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  • The Priest, the Levite, and the One Who Got It Right

    Proper 10, Year B — Morning Prayer Homily

    Luke 10:25–37, Psalm 82

    A homily by Ericca Cavender-Caldwell

    The Gospel this morning is one of the most familiar stories in all of Scripture. But that familiarity can sometimes make us overlook its discomfort. We know the narrative: a man is attacked and left half-dead on the side of the road. The priest and the Levite, both respected religious figures, pass by without stopping. Then the Samaritan appears, the one least expected to be the hero.

    And yet, it is the Samaritan who reveals a core value of our baptismal covenant: to respect the dignity of every human being. This story confronts our assumptions. In Jesus’ time, Samaritans were seen as outsiders, heretics, foreigners, those who worshiped differently and lived in the “wrong” places. Society labeled them as other. And yet, Jesus makes the Samaritan the one who sees truly.

    Not the priest.
    Not the Levite.
    But the Samaritan.

    Perhaps Jesus chose him precisely because of that reversal. The religious figures had roles of holiness and learning. They likely had reasons for passing by: ritual purity concerns, fear, busyness. But reasons do not change the result. They chose inaction.

    The Samaritan chooses otherwise. He does not assess whether the man is worthy. He does not ask for credentials. He sees suffering and responds, not with hesitation but with mercy. He tends the wounds, carries the man, and ensures his continued care.

    This is where the parable becomes deeply challenging. The Samaritan’s mercy is not performative. It is not loud. It is not transactional. It is quiet, costly, and inconvenient. And it flies in the face of every narrative that tells us someone else will help, or that some people are simply not our problem.

    The Gospel does not demand perfection. But it does call us to presence.

    Psalm 82 echoes this call. It shows us a God who is not merely comforting, but actively judging injustice.

    “How long will you judge unjustly, and show favor to the wicked?”

    “Give justice to the weak and the orphan; maintain the right of the lowly and the destitute.”

    This is a vision of divine justice that does not tolerate neutrality. God stands among the powerful and calls for equity. God does not look away, and does not accept our looking away either.

    When Jesus tells us, “Go and do likewise,” it is not an assignment. It is an invitation to live the Gospel with our hands and feet. Justice, when shaped by love, does not always announce itself. Often, it looks like a Samaritan who simply chose to stop.

    In a few weeks, I will be heading to seminary. It is a gift I do not take lightly. But I want to acknowledge this congregation as one of my greatest teachers. You have shown me how to carry one another, how to stay present in difficulty, and how to love in the midst of complexity.

    You have taught me how to be a neighbor.

    If I carry forward one lesson, it is this: justice often looks like a quiet choice. It is not always a protest sign or a speech. Sometimes it looks like lifting someone up. Sometimes it looks like refusing to look away.

    Perhaps the Kingdom of God begins just there: in mercy without qualification, in compassion that shows up without applause.

    So let us pay attention this week. Who lies in the ditch? Who walks by? Let Psalm 82 remind us that God takes injustice seriously. Let the Gospel remind us that dignity is not theory; it is practice.

    This is the Gospel:
    Dignity is given by God, not granted by us.
    Neighbor is not a category.
    Love is not optional.

    When the world says, “That is not your problem,”
    Remember the Samaritan.
    Remember Psalm 82.
    And remember this: we are not called to perfection.
    We are called to presence.

    Thanks be to God.
    Amen.

  • Let the Weird Kids Worship

    Or: Why the Book of Common Prayer Isn’t a Cage — and Why You Shouldn’t Have to Lead a Committee to Feel Like You Belong

    Let’s start here: a lot of young people don’t leave church because they hate God. They leave because they didn’t feel safe bringing their full, messy, questioning, crying, dancing, quiet, neurodivergent (which just means people whose brains work a little differently — like those with ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and more), gender-expansive, trauma-holding, wildly beloved selves through the doors.

    And sometimes, we have to admit… that’s on us.

    We make a big deal about being the Episcopal Church welcoming everyone, but we’re not always great at making space for people to worship as themselves. We say we love young people, but then we flinch when they do something unfamiliar — like getting visibly emotional during the Prayers of the People, or asking why the hymn is in 5/4 and sounds like it’s been dragged behind a horse.

    We don’t say it out loud, but the message still lands: there’s a “correct” way to be in the pews. And if you’re not quiet, composed, and mostly invisible, you’re doing it wrong.

    And yes — Episcopal worship can feel formal to someone walking in for the first time. There’s incense, there are vestments, there’s a rhythm to the service that isn’t always explained out loud. If you didn’t grow up with it, it can feel like stepping into a dance halfway through — beautiful, but confusing. And if you’re young, or unsure, or just hoping not to stand out, it’s easy to feel like everyone else got the instructions but you.

    But here’s what we forget to say out loud:
    It’s not done this way to exclude you. It’s done this way so everyone can join in.

    That’s why it’s called the Book of Common Prayer — not the Book of Fancy People Prayer, or the Book of People Who Already Know What They’re Doing.
    It’s common. It’s shared. It’s meant to give us words when we don’t have any. It’s scaffolding, not a cage.

    But if we’re honest, sometimes we turn that scaffolding into a wall.

    We shush the kid who whispers a question during the sermon. We quietly hope the teen who flaps their hands learns to “settle down.” We build youth rooms around trust falls and forced fun but forget to ask how our programming feels to the queer kid who just wants to light a candle and not be stared at.

    And then we wonder why the room is empty five years later.

    And sometimes, the older members of the Church forget — or maybe never fully realized — what caused so many younger people to drift away. I’m not in high school anymore. I’m not in my early twenties. I’m not the person trying church for the very first time. But I remember what it felt like to wonder if I belonged, and I know what it feels like to still carry some of those questions into the sanctuary today.

    I can’t give you all the stats and studies, but I can tell you what shaped a lot of us:
    We grew up with televangelists on our screens asking our grandmothers for money in the name of Jesus. We watched church used as a performance — sometimes as a means of control. And as we got older, we started to learn the hard truth: that not every person wearing a collar or quoting Scripture was kind, or honest, or safe.

    That leaves a mark.
    We’re not faithless. We’re cautious. We’ve been hurt.
    And when we do find the courage to come back, we’re sometimes met with confusion, or with judgment wrapped in good intentions.

    Older folks often do want younger people in the pews. That’s real. But the way that desire shows up can be clumsy — sometimes impatient, sometimes unintentionally dismissive. The Church won’t grow just because we want it to. It grows when we build trust. When we listen. When we stop assuming everyone knows how to belong here.

    And let’s be honest:
    Sometimes the only way a young adult gets fully welcomed into parish life is if they agree to chair something. Or run something. Or be the token “young person” on a committee. We spend so much time trying to recruit young adults that we forget they already have full-time lives outside the church — jobs, families, school, caregiving, survival. But belonging shouldn’t come with a clipboard. You shouldn’t have to prove your usefulness before you’re allowed to just… be here.

    This isn’t about blame. It’s about shared responsibility.
    Because the Church was never meant to belong to one generation.
    It belongs to all of us.

    And some of us are standing in the middle — trying to keep the door open from both sides.

    We could do better.

    And not in a “let’s throw together a new confirmation curriculum” kind of way.
    In a “let’s sit with the truth that we’ve made people feel like they don’t belong, and figure out how to repent with our actions” kind of way.

    I attended our Church’s General Convention last year. It was a massive, well-funded, well-planned event — and yet, much to my chagrin, there were no quiet sensory rooms for attendees who needed them. There was one chapel space, tucked away in a weird, obscure room basically a block off-site. If you were overwhelmed, overstimulated, or just needed a moment of peace, you had to work for it. That was a failure. A big one. We had the resources. We just didn’t prioritize the people.

    We can start by:

    • Letting young people worship how they worship — whether that’s silent, expressive, distracted, neurodivergent, hesitant, or just honest.
    • Naming that “looking different” doesn’t mean someone’s doing it wrong.
    • Creating spiritual spaces where someone can say, “I’m not sure I believe that,” and still be invited to the altar.
    • Saying “standing or kneeling as you are able” like we actually mean it — because not everyone showed up with a fully functional body, a Book of Common Prayer, or a clue what’s happening. Someone needs to hold up a sign that says, “Just copy the person in front of you unless they look equally confused.”
    • Offering worship that’s actually accessible — not just physically, but logistically. That means high-quality online services that don’t feel like an afterthought, and in-person offerings outside the sacred 10 a.m. Sunday slot. Because a lot of people work weekends, juggle shifts, or have caregiving responsibilities that don’t pause for Morning Prayer.
    • Asking young people how they experience God — and listening, really listening, without rushing to smooth it out.

    Because if the Church is only safe for the polished, the traditional, and the people who already know the script — then it’s not the Body of Christ. It’s a members-only club with really nice candles.

    And I believe the Episcopal Church can be more than that.
    I’ve seen it be more than that.

    So let’s keep the rhythm and the beauty of our liturgy. But let’s not confuse beauty with rigidity. Let’s not confuse reverence with repression. And let’s not confuse being “common” with being “comfortable for people who already fit in.”

    There’s a whole generation out there craving the sacred.
    Let’s be brave enough to make room at the table — even when it gets messy.
    Especially when it gets messy.

    Stay pesky, friends.

    In Christ,
    Ericca

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  • As for Me and My Apartment, We Will Serve the Lord (From a Folding Chair)

    Turns out, the hardest part of answering God’s call is choosing a nightstand.

    I am five weeks out from seminary, supposed to be preparing my heart and mind for formation — and instead I’m spiraling in the home goods section of the internet. I have an apartment to furnish. Not a dorm room. An actual apartment. With walls. With space. With responsibilities. And absolutely zero furniture.

    Beginning seminary isn’t just about theological prep or spiritual maturity. It’s also about deciding whether you’re the kind of person who owns a real couch, or someone sitting on the floor with a bowl of cereal and a deep sense of overwhelm.

    Ordering furniture while your life is in transition is a uniquely exhausting experience. Everyone talks about the spiritual weight of discernment and formation. No one talks about the logistical spiral of trying to furnish an apartment across state lines without crying over shipping estimates and “assembly required” warnings. Every item becomes a miniature crisis. Do I get the cheap bookshelf that might collapse under the weight of a single commentary? Or do I blow half my moving budget on something “sustainably sourced” that ships sometime between now and Christmas?

    Somewhere in the middle of this chaos, I found myself genuinely typing “do I need a bed frame or is that capitalism” into a search bar. I still don’t know the answer. What I do know is that we are all victims of capitalism, especially when the reviews say “surprisingly flimsy for the price.” Jesus wept, and so did I, somewhere between browser tabs.

    It’s strange to make decisions about a life you haven’t fully stepped into. I’m getting a pink couch — not because it’s wise, neutral, or practical, but because I can and I will. And frankly? Anything for the bit. At this point, if I’m going to spiral about assembling furniture and question my entire future, I might as well do it on a couch that makes a statement.

    In the middle of all this, I’ve also decided to crochet an eight-foot rug out of recycled polyester sheets. Not because I have time. Not because it’s smart. But because I’m a glutton for punishment with a yarn hook and a dream. Honestly, if I’m going to unravel spiritually, I might as well be surrounded by literal handwoven symbolism.

    So What Do You Actually Need for Seminary Housing?

    Let’s be honest: the essentials aren’t complicated.

    • A bed — because sleeping on the floor won’t help your spiritual development.
    • Somewhere to sit — preferably something that won’t deflate overnight.
    • A table — for eating, studying, and sorting out your entire life.
    • Storage — for books, clothes, and the last shred of your sanity.
    • A lamp — because overhead lighting is a moral failing.

    Everything beyond that depends on how you function and what helps you feel stable. If having a rug makes you feel more grounded, get one. If you need a dedicated corner for tea and morning prayer, set that up. If a bookshelf helps you feel competent, even before your classes start, that’s valid.

    My housing is provided through my scholarship, and that feels like an enormous gift. I come from a moderate to low income background and have chosen to be paychequeless for the next three years, which is… bold. Any help is welcome. And if God had been willing to cosign my student loans, I would have accepted immediately. Thankfully, the Episcopal Church is working hard to make seminary a more financially accessible path — not just for those with resources, but for those who are genuinely called. I’m not a Regency-era curate who comes from landed gentry. Though, if you ask my husband, I do talk as much as Mr. Collins.

    I thought this part would feel more momentous — like a big emotional pivot into the next chapter. Instead it feels like backordered furniture, a lot of emails, and wondering how much bubble wrap is too much. This isn’t the dramatic turning point I imagined. It’s just the weird, messy lead-up to something I can’t picture yet.

    I’m not in the space yet. I’m just praying the furniture shows up.

    Stay pesky, friends.
    In Christ,
    Ericca

  • ✨ My Body Shall Rest in Hope

    A Reflection on Psalm 16

    The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

    Everything is loud and sharp and exhausted.
    You can feel it in your shoulders. In your social feeds. In the way everyone either avoids eye contact or stares a little too long. It’s not just our neighbors—though, sure, them too. It’s everywhere: friend groups, group chats, congregations, grocery stores, entire nations.

    There’s a low-key background dread humming underneath everything.
    And honestly? Same.

    So I’ve been sitting with Psalm 16, trying not to spiral.
    One line keeps pulling me back to center:

    “My body shall rest in hope.”

    Before we go further, here’s the full psalm that’s been holding me lately:

    📖 Psalm 16 (NRSV)

    1 Protect me, O God, for in you I take refuge.
    2 I say to the Lord, “You are my Lord; I have no good apart from you.”
    3 As for the holy ones in the land, they are the noble, in whom is all my delight.
    4 Those who choose another god multiply their sorrows;
      their drink offerings of blood I will not pour out
      or take their names upon my lips.
    5 The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;
      you hold my lot.
    6 The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
      I have a goodly heritage.
    7 I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;
      in the night also my heart instructs me.
    8 I keep the Lord always before me;
      because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.
    9 Therefore my heart is glad, and my soul rejoices;
      my body also rests secure.
    10 For you do not give me up to Sheol,
      or let your faithful one see the Pit.
    11 You show me the path of life.
      In your presence there is fullness of joy;
      in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

    🧎‍♀️ Not Peaceful, But Anchored

    The psalm starts with:

    “Protect me, O God, for I take refuge in you.”

    It doesn’t say “Everything is fine, thank you Lord.” It says, “I’m not okay—hold me.” Which feels… deeply relatable.

    What gets me is that the psalmist isn’t praying from a spa day or mountaintop vision. It’s clearly written from inside tension. But somehow, still, they find something solid enough to lean on. They remember where their center is.

    I don’t know about you, but that feels like the goal. Not fake peace. Just staying rooted when the world tilts.

    🔁 Forward Isn’t Always Forward

    The psalm says:

    “My boundaries enclose a pleasant land.”

    Okay—but what if it doesn’t feel pleasant? What if it feels like emotional quicksand with a side of legislative collapse?

    This is the part where I remember: forward motion isn’t always linear. Sometimes healing or progress or whatever we’re supposed to be doing just looks like not giving up. Sometimes it’s circling the same hard thing for months. Sometimes it’s sideways. Sometimes it’s just… sitting still.

    Psalm 16 doesn’t promise everything will feel good. It just says there’s still a path, and somehow—God walks it with us.

    “You are my portion and my cup… you will show me the path of life.”

    That’s not about certainty. It’s about provision and presence.

    🧩 Bridging Hope and Action

    It’s one thing to quietly survive the chaos. It’s another to stay present in it—with other people, with their mess, with your own.
    Resting in hope is deeply personal, yes. But it’s also the thing that makes real peacemaking possible.

    We don’t rest in hope just to feel better.
    We rest in hope so we can show up differently.
    So we don’t react out of fear. So we don’t disappear. So we don’t become the very chaos we’re trying to live through.

    🛡️ Not a Bubble, But a Backbone

    I’ve tried peacekeeping. You probably have too. It looks nice on paper. But peacekeeping is often just conflict avoidance in a cardigan. And if you’ve lived through real tension, you know: that kind of “peace” costs too much.

    There’s a big difference between being a peacekeeper and being a peacemaker.

    • Peacekeepers avoid conflict. They hush voices, suppress the truth, protect comfort, and smooth over the hard stuff so things look okay.
    • But peacemakers? Peacemakers roll up their sleeves. They sit with the discomfort. They tell the truth. They create space for healing—and sometimes that starts with disruption.

    Jesus didn’t come to keep everything calm. He came to make things whole. He flipped tables. He made space for people who’d been excluded. He told the truth, even when it cost him.

    And he also rested.
    He also prayed alone in the dark.
    He also set boundaries and sat at the table with the people who didn’t get it yet.

    Psalm 16 gives us that same kind of peace—not performative peace, but a peace that holds while we keep showing up.

    ⚖️ Starting Fires Isn’t Bravery—But Avoiding Them Isn’t Righteous

    We don’t talk about this enough, but:
    Being a person who enjoys being the cause of conflict is not courage—it’s control.

    Some people chase conflict because it gives them a sense of power. Because it makes them feel like the bold truth-teller. Because stirring the pot is easier than doing the quiet, messy work of healing.

    But constant agitation isn’t holy. It doesn’t build trust. It doesn’t make space for change—it just burns everything down. And it’s often more about ego than righteousness.

    That said—conflict avoidance isn’t holy either.

    Staying quiet to keep the peace can feel virtuous, but when it means silencing hard truth, ignoring harm, or shutting down voices that need to be heard, it becomes its own kind of violence. It protects comfort, not justice.

    Avoiding every fire and starting every fire are both ways to stay in control.
    Neither leads to peace.

    Peacemaking isn’t control—it’s courage.
    It’s showing up with both truth and tenderness. It’s knowing when to speak, and when to listen. It’s being willing to be wrong, to be changed, to be part of the healing.

    Psalm 16 doesn’t root peace in power. It roots it in presence:

    “I have set the Lord always before me… I shall not fall.”

    We don’t need to win to be steady. We don’t need to dominate or disappear.
    We just need to stay grounded in something deeper.

    🙋‍♀️ Confession Time

    I want to be that person—the grounded one, the non-anxious presence in the room.
    But I can be reactive. I carry a chip on my shoulder. I’ve been quick to speak when I should’ve listened. I’ve shut down when I should’ve stayed open. I’ve confused control for safety more than I’d like to admit.

    But I’m learning.

    I don’t think God needs me to be calm all the time. I think God invites me to be honest—and to keep coming back to center. To try again. To trust that hope is still possible, even on the days when peace feels out of reach.

    Psalm 16 doesn’t expect perfection. It offers a place to land.

    “My body shall rest in hope.”

    Some days that means slowing down. Some days it means holding still in the middle of the mess. Either way, it’s a reminder: I don’t have to hold it all. I just have to remember who’s holding me.

    🎸 Cue the Quiet Riot

    Let’s be honest: “My body shall rest in hope” sounds poetic—like something you’d whisper after deep breathing and herbal tea.
    But some days, it feels more like: my body shall grit its teeth, scream into the void, and turn the volume all the way up just to stay upright.

    And still… that’s hope.

    Because hope isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s defiant. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s surviving by sheer stubbornness and a soundtrack that makes you feel something again.

    And joy?
    Joy is an act of defiance and self-love when the world is against you.
    It’s not always loud, but it’s holy.

    So yes—cue the Quiet Riot. Light a candle if it helps. Text a friend who gets it.
    Let your soul rest, even if the rest of you is still catching up.

    We’re still here. We’re still held.
    We’re still learning how to be peacemakers—one chaotic prayer at a time.

    🔍 For Your Consideration (or Journal, or Chaos Notes App)

    • What does “resting in hope” actually look like for your body this week? Be honest. Is it a nap, spite-cleaning the kitchen, or crying in the car to a podcast about boundaries?
    • Are you avoiding conflict, chasing it, or emotionally outsourcing it to memes?
    • Are you keeping the peace—or just keeping quiet so no one thinks you’re “too much”?
    • What would it mean to let something stay unresolved and still not unravel yourself?
    • What if internal peace isn’t the absence of chaos, but the refusal to let it narrate your every thought?

    And since no one asked but I’m answering anyway—
    My techniques for internal peace include:

    • Turning my phone face down like it’s a spiritual discipline
    • Yelling “It’s fine!” into the void until it becomes mildly true
    • Praying with my whole body by sitting silently on the floor and giving up for a minute
    • Drinking something hot and pretending it’s therapy
    • Saying “I release this” even when I am, in fact, not releasing it
    • Calling things “spiritual warfare” when they are really just mildly annoying and/or require me to send an email
    • Remembering that sometimes hope looks like not texting back immediately—and that’s holy, actually
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  • Why Does Everything Feel Like a Test?

    Reflections from a Postulant in the Episcopal Church

    When I first stepped into the formal discernment process, I thought I knew what I was saying yes to. I figured there’d be some paperwork, some meetings, maybe a spiritual autobiography or two. But I wasn’t prepared for the feeling that every part of me — my story, my calling, my theology, even my personality — would be put under a microscope.

    And not just by committees or clergy. The real vulnerability has come in offering all of that to people who are trying to listen for what the Holy Spirit might be saying about me. About my call. About my readiness.

    It’s disorienting. Holy, but disorienting.

    And somewhere in the middle of it, I caught myself thinking (okay, maybe complaining to God):
    “Why does everything feel like a test?”

    The Wilderness Comes After the Call

    What’s wild is how normal this apparently is — at least biblically. You’d think being called by God would come with clarity and direction, but it often seems to come with… waiting. Wandering. Confusion.

    Moses gets his burning bush moment, and then spends decades with a people who don’t want to follow him (Exodus 3–4, Numbers 14). Jesus is baptized, hears “you are my beloved,” and then the Spirit immediately drives him into the wilderness to be tested (Mark 1:9–13). Paul is struck blind by the voice of Jesus, and then disappears for years before reemerging in ministry (Galatians 1:15–18).

    Apparently, this is just how God works sometimes. First comes the call. Then comes the wilderness. (Yay.)

    When the Spirit Moves, Paperwork Doesn’t Always Follow

    The very first nudge toward discernment didn’t come with a checklist. I was attending a diocesan event — just blending in — when the bishop casually pulled me aside. No meeting scheduled, no committee assembled. Just a moment.

    “You can start discerning now,” he said.

    And I did.

    No paperwork. No plan. Just… vibes. It was weird and holy and surprisingly liberating. I met with my priests, asked big questions, and spent that first year listening.

    Then, a year later, came the official process. The one with forms, essays, deadlines, interviews, psychological evaluations — you know, all the fun stuff.

    And suddenly, what had started as a whisper from the Holy Spirit began to feel like trying to pass a standardized test you didn’t study for, about your own soul.

    Postulancy Is Not a Certificate of Arrival

    What I didn’t realize — and what nobody really told me — is that getting the letter from the bishop saying “you’re a postulant” doesn’t mean discernment is over. It means it’s just beginning in a new way.

    The joke of it all is that you spend months (sometimes years) going through formal discernment to become a postulant… only to realize you’re still in the thick of it. You’ve crossed a threshold, not a finish line.

    I still have questions. Some are theological. Some are practical. A lot of them are deeply personal, and not the kind you can wrap up in a tidy answer. But I’m learning to stay in the tension. To live with the discomfort of being seen, evaluated, and spiritually sifted — not because anyone is trying to trap me, but because they’re honestly trying to discern.

    And part of that tension — for me — is not letting the process strip me of the parts of myself that God never asked me to sacrifice.

    I’m a rule follower by nature — hardcore — especially when the rules are just. I’ll follow them to the letter without complaint. But I’m not interested in playing priest dress-up to look the part. I don’t think God calls us into this life to perform piety. I think God wants us to enjoy life — and that joy should come with us into ministry.

    So yes, I have fun hair. I have every color of Converse in the liturgical calendar. I laugh loudly, and I hope I never stop.

    And I don’t think God — or anyone involved in this process — wants to take that away. But the truth is, this process can be so intense, so structured, so full of evaluation, that it’s easy to let your personality dim. To become more palatable. To dial yourself down just enough to not feel quite so stared at.

    But here’s the thing: that won’t get you through.

    I promise you — the bishop, the Commission on Ministry, and frankly every future parish — they will smell insincerity a mile away.

    You can’t fake your way through a call. And you shouldn’t want to.

    Not a Trap, But a Refining

    There’s a line in Galatians that’s been sticking with me lately:
    “Before faith came, we were imprisoned and guarded under the law… the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came” (Galatians 3:23–24, NRSV).

    I used to hear that and think it sounded harsh. But now I wonder if Paul was trying to say something about the way structure and scrutiny are part of how we grow. Testing, in the biblical sense, isn’t a trap — it’s a refining.

    Maybe all this discernment — the evaluations, the essays, the awkwardly vulnerable conversations — isn’t about proving anything. Maybe it’s just the Holy Spirit’s way of making space for something new to take root.

    Some days, I feel steady in all of this. Other days I feel like I’ve wandered into the deep end of a pool I didn’t realize I was in. (And I forgot my floaties.)

    I’m learning to lean into the uncomfortable space between laity and ordained, between old Ericca and new. It’s quiet here. It’s strange. And it doesn’t always come with a map.

    And then — just as you’re beginning to settle into that space — you finish the formal part of discernment with the Commission on Ministry. The very people who just spent hours listening to your story, asking hard questions, and helping you name your call… disappear, at least for a while.

    They knew you so acutely. And then they’re just gone.

    Weird, man.

    My bishop likes to point out that even after forty years in the wilderness, the Israelites still wanted to go back. Back to Egypt. Back to what was hard but familiar.

    I get it.

    There are days when going back seems easier than going forward. But there’s nothing for me back there.

    So for now, I keep going. Even when it still feels like a test.

    Stay pesky, friends.
    In Christ,
    Ericca

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  • I Said I Would, With God’s Help

    📖 Galatians 3:23–29 (NRSV)

    Before faith came, we were imprisoned and guarded under the law until faith would be revealed.
    Therefore the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came, so that we might be justified by faith.
    But now that faith has come, we are no longer subject to a disciplinarian,
    for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith.
    As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.
    There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female;
    for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.
    And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise.

    If you’ve ever tried to follow every single rule in the Bible, you know pretty quickly it’s not a checklist you’re going to ace. (No shrimp? No mixed fabrics? Absolutely not.) But in this passage from Galatians, Paul isn’t tossing the law aside — he’s reflecting on how the arrival of Christ reshapes our relationship to it.

    For early followers of Jesus — many of whom were Jewish — this was a live, urgent question: what does it mean to belong to this new movement? What role does tradition play in a faith rooted in grace?

    Paul uses the metaphor of a disciplinarian — someone who guarded us until we were ready. Not because the law was bad, but because it prepared the way. Now, in Christ, something has changed. Faith isn’t a matter of tribal belonging or strict boundary-keeping. It’s a matter of adoption, of inheritance, of being clothed in Christ and called children of God.

    As a postulant in the Episcopal Church, I can’t help but hear echoes of the baptismal covenant in all this. Paul isn’t just describing a private spiritual experience — he’s making a bold claim about community. Baptism knits us together. Not by making us the same, but by making us one.

    And that vision? It matters right now.

    We’re living in a world unraveling at the seams. Our country teeters on the edge of war. Political divisions are calcifying. Fear is being weaponized. And amid all of that, the Church is called to be something different — not by shouting louder, but by loving deeper.

    “Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons?”
    “Will you strive for justice and peace among all people?”
    “Will you respect the dignity of every human being?”

    We answered: I will, with God’s help.

    That work doesn’t begin when we feel “ready” or when we’re ordained — it begins at the font. It’s not abstract theology. It’s real-world, inconvenient, courageous love.

    “There is no longer Jew or Greek,” Paul writes. “No longer slave or free, no longer male and female.”

    If he were speaking into our world today, maybe he’d say:
    🟣 There is no longer citizen or refugee.
    🟢 No longer straight or queer.
    🔵 No longer conservative or progressive.

    Not because our differences are erased — but because in Christ, they no longer divide us.

    This doesn’t mean we pretend the world is healed when it’s clearly not. It means we live as if the healing is real, because we’ve seen it in Jesus — and we’re willing to be part of it, one act of love at a time.

    So if you’re wondering what it means to be “the Church” this week, especially when everything feels too big — start where you are. Say the inconvenient thing. Show up for the hurting. Practice messy, incarnate love.

    Because in Christ, we don’t just belong.
    We belong to each other.

    And when that gets hard — when it feels like too much or not enough — I try to come back to the moment I stood at the font, or the altar rail, or in a small group of people asking hard questions.
    And I remember what I said.

    I said I would, with God’s help.

    Stay pesky,
    E

  • So…I’m a Postulant?

    Honestly, I didn’t expect this. Like most things with God, it started as a nudge, then a whisper, and then suddenly I was standing in front of a bishop with paperwork. 

    In case you’re wondering, a postulant is someone who has completed the formal discernment process and has been accepted by the bishop as a candidate for ordained ministry within my denomination, the Episcopal Church. It marks the beginning of a more structured season of formation—typically including seminary—where the focus shifts from questioning the call to preparing to live it out. Being made a postulant means the Church is officially saying, “We see something here—and we’re willing to walk with you and test this call.”

    This blog is my attempt to make sense of that calling. Expect vestment opinions, spiritual detours, and hopefully a little grace.

    Stay pesky, friends.

    In Christ, Ericca