By Mother Maddie

I came to faith in the midst of a schism.

My family and I found our way to an Episcopal Church in Fort Worth because a girl in my third-grade class invited me to sing in the Children's Choir. At first, we were reticent. The liturgy was so formal, the hymns so unfamiliar, but we were moved by something we could not yet name.

After almost two years as "visitors," we joined the church on one condition from my father: "We can become members, as long as we don't get involved…"

Although we could not yet see it, conflict was brewing. A group of parishioners were preparing to leave the Episcopal Church because of theological differences, primarily the ordination of women. When they left, they wanted to take the whole parish with them.

I was fifteen years old when that small group walked out of the Annual Parish Meeting. The next Sunday, their absence was palpable. Families, couples, and life-long friendships were split down the middle, divided by conflict. The parish had been torn in two.

What I remember most about that time is not the heartache or the absence. I remember the way we banded together to repair our beloved church. I remember parishioners old and new stepping up to fill the gaps and take on new ministries, ensuring that our mission never skipped a beat. I remember Fr. Shannon chasing after my family as we headed home after the 9:00 mass, shouting, "Wait! There are no acolytes at 11:15!" I vested that day with pride, glad to be necessary, grateful to be home. For the next few years, I got to serve at the altar every Sunday, filling any space left open. And in my own small way, I got to help us heal.

In the work of rebuilding and repairing and resurrecting our church, I heard God calling me to the priesthood. Although I had never seen a female priest, it never occurred to me that I could not say "yes." In the parish's embrace of my gawky and awkward teenage ministry, I discovered the joy and belonging that only service can give.

Our world today is so much like the Episcopal Church in Fort Worth all those years ago. Our world is rife with bitter conflict, lines drawn in the sand, the same question hanging in the air: Are you with us, or are you against us? Our world has been broken in two, like a church after schism. Our unity – as a nation, as Christians, and even as families – seems to have failed. But that fracture, that brokenness, that heartache is not the end of our story. It is only just the beginning.

God calls us to repair our brokenness. In the Garden of Gethsemane, just before he gives his life for us, Jesus prays, "Father, I pray that they may be one, as you and I are one." This is God's will. Jesus died on the cross for us, in order to draw the whole world to himself. In the cross, we have already been been made one with Christ and with every person he has made. We have been made one with liberals and conservatives, with the rich and the poor, with our friends and with our enemies. We are all members of the Body of Christ.

When we tear ourselves apart, when we make those who are different from us feel unwelcome or unnecessary, we desecrate the gift given to us on the cross. Our vocation as the Church is to draw all people to God, which means we must be a home for all people, even those with whom we disagree. Of course, we fall short of this charge each and every day.

But I can tell you because I have lived it: there is hope on the other side of division. When we commit ourselves to band together and recover our unity, humbly making room for all of God's people, there will be growth. There will be new life. There will be resurrection.

With God's help, we can heal our world. We can shine a light in the darkness of despair. We can be a city on a hill, showing the world another way of living together. We can be the church we have been called and created to be – the middle way, where all truly belong.

Mtr. Maddie