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Grace Cathedral

Grace Cathedral is an Episcopal church in San Francisco. A house of prayer for all people, and a center for social justice, the arts and service.

Steph McNally

Lenten Reflection — March 22, 2021

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Reflecting on the reading in Daniel today, I found myself trying to remember the first time I heard this most powerful of stories: the casting of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego into the furnace. I managed a dim recollection of what felt like at least one of the first times I heard the tale. I could mainly recall the emotions this story provoked in my young and fertile imagination: absolute horror at a furnace large enough to burn a person; terror while picturing these three men cast into this roaring, searing firestorm; wonder upon hearing of how these three men emerged untouched.

Reflecting on my own early reactions to this tale gave me fresh empathy for the response of King Nebuchadnezzar. I have heard the tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego so many times since the first telling that I know the outcome well (including the details such as the memorable reference to the hair on the men’s heads not being singed.) This familiarity with the story’s outcome has perhaps made the king’s response of astonishment seem somewhat foolish to me. Indeed, I think it is quite easy to read the king as being, in addition to cruel, somewhat simple, an almost comical figure whose face distorts with rage, and who naively thinks he has the means to destroy these men of God simply by increasing the heat of his furnace. It is through trying to read this story from his perspective – imagining his deep, soul-shaking wonder at this seemingly impossible event – that his words take on more power and meaning: “But I see four men unbound, walking in the middle of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the fourth has the appearance of a god.”

My reflection on the importance of empathy continued as I read John. I was tempted on first reading to do something of a mental eye-roll, and to imagine Jesus doing the same, as I read of his encounter with individuals who questioned everything he said, sentence by blessed sentence. Of course, on closer reading, and with a determination on my part to bring my newfound empathy into action, I could at least begin to imagine how strange, if not downright ridiculous, each of Jesus’ pronouncements must have seemed: so strange that an attentive listener would have had little option to challenge them, in the style of rapid-fire debate perhaps seen on social media today.

Empathy, or an attempt to understand the motivation of individuals or groups, does not always come easily to me, especially when reading a text as familiar as the Bible. What it does do is help me read the text in a new way. It moves me from imagining the Bible to be a tale (nearly) exclusively of God to a collection of books that tell of people, and their struggles to understand signs and sayings that are in every way outside their lived experience and understanding of the world. God, or a godlike presence, may be seen occasionally; for the most part, biblical figures must decide among themselves what they are to do with the wonders they have seen and heard, and how they are to live in the face of evidence that everything they believed to be true is wrong. In this way, their story is our story; figures deserving of the same level of empathy that we hope future generations will show us when they consider our lives and how we responded to the signs and challenges of our times.

A New Way of Learning

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My husband and I moved to San Francisco from Australia just over a year ago. I already feel more at home than I ever would have thought possible, something due in large part to the community at Grace Cathedral. Certain things still remind me, however, that I am in a different place than I was before.

One thing that reminds me of this is the school year. In Australia, the teaching year commences in February and ends in November; by September, teachers like myself are anticipating (with deep if unspoken longing) the end of the year. It has been a shock to my finely-calibrated “teacher’s clock” to be involved in back-to-school activities throughout the past month. What is more, I am returning to “school” this year as a student. I have commenced the longest program of study I have enrolled in since leaving college many moons ago: the Education for Ministry (EFM) program.

This program is already yielding many miracles in my life. I know, however, that even a year ago I wouldn’t have contemplated committing to a four year program of study in anything, let alone one with a theological focus. Throughout my life I have enrolled in and dropped out of more short courses than I care to admit; likewise, I have reengaged and dropped out of my faith many, many times. In many ways, my sudden desire to commence a course in theological education is as strange to me as an academic year that begins in September.

On reflection, I can see that this enrollment in EFM is really a culmination of my year at Grace. Following a path that now seems both as circuitous and predetermined as that of a labyrinth, I found my way into life at Grace through firstly yoga, then volunteering at the sublime Bayview Mission, then bible study classes with Dean Malcolm Young and, finally, formation classes with the Rev. Canon Mark Stanger. It was these classes, in particular, that set me on my current course of study in EFM.

I did not really have a concept of what “formation” was before undertaking study with Mark; it’s only now, looking back, that I see how the classes I took between February and April of this year, “First Light” and “Our Ancient Faith, Our New Life in Christ,” were formational and transformational. It seems fitting these classes were held in the lead-up to Easter. They felt for me like a pilgrimage into the heart of my faith and faith itself: a journey through the texts and landscapes of Christianity; across many centuries and terrains; into holy spaces and Holy Lands; from early times of hope to eras of reform; from Nazareth to Jerusalem; from inception to the foot of the cross.

What perhaps “formed” me more than anything was the love and care with which I was welcomed into these classes. A somewhat jaded religious-dropout, I suspect I presented as a challenging pupil; restless, looking for an excuse to challenge a point, seeking any opportunity to present an opinion to the class whether it was sought or not. Nothing I said, or did, was met with anything other than care, interest and love by Mark Stanger. Every question I raised was answered with humor, erudition and profound, unconditional acceptance. It was through this that I learned what was perhaps the most important lesson of all: there was a place for me, as I was, within a church, and within the Church. There was a place, and a community, for me, where the diminished, but never snuffed out, flame of faith within me might be able to once again grow.

It is remarkable how quickly life can change. I live on the other side of the world; I have made peace with the fact that academic years begin in September; I have undertaken a four-year course of study in a field in which I thought I could never be more than an occasional, distracted participant. Things can change so quickly, and so profoundly, that there is often barely time to reflect, or give thanks, even when so much thankfulness is due. I am grateful, therefore, that in the midst of all the busyness of the new academic year, I can still offer my sincere thanks to Mark Stanger; thanks I give, wholeheartedly, as one of the many, many students who have had their faiths strengthened and lives transformed by his teaching and care.