At the Priestly Ordination of the Rev. Ann Scannell

Tonight it is my privilege to preach at the ordination of a priest. And not just any priest - but the ordination of the Rev. Ann Scannell, who was a parishioner of mine at St. Francis, Holden when I was their rector. Sharing in this holy night with her and the people of Good Shepherd in Clinton is a great gift, for which I am profoundly grateful. Below is my sermon manuscript. 

Every time I am in this worship space, I get hooked by these two pieces of art to my right and to my left. They are iconic for me, even though I know that they are technically not icons. Since we are next to the Museum of Russian Icons, I will assume that you all know that the word eikōn literally means image, and that they are typically painted on a small wooden panel. (Actually, to be precise, you pray an icon, not paint it.) Theologically, it’s an image through which one glimpses something of the divine. In this sense, these two images are iconic for me, because they draw me in and point me to the living God. And so I want to begin there on this celebratory night. 

I realize that you can’t all see them from where you are, but I hope if you are a member here at the Church of the Good Shepherd you know them well, and notice them regularly. And if you are a guest here, you might peak up on your way to or back from Holy Communion tonight. And if you are going to be ordained a priest in a few minutes, I hope you will be reminded each time you preside at the Eucharist of the vows you take this night and your call to serve this people at this time and in this place and of Jesus, the Good Shepherd who has called you by name.

To my left is a painting of some shepherds and their sheep-dog keeping watch by night. There’s a particularly bright star which is technically part of the magi story, but I think it works here, too. They are out doing their jobs when the world changes. Not just their worlds. Our world, too. All worlds. The whole cosmos, as the fourth gospel writer might put it. Every Christmas when we put out our crèches in congregations like this one or in our homes, these shepherds appear. After Mary and Joseph and the babe there is no one more important than these shepherds (and their sheep) in that story. When we hear that “in those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered” even the most nominal of Christians knows what comes next.

Shepherds are all through the Bible because there are sheep all through the Holy Land. One of this congregation’s former priests, Darrell Huddleston, used to tell me from time to time, “Rich, sheep are so dumb and they smell. Jesus wasn’t complimenting us when he compared us to sheep.”  If sheep smell, so do shepherds. Unlike the magi who will bring expensive gifts, the shepherds (poor as they are) just bring themselves to the manger. Maybe a little feta. But they are the first to come and adore Jesus. In this world that God so loves, it is to the poor that God is revealed first. The ones working the night-shift.   

To my right, a window with the familiar image of the good shepherd carrying that one lost sheep home. You may remember that the story of the lost sheep is actually the first in a three-part series of lost-and-found stories, found only in Luke. There is this one, where the shepherd leaves 99 sheep to go out and find the one. And then there is the woman who loses one of ten coins and turns the whole house upside down to find the one. When she does find it, she throws a neighborhood block party. And then there is that poor man who lost his son, a son who left home too early and then fell on hard times. But finally, one day by the grace of God he “came to himself” and made his way back home only to find the old man running toward him with open outstretched arms:  “My son, you were lost and now you are found…” Kill the fatted calf! Veal piccata for everyone!

Amazing stories. Amazing grace. Through these stories, including the one depicted in this window, we are reminded that sometimes we, too, get lost. The Church is called to be like that father so that we always know we can “come to ourselves” and have a place to come home to. This isn’t an icon in the technical sense. But it tells a story about God, right up here by this Table where all are welcome.

An ordination to the priesthood is a tricky thing. Some will tell you tonight, Ann, that you are about to go through an ontological change. Don’t tell the bishop this, but I’ve always been a little bit suspicious of that kind of language. Maybe it’s right; it’s just not my experience. More accurately, I am not sure what it’s supposed to mean or how it helps the mission of the Church. When I was ordained a priest, I didn’t really feel all that different the next morning.

If anything, I wonder if what happens tonight is more deontological. That is to say that the work of ministry, the sharing of ministry, the actions of following Jesus and the choices we make in a particular place and time--all of these things, over time, form a priest. At least for me, it has been more like that. What has happened and is still happening, over time, is that the particular places where I have served have formed and shaped me and gotten into my soul and body. My work in campus ministry, and then in parishes in Westport, Connecticut and Holden, Massachusetts, and now in diocesan ministry continue to make me the priest I am. Which is different from the way that you will live out your priestly ministry as you serve here, among this faithful people.

No doubt this night will be a touchstone for you, Ann, in much the same way that we remember our Baptism regularly. And I hope that you will continue – especially on the challenging days – to remember this night for the rest of your life, even if not this sermon. And that you will remember the faces of those here who proudly affirm this call. And that above all else you will remember and strive to live into the vows you take before us and before God tonight.

But I also think what will make you a priest are those pastoral calls to the ER in the middle of the night. And those contentious late night vestry meetings that always seem to happen on a hot summer night. And the baptisms. And the weddings. And the funerals. And through the ordinary work of standing at this table and remembering with God’s people that they are in fact the Body of Christ. The Body of Christ. The Body of Christ…

Ann, you have spent a lot of years as a baptized person. So you’ve spent a lot of years, already, in ministry. You have been a faithful lawyer, helping all of us to know and see that this need not be an oxymoron. The practice of law is noble work and like all work it can be done faithfully or unfaithfully. You have served well as a layperson and in your varied ministries, including as mother and as friend and neighbor. Six months ago, you arrived here as pastor and preacher and deacon. It’s been a bit of a logistical challenge, I know, to find “holy hands” each week to stand with you and we should say tonight how grateful we are to Meredyth in particular for the time that she has spent with you and this congregation.

Tonight is the culmination of a lot of things, too many to number. It has included a lot of prayer and discernment and an Ivy League theological education and CPE and GOEs and the BEC and the COM and a whole lot of other letters that make up an alphabet soup. It’s a big deal. You will be ordained in a few minutes to the priesthood. You won’t need me or Meredyth or Pam to show up on Sunday morning. You will have holy hands yourself!

But toward what purpose? Our being here tonight with you raises the question: what is ordination for? Why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we even need priests?

It doesn’t help us that for a long time, we got off track. I blame Constantine. We thought we paid priests to be better Christians than the rest of us. To be “the professional” Christians. That work came with some benefits. And it also came with some sacrifices. But it wasn’t right, I don’t think. We truncated the laity to raise up the priesthood. It seems, thankfully, that we are entering a new time and have been for a while.

While it is true that you will be ordained shortly to Christ’s one, holy catholic and apostolic church, which is to say into an order of ministry that is larger than this place, it is still, nevertheless this place that will continue to get inside of you: this choir and this altar guild and this vestry and these faithful people. And some days, these lost people. And some days, you feeling lost and needing to be found. The Church of the Good Shepherd is going to leave a mark on you, Ann. The people who think you are so amazing and those who will, some days, drive you nuts. (And some days that may be the same person in the span of an hour.) And it works in reverse, too. You will leave a mark on them. The work you are called to is a shared ministry, because ministry is a team sport; more like playing basketball than running a marathon. So pay attention to all of that – stay curious and stay open. Always with God’s help.

We are rediscovering, with God’s help, that priestly ministry cannot be understood apart from the ministry of the baptized. You are therefore being raised up not to lord it over anyone, but to serve. That’s what your vows are about, as I understand them. And if I’m wrong on anything else I’ve said, it’s ok. (Really, if you are a seminary graduate and you are still worried that I said I don’t know what an ontological change looks like, it’s ok. Let it go…)

The liturgy holds us all tonight and always. The promises made and reaffirmed show us the way forward. We Episcopalians are what we pray; not what the preacher says! Lex orandi, lex credendi.

Paul writes to the first-century church in Ephesus – let’s call it the Church of the Good Shepherd just for kicks – from prison. In the lines immediately preceding those that were read tonight, he urges them to live a life worthy of the calling they have received. He urges them to be humble and gentle and patient, and to bear with one another in love. He urges them to make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit, through the bond of peace. He reminds them (as he reminds every congregation he served) that there is one body and one Spirit and one Lord; one faith, one Baptism, one God and Parent of all.

And then he reminds them, as we heard tonight, that they have all the gifts they need to do the work of ministry. They serve the risen Christ – the Good Shepherd of the sheep, the I AM: I am the way, I am the truth, I am the life, I am the vine, I am the bread of life, I am the gate, I am the good shepherd.

Paul understood that congregations are supposed to be more like a body than a pyramid. And the head is Jesus Christ; not the rector or priest-in-charge. Everyone – bishops, priests, deacons and lay people – has gifts. The work is “to equip the saints for ministry, for building up the body of Christ.” For how long? To what end?

Until all of us come to the unity of faith and the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.

In other words, for a really long time. So it helps to take the long view.

I think most of us are more gifted than we realize and the Church needs to be a place where we feel safe enough to keep rediscovering and then using those gifts. And there are enough. There are more than enough. Sometimes we need to stretch though, and take some risks.

But I also think priestly ministry is about daily rediscovering our vulnerabilities as well. Discovering and rediscovering the limits of our competency. The job of being the Good Shepherd is taken. At best, we clergy are called to be faithful sheep dogs who know whom we serve and why we serve.

And if we really are the beloved community (and I trust that we are) and if we really are so loved by God that the Good Shepherd will leave the ninety-nine to find the one and bring her home – then we need to bear witness to that love in worship, and at vestry meetings, and in pastoral visits, and in the neighborhood beyond these walls.  Humility is a job requirement. And as talented as you are, I celebrate tonight that you are one of the most humble people I know. Continue to grow as a servant, with a servant’s heart. And members of this Church of the Good Shepherd, help Ann to keep at that. Not by tearing her down but by sharing with her the work that God has given you to do. Together. 

Ann: you and this parish have already been changed for good. It’s palpable. Already this relationship of mutual ministry is well under way. I pray it will continue to be a ministry that leaves a mark on you. This is not the year that King Uzziah died. Nor is it the year that a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. Nor is it the middle of the Eisenhower administration. And we are not in Ephesus. We aren’t in Holden, anymore, either.

This is the year that Ann Scannell was, by the grace of God and with the consent of the people, ordained to serve as a priest and through that vocation to help God’s faithful people here in Clinton to learn and to remember how to be the Church together. In this time. In this place. Speak the truth in love, so that this congregation continues to grow up and into the head of the Body, into Christ who knits the whole body together and equips us to do the work that we have been given to do, by following the way of love. With God's help.