When I write the story of my life, it will take a whole chapter to recap the winding roads and life circumstances and decisions that brought me to a little Anglican church. Suffice it to say, that’s a whole story in itself. I consider myself a feral Anglican – I hate labels anyway, because to me to say “I’m an Anglican” implies that I align with all of Anglicanism, which I most emphatically do not. However, I love the people at my church and I appreciate the way we do Anglicanism in our local congregation.
Amy Bloyer is a fourth-year seminary student at North Park Theological Seminary. She is a bibliophile and enjoys running, traveling and frequenting local coffee shops.
I found the church during a major life crisis and for months showed up in their midst like an exposed nerve ending. I found open arms and acceptance where I feared to find rejection, and I’ll always be grateful for that. I’ve been attending this church for close to two years now, and I’ve found a measure of healing in the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer. I grew up in a congregational setting that was deeply suspicious of historical Church traditions (although that particular congregation had its own unspoken traditions, rules, and liturgies), but I’ve come to appreciate what Church tradition offers us moderns – fellowship with believers of the ages, and time-tested patterns which are only rote if you turn your brain off. This is easy to do, of course, especially in this distractable age of technology that encourages us to flit from one thought to another at lightning speed.
“I’ve come to appreciate what Church tradition offers us moderns – fellowship with believers of the ages, and time-tested patterns which are only rote if you turn your brain off.”
In one of my seminary classes, we discussed how orthodox church traditions and denominations can be viewed as different streams which all flow into the same river of faith. This image has been helpful to me in considering different opinions on doctrines. It became particularly meaningful to me when I heard my priest describe the liturgy as a stream which we can enter – we can dip in and out. It’s carrying us along whether we realize it or not.
There are some awkward parts of the liturgy, like passing the peace. I don’t know why that’s so awkward for me, but every single week it’s an internal cringe. There are also the “bells and smells.” Yes, literal bell-ringing and incense-burning. So strange when I first started attending! One of the weirdest of all is going up to the front of the church with open hands to receive the bread during the Eucharist. (Other churches I’ve attended called this “Communion.”) I stand before the priest with open hands. He says, “This is the body of Christ, broken for you” and places the wafer in my hand. I don’t take it; it’s given to me.
It took me weeks before I was brave enough to walk forward for the Eucharist. (It took even longer before I felt comfortable enough to drink from the common cup.) For someone who always took communion in the pews (taking the bread and juice from a plate as it passed), it feels vulnerable to stand and walk in front of the church to the front and hold out my hands in supplication. As time has passed, though, it’s become a deeply meaningful moment for me each week. I go forward as a child, seeking from my Father what I cannot take – or have, or do – for myself. And each week, I receive that which I need.
This is a type of formation that can happen without our realizing it. I have grown used to the way the Anglicans serve the Eucharist. We grow used to many things, of course. In fact, I would go so far as to say, this type of formation is happening constantly in all our lives. We are all being conditioned to something all the time. Think about any repetitive behaviors in your life – both positive and negative – and consider how you got there.
I have a friend who takes long walks every single day. She’s made this a habit for so long that it feels weird and uncomfortable if she misses her daily walk.
Spending hours watching sports until we see all of life as a competition and other human beings as either friend or foe.
Scrolling our phones mindlessly habituates us to anesthetize hard emotions. If we reach for our phones first thing in the morning, it can set the tone for our entire day or influence what we consider to be of primary importance.
I know of a few relationships where the individuals have conflict around the same thing repetitively. They’ve been formed – they’ve built a pattern of behavior over time and now they feel stuck.
The music we listen to on repeat forms our brains. Have you ever had song lyrics pop randomly into your head?
Holiday traditions can also fall into this category. “Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without _______.” Whatever holiday tradition you put in the blank – you’ve been formed to expect that thing. What happens if it’s missing one year?
I’m sure you can think of other examples.
A few months ago, I was worrying over something to do with my children. These were aching worries – you know the type, where you agonize over things in your kids’ lives that really are outside your control. As I worried over it, the image of my hands held in supplication during the Eucharist came into my mind. It seemed to me in that moment that God was reminding me to hold my children loosely because if I grasp them tightly for myself, I will crush them. (Plus, let’s be honest, parents. We think we know what’s best but we don’t even have our own lives figured out, let alone theirs.)
Tyler mentioned this recently when he talked about dependence and humility as keys to recognizing and accepting the good things God desires for us.
This image of my hands during the Eucharist has come into my mind many times since then. When I was looking for a job – hands open, God has what I need. When I was worried over a relationship – hands open, I am not in control. When I am feeling blue over lost holiday traditions due to unforeseen circumstances – hold it loosely, don’t crush it, God gives that which we truly need.
It’s been a years-long process, and I have by no means arrived. But in those moments of doubt, anxiety, and worry, I remind myself over and over of the ways God has provided for me, how He loves me, and how He comforts me. I even find myself putting my hands in supplication in conversations with my friends sometimes. (If you see my hands open before me, you’ll know exactly what I’m referencing!)
Through the formation of how I partake of the Eucharist, I’m learning how to hold the things in life I can’t control and the doctrines in which I believe. In this season of Advent, when the waiting is hard and the darkness overwhelms, I hold out my hands. Believing in the God Who Sees Me to provide. Filled with hope for promises kept. Trusting that I will have all I need.
