They taught me right in Liturgy Class, long ago, at Baby Bishops’ School:

When you hold your crozier (hint: "crozier" is another name for the shepherd’s staff that bishops carry), turn the short curved end toward the people. When someone else carries your crozier for you, that person should turn the short curved end inwards away from the people.

OK. Got it.

By now, you’ve all seen the exquisite crozier you gave me on March 28th, 1998. You may not have seen it up close, though. The crozier was made by Stanley Neptune, a member of the Penobscot Nation in Maine. It’s made of native Maine ash, that lovely wood which knows how to bend and not break when curved into baskets.

Quite awhile ago, I had the chance to ask Stanley about the various symbols on my crozier. Facing me, when I carry it (pointed the correct way, of course), are several symbols, burned deeply into the wood. One is the seal of the Diocese of Maine (well, that makes sense). Another is an eagle feather ("Why?", I asked Stanley, as we sat together over strawberry pie at Governor’s). An eagle feather, I learned, is the symbol for "Great Leader." Great Leader. Oh, my. That will sure stop a girl in her tracks.

Every time I stand at the back of the procession, waiting for my turn to venture out among you as we begin worship together, I look at that eagle feather. "Great Leader." Dear God, help me to live up to that burned-in symbol.

In the Diocese of Maine these days, we are Living Dangerously. We are taking risks, striding toward the future to which we believe God has called us. As a diocese, we are doing a scary thing: we are talking about money—how to raise it, how to spend it, how to be faithful stewards of it, how to spread it around fairly. A dangerous thing to talk about in a time when money-anxiety looms all about us, screaming at us from newspaper headlines, threatening to unsettle our fruitfulness. We need to drop sails and become reverently tender towards the vulnerability which we feel right now. If we settle down just a bit, we will see that the Savior meets us; walking on the water, joining us in our boat, calming the storms of our anxiety. We will discover that the love which the Saviour has kindled among us has indeed made our diocese into a safe place to live dangerously.

Whether we look at the essential stewardship foundation of our Strategic Vision, or at the work of the Task Force on Assessment Review, or the Clergy and Lay Compensation Committee, or the Capital Campaign Advisory Group…or at our congregation’s budget…we know we must proceed tenderly but resolutely. 

There is new life to hatch. New wings to spread. New flight paths to soar into.

And wondrous winds are blowing, carrying us into new skies.

Scene change again: I grasp my crozier, checking to be sure it is pointed towards you. I look at the eagle feather. I remember who the Great Leader really is; a bishop being—like all of you—just a representative, and a feeble one at that. Sighing with relief at this realization, I walk out into your midst, gathering with you in the worship and praise of God. Let us not shrink from the tender invitation of this moment—even while all around us, multiple and frightening distractions tempt us to abandon the generations to come. It’s safe to struggle with these dangerous matters. The harbor, the boat, the nest, the wind, the fragile eggs…all of them belong not to us, but to God. How good it is to feel your hands around mine as I grasp that crozier and we look together at the eagle’s feather. The God of fair winds and following seas is holding us with tender hands, and bearing us up on eagles’ wings.