Episcopal Church Foundation Vestry Papers - for leading congregations

Don’t you get bored saying the same things over and over?

My parents asked me that after they attended their first Episcopal worship service. When I was a child, we attended a United Methodist church with a fantastic youth group and traditional worship. In the years since my departure, the church has branched out, offering ‘celebration’ worship with PowerPoint and altar calls. Don’t get me wrong: I have experienced, on occasion, spiritual joy during the eighth round of “Sing Alleluia to the Lord.” Really.

But week in and week out, I draw strength and nourishment from our Episcopal worship.

In my early days at The Episcopal Church, I couldn’t quite articulate how the ritual and liturgy filled my soul.

It wasn’t until my husband almost lost his arm – and life – that I could find words to express my feelings.

The infection started as a dime circle at his elbow. He was visiting a parishioner before a surgery in a hospital two hours away. Unbeknownst to me, the pain in his arm was so severe that he thought he was having a heart attack. The emergency room dismissed him, prescribing a good night of sleep.

Instead, he writhed through the dark hours of night, soaking the sheets with sweat, moaning as this infection crawled through his body. Within 24 hours, he was in isolation in an intensive care unit, a surgeon on standby to amputate his arm and to cut until he reached healthy flesh. By this time, the dark red stretched from his wrist to his jaw. There was a chance, the surgeon warned, that the infection might be too strong, too deep into his body. I should know, he said, that my husband could die.

I could only spend 15 minutes with him every six hours, so at 9:00 pm a deacon of our church accompanied me into the ICU.

His eyes, on the occasions they opened, were glossy with fever. He mumbled deliriously. I’m not sure he knew who I was.

Our deacon began reciting the words of Compline.

The Lord Almighty grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end. Amen. 

I startled. My husband had responded. He couldn’t say my name, could barely talk, but when the prayers started, he was able to join. 

His lips barely moved, but in a rough whisper, he offered the confession: and grant that we may serve you in newness of life to the glory of your name.

O Lord, hear our prayers. And let our cry come to you. 

A nurse too soon placed a a gentle hand to my elbow, a signal that it was time to leave. I bent to kiss his forehead and laid my check to his chest. The breathing was ragged, his brow on fire, but there was a peace too. 

When all else had forsaken him, his body fighting an insipid enemy, his mind too weary to converse, the words of the liturgy sustained him. 

What we do week after week, praying the same prayers and confessions and offerings to God, gives us a language to offer to God all that we have, even if it’s the crumbs, the last bit of strength we can summon. 

This is the story I tell now when people ask why I’m Episcopalian or when I’m asked whether it ever gets boring to say the same words, the same prayers week after week. No, I say. I’m not bored. I’m thankful. Ever thankful. 

For when it felt like nothing was left and hope was a foolish man’s friend, our prayers held us up and connected us to God.

Let us bless the Lord.

Thanks be to God.