local newspaper here.     



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The Wexford Carol

St. Andrew's Church in Winter
photo by Parrish Nored

I have posted this rendition of The Wexford Carol before. It is one of my all-time favorite Christmas carols. I am presenting it again here because I heard it performed by the Birmingham-Southern Choir at Canterbury United Methodist Church in Mountain Brook last Friday under the direction of Dr. Lester Seigel. It was one of several superb arrangements in their Festival of Lessons and Carols. 

My first encounter with the carol was in the mid 1980s when I was singing in the choir at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Birmingham. We were then under the direction of a young Lester Seigel, a most superb organist and choirmaster who was also choir director at Temple Emanu-El at the time (his weekends must have been quite busy!). These days, Dr. Seigel is an internationally known conductor and is Department Chair for the Music Department at Birmingham-Southern College. I am proud to have known him back in the day.

While I do not have a recording of the Birmingham-Southern Choir to present here, I have John Rutter’s arrangement and recording of the carol. 

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Flashback: An Ordinary Life

[While I am working on another project, I have been re-posting some of my favorite past essays. This one was written around 2004, several years before I began blogging. This post appeared on my blog on November 9, 2010. I would later write more on this subject in my essay, Form and Substance: How a Sonnet Saved My Life, which was also featured in the current "Flashback" series.]

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church

"People who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human"


I found myself getting a bit teary-eyed last Sunday during the closing hymn celebrating All Saints Sunday. The hymn was “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God.” In the old 1940 Episcopal hymn book it was listed under “Hymns for Children.” I knew it had been a favorite of my friend, Meg Parker. Hearing the song made me think of days past, and so I decided to post this essay I wrote several years ago after Meg’s death.



An Ordinary Life
by Charles Kinnaird

Meg Parker lived an ordinary life, which was quite an accomplishment given the obstacles that she faced. She lived in an apartment and had a daily routine with friends and colleagues. Meg had loves and conflicts. She knew joys and sorrows, gains and losses. The fact that she lived the life that she did is a tribute to her family, to the community at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, and it is especially a tribute to Meg herself.

Meg Parker lived with developmental disabilities and a seizure disorder. St. Andrew's Foundation provided group homes for adults with mental retardation. It was there that Meg was taught daily living skills and was able to acquire some measure of independence. Eventually, she was able to move into an apartment with a roommate. There, with supervision, she was able to live a normal life with a normal routine. She was also able to move from a sheltered workshop to her own job in the community. She had a good life, and she was determined to enjoy life in spite of the difficulties.

At her funeral, the priest, Father Marc Burnett, said just the right things to commemorate the life she had lived before that final seizure "shook her from this life into the next." As I sat there listening to the eulogy, I could not help thinking about the day, eighteen years earlier, when I first met Meg Parker

I first visited St. Andrew's Church in March of 1984. I was a Baptist seminary graduate trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Meg was the first one to welcome me to the parish that day. Little did I know how my life would change after that encounter in 1984. Within the year, I had joined the Episcopal Church and had begun working at St. Andrew's Foundation (which was later named St. Andrew's Place). The parish and the group homes would become central to my life for the next twelve years. It was Meg Parker and others at the group homes who caused me to re-evaluate my worldview and to reassess my ideas about what things are important in living a meaningful life. I came to see the importance of ordinary things: a simple meal shared, a conversation about little things, an outing in the park.

So much happened during those years. I was able to immerse myself in Anglo-Catholic liturgy, social service, and progressive theology, all of which were a break from my Baptist roots. It was also there that I met my wife and our daughter was born. All of these things were changes for the better. I shudder to think how life might have been otherwise.

My life took a dramatic turn on that day back in 1984, and Meg Parker's welcoming of a stranger played no little part in its turning. It was at St. Andrew's that I came to realize that people who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human. How we respond to people with disabilities says something very important about who we are as human beings. When I look at the ordinary life that Meg lived, I see it as a sign of hope. In the final analysis, is that not what we all want – an ordinary life? All of us achieve that ordinary life the same way that Meg did, only with help from our friends.


[Note: The group homes and supervised apartments of St. Andrew's Place are now under the auspices of The ARC of Jefferson County]

Flashback: Living in a New Light

While I'm involved in another project, I am re-posting some of my favorite essays. This one is from April 4, 2010.

Adam lay ibounden,

Bounden in a bond;

Four thousand winter

Thoght he not too long.

      ~ Anonymous (15th century ode)

The Easter vigil at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church was a night of symbol and ritual. The new fire was kindled outside, the Paschal Candle lit, and then came the procession into the darkened sanctuary. As I stood there in the darkness, there were only two sources of light available. There was the Paschal Candle at the front of the church. The second light came as a surprise. Halfway back, emanating from the darkness was an illumined apple with a bite taken out of it. It was the unmistakable Macintosh logo shining in the darkness (I later learned that a technician was digitally recording the choral music that night – the reason for the laptop in the sanctuary).

Of course the apple has been a deeply ingrained symbol since long before Macintosh acquired it. It has served as a symbol of the despair that followed disobedience in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve partook of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. It has also been a symbol that celebrates knowledge. How many times have we seen those happy back-to-school images that include a stack of books, smiling children, and that familiar apple for the teacher?

As I stood there in the darkness of the night, awaiting the coming of Easter, I thought about how that apple is the reason we are gathered here to remember the Paschal mystery, and to celebrate our redemption. The bishop spoke that night of how we all have dreams that die – things do not turn out the way we had hoped – and how we must let those dreams die in order to find new resurrected life. He described that life as a creative fire carrying us onward and beyond. As I stood there between the apple and the Paschal Candle, I felt that I knew about dreams that die, new life that arises, and fire that carries us forward.

The anonymous medieval poet certainly knew the drama and hope of redemption. A traditional interpretation of the poem quoted above is that Adam, as a result of the apple, was trapped in Limbo for 4,000 years until being liberated by Christ’s cosmic redemption that included the harrowing of Hell. It can also allude to humankind being in bondage to sin until the coming of Christ. To me, the power of that poem is in re-imagining bondage and hope. Consider that before the apple in the garden, Adam was just as bound by Eden’s bliss. It was a bliss that included a lack of consciousness and a lack of struggle; where 4,000 years could pass as a long weekend. The poet has the wisdom to speak of that fortunate fall which brought us life as we know it, with all of its joys and sorrows. The ode that begins in bondage ends in thanksgiving:

Blessed be the time

That appil that take was.

Therefore we moun singen

‘Deo gracias.’

Like the anonymous poet, whose identity I wish we knew but whose anonymity makes him or her truly one of us, I stood there in the darkness of the Easter vigil celebrating two lights. The apple’s light of consciousness and struggle, and the Paschal light of hope and redemption. “Therefore we may sing, ‘Thanks be to God.’”

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Wednesdays with Dorothy: Making the Transition from Group Home to Apartment

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St. Andrew's Episcopal Church
(our offices were in the Parish Hall)

“Hi, Charlie. How you doin’?” Dorothy greeted me as she came into my office. 

“I’m doing fine, Dorothy,” I replied, “How are you?”

“I’m purty good. It’s kinda cool out there today. I took my time comin’ over here. I wanted to wait ‘till the traffic died down before I left the house.” 

This was the day for Dorothy to pick up her Food Stamps. She would always come by the office for one of us to give her a ride down to the Food Stamp Office.  Dorothy lived five or six blocks away from the St. Andrew’s Foundation office. She usually walked everywhere she went and would often come by the office for various things such as help with paying bills, or getting a ride to an appointment.

“Charlie, I brought you and Harry and Edsel some Hershey bars – and they’re still fresh. I just got them this morning.” 

“Thank you Dorothy, that was very kind of you.” I said. “I’ll enjoy that later this afternoon.” 

There were several of our former clients who were living in their own apartments in the Southside neighborhood. They were among the earliest to come out of Partlow State School as a result of the court order in the Wyatt v. Stickney class action lawsuit against the State Mental Health Department. One of the things that made the work of the St. Andrew’s Foundation successful was that our office was not only in close proximity to the group homes, it was also near enough to the various apartment buildings were our graduates, like Dorothy, resided. They were technically no longer under our care, but we had a relationship with them and they knew they could come to us anytime they had a question or a problem. Each of our “graduates” had a case manager with the state mental health department, but the St. Andrew’s Foundation was there to provide continuing support for them even though there was no financial remuneration. We were essentially providing volunteer services, but it was for people we knew and cared about. They had a history with us and a trust of friendship. It was that relationship that helped them to live successfully in the community.

Toward Independent Living

Before Dorothy and the others were able to move into their own apartments, they had to be taught some basic independent living skills.  After they had mastered those basic skills, they would live in a supervised apartment and would be evaluated prior to moving into their own apartment in the community. In my conversations with Dorothy years later, she recalled those days of transition into the community.  

The Women's Group Home (left) next door
 to the Intermediate  Group Home (right)

“I was at the group home for a few years before I moved into that first apartment.  When I was at 1116 [the Intermediate Group Home], Debbie (she used to live in the group home), she came in with several other people. They started putting down mattresses in the floor. We called Alice (one of the group home staff) and she called Francis (Saint Andrew’s Foundation Director). They told them that they could not stay there. Another time, Elmus came over and they had to tell him he couldn’t stay.”

“When it came time for me and Virginia to move into our own apartment, we were delayed because Virginia wasn’t quite ready, and they wouldn’t let us move until we were both ready. It didn’t work out, because I left her and she couldn’t manage.  I lived there about six months, I guess, before I moved out.”

“When I moved out from the group home and shared that apartment with Virginia, I didn’t like living with her because she fussed and cussed all the time.  I went out and left her; I moved to another apartment with another roommate.  I think I was there about two or three months then I moved in here.  I lived with Virginia in that apartment for six or seven months. Her sister came and got her and took her back home with her.”

*    *    *

Next time Dorothy will tell us about how she found her apartment and what it was like moving into the community.

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Cosmic Mass Now Playing

Two wonders are too great to be told but must nevertheless be declared. There is the wonder of creation and the wonder of the human journey toward wholeness and redemption. One of my favorite rites in the Episcopal Church is Eucharistic Prayer C which proclaims the drama of redemption against the backdrop of the mystery of creation.

Everyone has experienced a sense of wonder in the presence of creation. “Breath-taking” and “awe-inspiring” are terms often ascribed to nature. There are innumerable examples which can connect us immediately with the wonder of existence, causing us to marvel at the mystery of the universe.

Who cannot stand in wonder when gazing at the night sky? I can recall as a child the joy and amazement I felt when looking at the stars. By the time I was 10 years old I had been schooled in the concept of light-years and by the time I was 14 I had watched the Apollo lunar landings as our first steps of space exploration were televised. I spent many a night looking toward the Pleiades, marveling at the vastness of the universe and wondering about my place in it. The sheer grandeur such a sight can give one the sensation of being afloat on a sea of mystery, as if on the cusp of tapping in to an ancient memory in the mind of God.

Beginning in the 1990s when the Hubble Space Telescope began sending us images from deep space, we saw a multitude of galaxies at various stages of formation. Increased knowledge led to increased wonder and amazement.

Juxtaposed to that outward vision of the universe, the inner journey that we all make can also instill us with wonder. Some call it a journey toward wholeness, some call it salvation, others call it enlightenment. It is a path we take as individuals and also as a community. Sometimes increased moments of awareness come in private meditation; sometimes that awareness comes while gathered in community. Often it helps to proclaim the Great Mystery as we come together for worship. Eucharistic Prayer C can be a vehicle for that proclamation.

What is Eucharistic Prayer C?

The prayers for Mass, or the Eucharistic service, are labeled Eucharistic Prayer A, B, C, and D. The most frequently used are Eucharistic Prayers A and B. By far the most poetic and the most cosmic of the Masses is Eucharistic Prayer C.

Consider the opening prayer as the Eucharistic Rite begins:

God of all power, Ruler of the Universe, you are worthy of 
glory and praise.
Glory to you for ever and ever.

At your command all things came to be: the vast expanse of 
interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, 
and this fragile earth, our island home.
By your will they were created and have their being.

From the primal elements you brought forth the human race, 
and blessed us with memory, reason, and skill. You made us 
the rulers of creation. But we turned against you, and betrayed 
your trust; and we turned against one another.

Later in the Mass, just prior to the consecration of the bread and wine, we hear this prayer:

Lord God of our Fathers: God of Abraham, Isaac, and 
Jacob; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our 
eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver 
us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace 
only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for 
renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one 
body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the 
world in his name.
Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the Bread.

The Celebration at St. Andrew’s Church

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church

I was delighted last Sunday as the service unfolded at St. Andrew’s Church to hear those magnificent liturgical prayers from Eucharistic Prayer C. At the end of the service, my wife commented to the rector, the Reverend Ed Hunt, about how much she loved Eucharistic Prayer C. Father Ed replied that the church will be using it in the liturgy from now until September. You heard it right – the Cosmic Mass will be playing for the rest of the summer at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church on Birmingham’s Southside.

So come one and all, every Sunday from now until September at 10:30 a.m. to St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church  in Birmingham where you can meditate on a cosmic scale in  music, worship, liturgy and poetry.

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Alabama's Anti-Immigration Law: The Faithful Take Action

Yesterday at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church on Birmingham's Southside, the Alabama Coalition for Immigrant Justice (ACIJ) gave a presentation called Immigration 101. We heard a host of reasons why Alabama’s Immigration Law is being opposed by many of our state’s citizens. Some myths about immigration were presented and clarified as well as facts about Alabama's extreme anti-immigration law. Two of the myths that were countered were that immigrants don't pay taxes and that they come here to take welfare. In actual fact, last year in Alabama, immigrants paid $132 million in taxes. Furthermore, immigrants are 86% more productive than native-born workers.


We heard about inspiring, and even heroic measures that are being planned by St. Andrew’s parishioners to attempt to bring some sense of justice in the wake of an unjust law. For those of us who grew up with memories of the Jim Crow laws and the KKK, Alabama’s new law is particularly disconcerting. Once again we are seeing how fear and the need for power and control have led to harmful legislation. Alabama has made national headlines for passing the strictest immigration law in the country.  The bill forces attorneys to choose between the law and their own code of ethics regarding attorney/ client privilege. It has already cost the state income by affecting farmers' ability to harvest crops and keeping investors away from Alabama. 

Thousands have already rallied against the law and clergy from many denominations are opposing it. Many faith communities are protesting the unjust law.  If you want a quick view of reasons why this is a bad law, the Center for American Progress has compiled 100 Reasons Why the Alabama Immigration Law is a Disaster, which you can read here.

One reason that it is important for faith communities to take action, and why I was so inspired to hear the discussion at St. Andrew’s Church, is that there seems to be little public interest in taking action. A recent Alabama survey showed public apathy on a wide range of issues. According to the survey done by the Public Affairs Research Council of Alabama, jobs are the number one issue for the state legislature to consider this year, with 32% ranking it as the most important. The number two ranking in the survey was “no opinion” which came in at 22%. Education was at 13% and all other issues were in the single digits, with immigration ranking at 5%.

Today, I want to give a word of praise to the congregants at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church and their rector, Father Ed Hunt, for showing interest and being willing to take action for the cause of justice.  There are things all of us can do right now, such as phone or write your state representative and ask them to repeal Alabama’s Immigration law. The Alabama Coalition for Immigrant Justice (ACIJ) has a team ready to share information with your church or community group. Check out their website here. 




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Songs for Christmas: Wexford Carol

St. Andrew's Church in Winter
photo by Parrish Nored

The Wexford Carol may be my all time favorite carol. It is an Irish carol that originated in County Wexford and dates from the 12th century. This is another one that I came late in knowing. My first encounter with the carol was in the mid 1980s when I was singing in the choir at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Birmingham. We were then under the direction of Lester Seigel, a most superb organist and choirmaster who was also choir director at Temple Emanu-El at the time (his weekends were quite busy!). These days, Dr. Seigel is an internationally known conductor and is Department Chair for the Music Department at Birmingham-Southern College. I am proud to have known him back in the day.

There is great joy in listening to music, but to sing in the choir adds another dimension. The choir works with the song over and over before it is presented to the public. As a result, the choir member has a much more intimate involvement with the music, and has had the repeated experience of finding that place of harmony, balance, timing and accord with the rest of the choir. The congregation enjoys the results of the choir's many rehearsals, but the entire process brings rich reward to the choir member.

I have two versions of the Wexford Carol here. The first is a choral presentation that is very much the way I first learned the carol. The second is of Alison Krauss recording the piece for the CD, Yo Yo Ma and Friends: Songs of Joy & Peace. Alison Krauss does a magnificent job with the song. Her background in country music (along with the addition of the drum and pipes) brings a real Celtic flavor to this Irish carol. Enjoy either one, or both!

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An Ordinary Life

"People who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human"

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church

I found myself getting a bit teary-eyed last Sunday during the closing hymn celebrating All Saints Sunday. The hymn was “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God.” In the old 1940 Episcopal hymn book it was listed under “Hymns for Children.” I knew it had been a favorite of my friend, Meg Parker. Hearing the song made me think of days past, and so I decided to post this essay I wrote several years ago after Meg’s death.



An Ordinary Life
by Charles Kinnaird

Meg Parker lived an ordinary life, which was quite an accomplishment given the obstacles that she faced. She lived in an apartment and had a daily routine with friends and colleagues. Meg had loves and conflicts. She knew joys and sorrows, gains and losses. The fact that she lived the life that she did is a tribute to her family, to the community at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, and it is especially a tribute to Meg herself.

Meg Parker lived with developmental disabilities and a seizure disorder. St. Andrew's Foundation provided group homes for adults with mental retardation. It was there that Meg was taught daily living skills and was able to acquire some measure of independence. Eventually, she was able to move into an apartment with a roommate. There, with supervision, she was able to live a normal life with a normal routine. She was also able to move from a sheltered workshop to her own job in the community. She had a good life, and she was determined to enjoy life in spite of the difficulties.

At her funeral, the priest, Father Marc Burnett, said just the right things to commemorate the life she had lived before that final seizure "shook her from this life into the next." As I sat there listening to the eulogy, I could not help thinking about the day, eighteen years earlier, when I first met Meg Parker

I first visited St. Andrew's Church in March of 1984. I was a Baptist seminary graduate trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Meg was the first one to welcome me to the parish that day. Little did I know how my life would change after that encounter in 1984. Within the year, I had joined the Episcopal Church and had begun working at St. Andrew's Foundation (which was later named St. Andrew's Place). The parish and the group homes would become central to my life for the next twelve years. It was Meg Parker and others at the group homes who caused me to re-evaluate my worldview and to reassess my ideas about what things are important in living a meaningful life. I came to see the importance of ordinary things: a simple meal shared, a conversation about little things, an outing in the park.

So much happened during those years. I was able to immerse myself in Anglo-Catholic liturgy, social service, and progressive theology, all of which were a break from my Baptist roots. It was also there that I met my wife and our daughter was born. All of these things were changes for the better. I shudder to think how life might have been otherwise.

My life took a dramatic turn on that day back in 1984, and Meg Parker's welcoming of a stranger played no little part in its turning. It was at St. Andrew's that I came to realize that people who live with disabilities have something very important to say about what it means to be human. How we respond to people with disabilities says something very important about who we are as human beings. When I look at the ordinary life that Meg lived, I see it as a sign of hope. In the final analysis, is that not what we all want – an ordinary life? All of us achieve that ordinary life the same way that Meg did, only with help from our friends.


[Note: The group homes and supervised apartments of St. Andrew's Place are now under the auspices of The ARC of Jefferson County]



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Living in a New Light

Adam lay ibounden,
Bounden in a bond;
Four thousand winter
Thoght he not too long.
– Anonymous (15th century ode)

The Easter vigil at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church was a night of symbol and ritual. The new fire was kindled outside, the Paschal Candle lit, and then came the procession into the darkened sanctuary. As I stood there in the darkness, there were only two sources of light available. There was the Paschal Candle at the front of the church. The second light came as a surprise. Halfway back, emanating from the darkness was an illumined apple with a bite taken out of it. It was the unmistakable Macintosh logo shining in the darkness (I later learned that a technician was digitally recording the choral music that night – the reason for the laptop in the sanctuary).

Of course the apple has been a deeply ingrained symbol since long before Macintosh acquired it. It has served as a symbol of the despair that followed disobedience in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve partook of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. It has also been a symbol that celebrates knowledge. How many times have we seen those happy back-to-school images that include a stack of books, smiling children, and that familiar apple for the teacher?

As I stood there in the darkness of the night, awaiting the coming of Easter, I thought about how that apple is the reason we are gathered here to remember the Paschal mystery, and to celebrate our redemption. The bishop spoke that night of how we all have dreams that die – things do not turn out the way we had hoped – and how we must let those dreams die in order to find new resurrected life. He described that life as a creative fire carrying us onward and beyond. As I stood there between the apple and the Paschal Candle, I felt that I knew about dreams that die, new life that arises, and fire that carries us forward.

The anonymous medieval poet certainly knew the drama and hope of redemption. A traditional interpretation of the poem quoted above is that Adam, as a result of the apple, was trapped in Limbo for 4,000 years until being liberated by Christ’s cosmic redemption that included the harrowing of Hell. It can also allude to humankind being in bondage to sin until the coming of Christ. To me, the power of that poem is in re-imagining bondage and hope. Consider that before the apple in the garden, Adam was just as bound by Eden’s bliss. It was a bliss that included a lack of consciousness and a lack of struggle; where 4,000 years could pass as a long weekend. The poet has the wisdom to speak of that fortunate fall which brought us life as we know it, with all of its joys and sorrows. The ode that begins in bondage ends in thanksgiving:

Blessed be the time
That appil that take was.
Therefore we moun singen
‘Deo gracias.’

Like the anonymous poet, whose identity I wish we knew but whose anonymity makes him or her truly one of us, I stood there in the darkness of the Easter vigil celebrating two lights. The apple’s light of consciousness and struggle, and the Paschal light of hope and redemption. “Therefore we may sing, ‘Thanks be to God.’”


(This is a reflection on a past Easter experience and was first published in SPAFER's The Oasis Newsletter)

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