From St. Paul’s in Mobile to Christmas in Castle Rock

“What a long, strange trip it’s been…”

I just finished a volunteer project for my church – a website called Christmas in Castle Rock.  My idea was to invite others into the joy and creativity so evident in the Christ’s Episcopal Church community – an invitation particularly meant for people who are new to the Castle Rock area.

I vividly remember how homesick I was my first Christmas here, despite how many times we’d moved before. I loved Snoqualmie, Washington, where we’d lived before. I felt bereft at starting over once again. Meeting people at Christ’s Church helped me start to put fresh roots down here as well.

Creating the site took me back to my spiritual roots, and I found it a happy journey. So, I thought I’d share those.

In the beginning…

If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know I am close to what is called a “cradle Episcopalian.” That’s someone who is Episcopalian from birth. My parents allowed my brother and me to choose our church when we were old enough to make a decision. So, I was baptized and confirmed, at age 14, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, in Mobile, Alabama.

Why? Well, it was within walking distance. It was affiliated with the school I attended from seventh grade onward. It was not dogmatic: even at 14, I realized I wanted as few people as feasible telling me what to do.

Mostly, though, the youth group was a place of respite for me. As a middle schooler, I found I loved going to the youth group, exploring spiritual questions, doing community service, tubing in the summer and playing basketball in the winter. The retreats were particularly wonderful – sleepovers with friends, interesting surroundings, with fun activities intermingled with thought-provoking spiritual and ethical exercises. I had a sense of belonging there which was precious to me as a middle school student at a time when I did not think I fit in anywhere – at least anywhere I wanted to be.

Mr. Porter, a lasting and positive influence

Our church was led by The Reverend Roger C. Porter.  He was, like the church, a blend of the traditional and the contemporary. For example, we called him, at his request, simply “Mr. Porter.” He did not stand on ceremony. But he did ably manage our large church, for years and years, with a blend of spirituality and practicality that I’ve grown to appreciate more over time. Even now, over 30 years later, he’s still Rector Emeritus at St. Paul’s.

Under Mr. Porter’s stewardship, the church thrived. We had a fantastic choir, initially presided over by Jack Noble White, who was headmaster at St Paul’s before I attended and went on to oversee the Texas Boys Choir. Listening to his version of the first song of Isaiah immediately transports me back to Chapel, our school’s weekly worship service. His musicality was amazing, and our church choir’s efforts were inspired, creative and memorable.

Mr. Porter was always at the church. In fact, he attended the majority of our youth group meetings. A young couple, the Edwards,  oversaw our group for a few years, and they were terrific. But I remember Mr. Porter most vividly. Even as a teen, I wondered when he went home.

As an adult, I wonder even more. Of course, as rector, he baptized my brother and me. He also oversaw our confirmation classes. Much later, he officiated at many of my friends’ weddings as well as my own.  It seemed like he visited everyone I ever knew to be in the hospital. He was a constant and comforting presence, overseeing funeral services for older family and friends, as well as some of my young contemporaries whose lives were cut short by illness or accident. I liked him even more because  he possessed a dry wit that manifested itself often, at its best when breaking up those moments of intense emotion bubbling under the surface at those baptisms, weddings and funerals.

That sanctuary that Mr. Porter created, and he, the staff and volunteers at St Paul’s tirelessly sustained, embodies the meaning of “church” to me.   A place that is exempt from the occasional hurtful spitefulness and pettiness of day-to-day life (especially, unfortunately, teenage everyday life.) A place that encourages and heals.  A safe and welcoming place – not even, necessarily, confined to a campus or building, but anywhere someone is helping, comforting, inspiring or honoring others.

Religion – out of style, maybe. And yet…

Nowadays, when I hear people say, proudly, that they are not religious, I think to myself that I am, actually. I am, because there is an authentic, inarguable truth in the rightness of helping others. There’s a timeless invitation that I don’t  always accept, but of which I am always aware, to make choices that help me be a better person. The details of a given doctrine of faith are debatable. The authenticity of the basic Christian tenet to love thy neighbor, in which Mr. Porter spent his life in service, is irrefutable.

So, thanks to Mr. Porter and St. Paul’s, I’ve followed the Via Media, the middle way, the path to a balanced truth, of the Episcopal Church the majority of my life. From St Thomas Episcopal Church in Sioux City, where our son was baptized, to St. Clare’s Episcopal Church, in Snoqualmie, Washington, where I met friends I still treasure, to Christ’s Episcopal Church, where I now attend: I’ve always known that the local Episcopal church would connect me to a group of people who honored the timeless beauty of tradition while embracing the opportunities the contemporary world had to offer. Thanks, Mr. Porter.