I have a friend who has a twin outboard speedboat. It’s beautiful to look at even when it’s safely secured in a boat lift at the dock. It has the appearance of potential, silently sparking thoughts of adventure that, otherwise, might never have come to mind. 

I’ve been taken out in the boat (and I’ll admit that, for me, the reality of being on the water didn’t quite match the excitement that I had imagined—such is life). But what struck me most was how much work is involved in arranging a simple excursion. I helped with the preparation; anticipation has a way of transforming mundane tasks into its own form of enjoyment. When we returned to the dock, however, I was invited to relax as my friend spent nearly an hour doing all that was necessary to maintain the boat in good condition—(such, I was told, is the corrosive nature of salt water).

Boats give the impression of being carefree, or, maybe better said, they can provide the experience, for a segment of time, of our being loosed from the usual cares and concerns that occupy us. Being on the water is an escape. It’s a means of claiming some leisure. And yet, that leisure is itself demanding in all that must be done both before and after in order to enjoy it. For many, though, what is gained far exceeds what is required.

Most forms of leisure involve some kind of preparation and discipline. This is what distinguishes leisure from mere laziness. I look forward every summer to attending baseball games, but I can’t say that I have the same excitement about what it takes to get to the ball park and to get home. I’m willing to deal with the difficulties surrounding the game because I appreciate the unique delights that being at the stadium provide. My attitude toward the traffic would be much different if I were commuting to work. 

Many people choose to travel when they take leisure time. This doesn’t just happen. Travel needs to be planned. Arrangements need to be made. And the travel itself presents numerous inconveniences—not least of these are the restraints involved in living out of a suitcase. What should be packed? What can fit? How many pairs of shoes do I need to bring? How should items be packed so that they’ll be in a condition to be worn after several days stored away? Just this one aspect of travel demands discernment and decision. And yet, probably for few of us is it the case that when imagining a trip somewhere we think first about the hassle of bustling suitcases.

Social engagements are a form of leisure. Almost invariably I delight in them. And yet, in that lull between finishing the work day and heading out in the evening, I can often hear the cooing voice of laziness: wouldn’t it be nicer just to have a quiet night at home? No jacket is required for this. No parking garage fees. No battling through the noise of others at dinner. No responsibility to maintain conversation. This can be tempting, but not going out can often prove much less rewarding.

It’s summer now; the season when leisure is most pursued. And the reality for the church is that attendance drops significantly. Worship has somehow become associated with obligation, with the work that you have to do (such is life). It’s become a duty. How sad this is, and how wrong. Because Sunday, or the Sabbath, or worship, is meant to be the regular interruption of leisure when, otherwise, we’d be hard at work. Think of this a minute. Sundays used to be defined by blue laws, which were the publicly shared restriction on work. We’ve eliminated them, and, in their absence, Sunday has become one more day when work creeps in and leisure is restricted to activities squeezed in amid other agendas. Worship, however, isn’t an obligation. It’s an incredible freedom. It’s our recognition that at the very heart of life what is given us far exceeds what we make or do or gain for ourselves. We are always, and most fundamentally, receiving gifts from God (such is life). We celebrate this. We take delight in this together. It’s daring and adventurous. Worship is a grand leisure. Why, then, should it be left for the season? It requires far less than boating.

So ask yourself this: how do you approach attending worship? What do you anticipate? Is it like attending a social gathering, or a ball game, or an activity of regeneration? And what are the obstacles that get in the way? Is it the work that leisure requires or the laziness that stops us from enjoying greater things? 

Ahead of us are the pleasant high days of summer. And as we approach this sacred time of rest and play, it’s the perfect season to highlight what I consider a charism of the The Redeemer. Charism refers to a specific spiritual gift for the benefit of the church. It is often used to describe an individual or collective spiritual identity. A charism is, however, stronger than just an identifying trait (like an element of personality) because it describes an active and dynamic principle that defines the way a person or community expresses themselves in the world through spiritual terms. 

Over time I’ve come to believe that one of the Anglican tradition’s somewhat overlooked charisms is that of “place.” Churches, like The Redeemer, help to define their communities, and in the Episcopal Church we’ve often retained the custom of referring to our parishes by the name of the community where they are located, whether it’s a city boulevard or a rustic village: “St. Swithun’s-by-the-Sea,” or “The Redeemer, Bryn Mawr.” 

The Redeemer embodies this charism of place so well, as a beautiful campus in the heart of Bryn Mawr with roots that have grown deep amidst a century-and-a-half of change all around. In the tradition of the classic British parish church, The Redeemer represents the American version of the neighborhood church, conveying the same charms of age, beauty, and nature.

There is joy in the beauty of ancient stones and ivy-covered paths, in the names of esteemed and beloved saints now resting quietly, and the birds’ dance and song high in the verdant canopy. The natural and man-made beauty of The Redeemer’s churchyard come together in the divine poetry of a place, where eternal and earthly meet. At the churchyard’s center is a monument dedicated to prayer, surrounded by a landscape of eternal rest, and much like a garden, it flourishes with plants and creatures great and small. It is like a microcosm of God’s present grace in the created world. 

Included in the numerous well-known families interred here are the Cassatts. And although buried in France, the area includes a memorial to Mary Cassatt whose work is now on exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The best of churchyards, like the The Redeemer’s, invite us to linger, to wander, to contemplate. Here we can find a path to sabbath leisure. Everyday, from the big windows in my office at the corner of the parish house I see the life that fills the churchyard. Children bicycle and dogwalkers stroll. A herd of cross-country runners gracefully dash across the asphalt; a devoted child meanders through the field of headstones to carefully tend the grave of a beloved parent. For members and neighbors, the churchyard is an invitation to enjoy the beauty of trees and plants, the weathered stone of a lovely old church, and the gentle somber repose of pilgrims making their journey beyond the world we know now. Our churchyard is not just a park or even an historic site. It is a place where faith and community meet, in the context of beauty and things both temporal and eternal.

This year we’ve continued to invest in this tremendous parish asset and continue to nurture our charism of place. We will be adding new trees to replace ones that have been lost to age and decay. New plantings along the Pennswood Road side of the church will complete the attractive landscape that ornaments the building. Contributions from generous members and friends can make this possible, and demonstrate how our gifts continue the tradition and witness of the The Redeemer as a community anchor.

Changes on-site during the Legacy into Promise campaign further helped the campus to become a walkable, inviting place for neighbors. In time to come, we hope that we’ll continue to follow those plans to complete a pathway through the churchyard that encourages walkers, wanders, and neighbors to experience The Redeemer’s campus.

I hope that you’ll make time for a leisurely pace through the churchyard this summer, perhaps late in the day when through the skyward web of foliage the pink and orange ombre draws in the evening. 

Summer is here! Now what? Well, in some ways life relaxes just a little. In others, it just keeps moving right along. I find the hardest part of summer is the balancing act: the need to just stop and give one’s brain and body a chance to relax and recharge. And thinking and planning ahead for the coming year, summer music conferences (these are always a great combination of work and play), and of course, personal or family activities. 

This has been such a wonderful first year at The Redeemer! I’ve been welcomed so warmly and made to feel right at home. I’ve enjoyed getting to know many of you, and look forward to knowing many more in the weeks/months/years to come! When I started in September, I made a conscious decision to not change a thing; just get through a season status quo and learn the ropes of this place. After all, how can one think of innovation without first knowing local customs? 

I read an interesting article recently that said the ideal vacation time is eight days. Yes, that’s right—eight. Being one who likes to laze around in warm weather, I first thought this was a bit silly. But I began to realize that, about a week into vacations after switching off and sampling the local beverages, is when my brain automatically wants to start getting back to business. I guess this is hardly surprising when one gets to work for their passion.

Much of my summer is spent thinking and jotting down notes. Whether I’m at home, with my kids at the pool, away on vacation, or on a long motorcycle ride—this is the time of year when I formulate plans for the coming season. By the time August rolls around, when many are still away, I’ve mapped out choir schedules, music lists, ideas for liturgy, etc. Spending the time looking to whatever may be coming down the pike is informed by the experiences of the previous year. 

A couple weeks in the summer are usually spent at conferences—either a regional or national convention of the American Guild of Organists. (They alternate every other year.) This year the national convention is in San Fransisco over the first week in July. And incidentally, our recently graduated organ scholar, Alexander Leonardi, is competing there in the National Competition for Organ Improvisation (and I’ll be cheering loudly from the audience!) 

In addition to the AGO, as one of their new members, I’ll also be attending the national conference of the Association of Anglican Musicians. I’m really looking forward to experiencing this weeklong period of services, seminars, and workshops, which I’ve heard about for years; not to mention reconnecting with many old friends who’ve been eagerly awaiting my presence in the organization; and of course meeting new colleagues.

These events are crucial to professional and denominational growth, as we gather to learn from each other. There are a vast array of subjects which are approached in minute detail. But the crux of these conversations is always—and for lack of a better term—old versus new. How do we move forward with new music, new liturgy, and engaging new ideas, while at the same time maintaining our glorious Anglican heritage? There is a wealth of “new” out there, some of it wonderful and authentic, and some… well, not so much. The most important aspect, I believe, is making sure that whatever we do, it is borne from our tradition. Just like growing a garden, pruning creates new growth, but equally, roots and stems need to be watered and nurtured. 

There is one activity that I really make time for over the summer—and that is listening to music. During the program year, I often don’t get to indulge in “intentional listening.” This means secluding myself alone in the house, or car, or even a long lone walk with headphones—often following program notes as I listen, or doing a bit of online research about a particular piece or composer. And while my tastes are wide-ranging, I almost always focus my attention on the composers that make up the vast canon of Anglican music. There is so much—400 odd years’ worth—how could one ever get bored. From the likes of Byrd and Gibbons in the Tudor age, to Boyce and Purcell in the English Reformation, to the barn-burning Victorian and Edwardian period with Stanford and Elgar, to the post-romantic impressionism of Howells and Vaughan Williams—there is something to suit every mood and occasion. 

And lest you think that I’m entirely curmudgeonly, out of this history come the illustrious late 20th century composers, whose music is refreshing and exciting, but rooted in that old tradition: Richard Webster, Bruce Neswick, Jessica French, Judith Bingham, Judith Weir, Kerensa Briggs—to name but a few. 

All of this music takes pride of place at The Redeemer, because we have a responsibility to be excellent stewards of this tradition, and the ability to do so. But, please don’t ever think we live in a museum—our music and our liturgy is a living, breathing organism. Our music, whether old or new, is brought to new life each time it is sung, by a choir that spans many generations.

Perhaps you’re looking for an activity this summer. Might I suggest some “intentional listening”? Feel free to use the list above as a starting place. But feel free to reach out if you’d like some other suggestions. The music of the Episcopal Church has been such a faith-forming part of my life. In fact, it’s what inspired me to take up a life of leading church music, and it’s a joy to share it.

“Do this at your leisure.” 

Hearing this, we recognize that what is to be done needs to be accomplished slowly and carefully, without hurrying. There are tasks that often require our close attention and careful consideration. It takes time to think something through, to weigh all considerations and work toward a thoughtful and considered statement. The priority is less meeting a deadline and more offering something of worth that reflected time and care in its construction. 

Perhaps an unexpressed hope would be that those who read or hear closely considered idea would also think carefully and thoughtfully; that having a fruitful discussion would prompt greater, even deeper understanding; that agreement on a subject would result in some progress in thinking or action.

In like manner, leisure might be considered a time set apart from the demands of work or duty; a time to enjoy rest, sports or creative endeavors. We do not have to hurry, but we can luxuriate in the time to be at ease. In these instances we can also be said to be doing something at our pleasure. The individual has more autonomy over time.

In a physical sense, leisure reminds me of a much-needed bodily stretch. Stretching can be invigorating, a relief from stress or just plain luxurious. And we can engage in it without anything else. Leisure has some of that quality. 

Leisure is a luxury in the sense that it holds its own richness. It is as refreshing as a cool drink on a hot day. It opens the way to explore, consider, become untethered from time and, therefore, open to whatever comes. We are set on a path of discovery and, perhaps, revelation. 

There is a sense of freedom and luxury to savor during this journey made possible by leisure. Who knows what ideas, revelations or discoveries await us? Or when we are involved in something creative, what the result will be? 

In leisure we can give ourselves over entirely to taking one step at a time, without regard to a deadline. The journey of leisure is the point in and of itself. Our focus on leisure in this issue of The Voice is to revive this practice in our readers’ lives so that you may enjoy its benefits and that you might consider reintroducing leisure more into your lives to develop more fully and to strengthen your faith.

It is in this openness of time and space and the release from duty to freedom that leisure approaches Sabbath; for leisure allows us to capture something luminous and precious. 

Leisure is ours, where this time offers us a dimension in which the human being may be at home with God, a dimension in which we can aspire to approach the divine. It is a time that we set aside, and in it we might meet God, and have a sense of time in which we are able to have a sense of the unity of all beings.