openly and to truly enjoy and respect each other’s cultures. Eventually, the dominant Anglo community began to welcome the leadership of younger, less educated, less affluent Latinos. Moving beyond mere representation, the thriving congregation now looks like the neighborhood: more Latino than white, including a Latina who heads the vestry and a Spanish-language service with praise music and lots of children, preceded by a smaller but stable Anglo service. The next frontier for Grace: continue to grow while nurturing points of common ground between the white and Latino worship communities and the ever-changing neighborhood.
Harlem, New York, is a mix of cultures, races and classes, and small but spiritually mighty St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in West Harlem seeks to embody it all. A banner at the front of the church announces to the world: “St. Mary’s-West Harlem: The I Am Not Afraid’ Church.”
Jesus says go to the highways and byways and welcome those people. This church came to the byways and got me and showed me that love.
JASEN TOWNSEND, ST. MARY’S-WEST HARLEM
The presence of white and black members who hail from Harlem’s established middle class and from nearby Columbia University is no great surprise here. Even the growing Latino population fits the neighborhood’s multicultural profile. Perhaps most remarkable—especially for the Episcopal Church—is the leadership of the homeless and poor members, many of whom came for the community meal program downstairs and, thanks to the genuine and explicit welcome, made their way upstairs for Sunday worship.
These powerful apostles have brought a fresh spirit and urgency to the reading and singing of the gospel, and constantly challenge their companions’ middle-class Anglican expectations. They also bring a commitment to welcome others as they’ve been welcomed. Jasen Townsend entered St. Mary’s by way of the soup kitchen several years ago. When I met him, he was marching, shouting and waving as a straight ally in New York City’s Pride Parade. Ask why he does it, and Townsend just points back to the gospel. “If the guests who were invited to the wedding feast won’t come in, Jesus says go to the highways and byways and welcome those people. This church came to the byways and got me and showed me that love. . . . If you want to love Christ, if you want to live like Christ, then you’ve got to love every person.” The next frontier for St. Mary’s: broadening their radical welcome to include even more Latinos and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people.
We have a history of resisting oppression, but we also know we can’t live off that glamorous history. Others need us. How do we support them, too?
EMILY FRYE, ST. PHILIP’S-HARLEM
Just blocks away, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church in Harlem, New York, looks for the most part like what it is: the oldest black Episcopal Church in New York. Parishioners point with pride to their courageous founders, who in 1809 left the venerable Trinity Episcopal Church on Wall Street and demanded a separate home for black Episcopalians in New York. St. Philip’s has been proclaiming black liberation theology ever since.
That venerable history drew the cream of black society for the better part of the last two centuries. But when Cecily Broderick y Guerra came to serve as their first female rector, she wasn’t impressed. Instead, she said she sensed the church had become a “terminally closed system.” So she set out preparing the congregation for transformation, both to welcome residents of their economically depressed neighborhood and to make room for gay and lesbian people at the center of their common life. She preached about the link between discipleship, welcome and transformation. Meanwhile, older black leaders began to make another link: the one between movements for racial justice and the struggle for gay liberation. As Emily Frye, a senior lay leader, explained it to me: “We have a history of resisting oppression, but we also know we can’t live off that glamorous history. Others need us. How do we support them, too?”
Thanks to that welcome, a small, committed gay and lesbian community has grown at St. Philip’s. Recently, with the support of the vestry and the Diocese of New York, the church became the host for Epiphany, the first Episcopal group for black Christian gays and lesbians. The church’s leaders hope they can deepen the welcome to the LGBT community, drawing gay and lesbian people into parish leadership and encouraging members used to fighting for black civil rights to demonstrate the same passionate concern for their gay and lesbian brothers and sisters—and children. The next frontier for St. Philip’s: keep moving on LGBT welcome while building greater relationship with the poor community that now dominates their corner of sweet Harlem.
I think the cross over our altar says it all. You can’t tell if Jesus is being crucified, if he’s ascending or descending. What’s clear is that his arms are outstretched to embrace us all.
JOHN YORK, ST. BARTHOLOMEWS-ATLANTA
Tucked away in the land of blooming dogwoods, St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church in Atlanta, Georgia, is like a radically welcoming oasis. It bears all the marks of a healthy, suburban Atlanta parish—multi-building campus, more than 700 members on an average Sunday, thriving children’s programs—and one mark you might not expect: the first out gay rector called in the Diocese of Atlanta. That move took a lot of guts. It also took plenty of preparation; the community’s leaders had to carve out appropriate spaces for questions, storytelling, healing, venting, and even healthy departure before and after William “Mac” Thigpen’s arrival.
For years, St. Bart’s has made its mark by connecting with the people other churches might not, first creating a nightly shelter for homeless families in their own parish hall and then welcoming young adults tied to the nearby Emory University community for worship and leadership. Whatever they do, lay leader John York told me, they try to imagine how it speaks a fresh, liberating word about God. “We have this opportunity to say, ‘Not all churches are like the one you grew up in,’” said York, a Texan transplant who grew up Southern Baptist. “I think the cross over our altar says it all. You can’t tell if Jesus is being crucified, if he’s ascending or descending. What’s clear is that his arms are outstretched to embrace us all.”
The next frontier for St. Bart’s: extending the welcome and keeping people of color and people without the economic privilege most members take for granted.
Some of us were reluctant to open to the neighborhood. We worried about stealing. We needed to go through some change to become a place that wasn’t afraid of having “them” around.
NANCY CLAYPOOL, ST. PAUL’S-DULUTH
St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Duluth, Minnesota, was once known by neighbors as “the fortress.” Duluth’s class stratifications run deep, and for most of the church’s history, a spot on St. Paul’s rolls went right along with a country club membership. Then the money drifted further east. Now St. Paul’s sits in one of America’s largest poor, white communities, with increasing numbers of people of color only adding to the complex mix.
St. Paul’s tried running from their neighborhood, usually preferring to “do for” their less privileged neighbors. The tide and the church’s attitude have turned decisively during the last decade. But they did more than open their doors to the poorer and more ethnically diverse neighborhood. They opened the doors and listened. Then they set up or revamped their own ministries according to what they heard. Slowly, this historically white and wealthy church has opened its lovely, historic building in order to house homegrown social ministries and provide ample meeting space to a variety of secular community social services. As long-time parishioner Nancy Claypool admitted, “Some of us were reluctant to open to the neighborhood. We worried about stealing. We needed to go through some change to become a place that wasn’t afraid of having ‘them’ around.”
Now the parish is building unprecedented new relationships
