There is a particular paralysis that can pay us a visit. It often arrives late at night or early in the morning: the weight of decisions unmade, conversations postponed, or strategic directions unclear. We tell ourselves we're waiting for wisdom, for the right moment, for sufficient clarity. But if we're honest, we're often simply waiting to feel ready.
This past week, the Church Farm School in Exton, PA hosted the annual meeting of the NAES Episcopal Urban School Alliance (EUSA). Participants also visited and toured the historic St. James School in nearby Philadelphia. EUSA is one of the best-kept secrets in The Episcopal Church. Many are unaware of this network of world-class schools serving families historically underserved by the independent school world. These schools are bringing forth the Kingdom of Heaven one young person at a time. It is especially meaningful to see how many graduates return as faculty members and administrators to live lives of meaning in service to others.
One of my favorite celebrations on the Church calendar is All Saints’ Day. Perhaps it’s because I attended both a parish and a school of that name, but it’s always held a special place in my heart. I find the beauty of the feast in its radical inclusivity. We celebrate not just the famous saints whose names grace our calendars and buildings, but the vast communion of ordinary believers who lived faithfully in their own times and places. These are the saints who showed up day after day—the patient mothers, the kind neighbors, and the wise teachers who saw potential in struggling students (like me). We are reminded that holiness is not reserved for the exceptional few. It is the calling for each of us.
NAES supports the work of the Compass Rose Society because it provides a meaningful way to engage with the missionary and outreach efforts of the Anglican Communion. Through this global connection, we remember that our Episcopal school witness is part of something larger—a worldwide family of faith that stretches across cultures, continents, and contexts.
The moments that haunt us—the conversations we wish we'd navigated differently, the lessons we could have taught more clearly, the decisions that seem obvious only in hindsight—rarely reveal what we fear they do. They are usually not evidence of some fundamental inadequacy. More often, they trace back to something simpler and more correctable: we were running on empty, our attention was fractured, or we had not stopped to actually think.
Recent research from Making Caring Common, a program of the Harvard Graduate School of Education, confirms what many of us already sense: we live in the loneliest time in American history. Their report, Loneliness in America: Just the Tip of the Iceberg?, reveals that twenty-one percent of adults report serious loneliness. Among those aged thirty to forty-four—many educators in the middle of their careers—nearly one in three feel frequently or always alone.
It was a Tuesday morning and eight-year-old Sarah was fidgeting at her table in the science lab. The microscope in front of her looked intimidating, and she wasn’t quite sure what all the knobs were for. Around her, classmates were already peering into their eyepieces and making excited noises, but Sarah’s slide just looked like a drop of murky pond water.
Lately, I’ve been preaching and speaking about the Collect for Young Persons found in the Book of Common Prayer. It does a wonderful job of framing the work and ministry of Episcopal schools. Earlier this year, I focused on the "unsteady and confusing world” we find ourselves in. My attention is now drawn towards the idea of failure being a “chance for a new start” as opposed to being a measure of worth. As Episcopal educators, we are called to see our classrooms not merely as places of academic achievement, but as sacred spaces where souls are formed and students encounter grace. Yet how often do we find ourselves trapped in the world’s definition of success and failure?
The faculty meeting runs late again. Budget concerns weigh heavily. A difficult parent conversation is scheduled for later this afternoon. The new curriculum rollout isn’t going as planned. Student behavioral issues require immediate attention. In the relentless pace of school life, vulnerability can feel like a luxury we cannot afford—or even a liability we cannot risk.
I think it is easy to lose perspective on our work as the speed of the new semester throttles up. We are not only setting classroom expectations. We are not only grading papers and providing feedback on assignments. Rather, we are creating communities where we can all experience the Kingdom of God here on Earth.
