The Noon Service is a new worshiping community of Christ Church Cathedral in Cincinnati, Ohio. In a series of 3 articles, leaders of the community draw on their experience cultivating the Noon Service community over the past 2+ years to offer reflections on fresh expressions emerging in the Episcopal Church during these strange times.

There is enough. There is enough. There is enough, there’s enough and some to share. 

A multitude of voices carry this simple refrain around me as I move from the edges of the worship circle towards the small wooden altar at the center. In my hand is a simple set of worn out sleigh bells on a leather handle; I hit them against my thigh on the third beat of each measure, keeping time with the tune, adding rhythmic texture to our collective voices. I look around at the faces of this community and make eye contact with a regular attender: we smile at one another as we sing. Around the room people are holding hands, some are swaying back and forth, and some caress the shoulders of their children. There’s a warmness and vulnerability in this room—something that the leadership team and I (as worship leader) work hard to cultivate in the noon service at Christ Church Cathedral in Cincinnati, Ohio. 

My “faith story” (Kim) begins with growing up Southern Baptist in South Florida. I mostly attended public school but then switched to a small private Baptist high school from 10th to 12th  grade (graduating class of seven people) and was heavily involved in my church youth group. To picture some of my formative years, imagine rock ‘n’ roll record burnings, traveling family gospel singers, and fall harvest festivals. After high school, I attended a small evangelical Bible College in Kissimmee, Florida where I would watch students debate “grace versus works” and the evils of Darwinism. In my early twenties, I found my way to Cincinnati where I became part of the Vineyard and married my partner of now 23 years. After a few years with the Vineyard, we left church—our exit fueled by many unravelings of faith including shifting concepts of heaven and hell, rejection of biblical literalism and a growing anger over the exclusion of the LGBTQ community. 

We felt we had nowhere to go.  

Ten years later, my partner and I began scouring the internet for a new church home. I had never even heard the word “Episcopal” until we stumbled upon the downtown Cincinnati cathedral (the third church on our list we’d made). Our son (12 years old at the time and a theater kid) was curious and fascinated with what he called “people dressed in Jedi robes.” His extroverted self quickly connected to the small youth group that the church offered. My partner and I, on the other hand, were distressed and overwhelmed by the stiffness. Everything was foreign and formal and we weren’t sure when to stand, sit or kneel. And what’s a genuflect, anyway? We stayed, in part, because of the newly installed dean and a friendship that had emerged with a newly hired priest. We also stayed because Episcopalians, we found, were for real inclusive and affirming. Though we eventually fell in love with the breadth and depth of Episcopal theology, we continued to feel awkward and even slightly alienated from the formal service. It didn’t really speak to my soul and I longed for a warm, informal liturgy and space built around relationships. I wanted to unpack theology as part of worship and sing from my heart. 

I longed for an Episcopal shaped space where the Book of Common Prayer and all its beauty met me where I was in the real world. 

In 2015, the Dean of the Cathedral asked if I would be involved with helping to create a new worship offering. (Side note: I’ve been a touring singer-songwriter and recording artist for 20-plus years). An evening service was added and I co-led shaping the worship offerings. Eventually, this service evolved, moved into a new space, experimented with being event-based (rather than eucharistic) and then took a six-month hiatus before reforming into the current noon service. At the outset, I knew that I wanted the music to draw the people into communal singing. Music at the noon service looks like familiar hymns, paperless singing and melodies and lyrics shaped and even freshly written by my small team. Often, we use only that little set of well-worn sleigh bells and the simple drone of a shruti box; lately, we’ve put together a folksy soul outfit (most of the team members sing and play multiple instruments): banjo, acoustic guitar, violin, piano and some kickin’ harmonies reminiscent of those traveling family gospel groups that frequented my childhood church. 

Along with the musical offerings, I also oversee creating the weekly liturgy and bulletin. Partnering with visual artists in our community is an integral part of how we shape our liturgy. Artists creating art in the present moment for our liturgy grounds it in the very real and current context and struggle of our community. 

Cincinnati-based artist Megan Suttman whose personal work explores themes of “impermanence, eco-spirituality and embracing grief and uncertainty while leaning hard into hope” is one of our regular artists: 

On Mother’s Day 2018, I (Megan) attended the noon service for the first time as I was coming out of a seven-year period of deconstruction. I felt at home in the ways the people there shared about their faith, their longings and doubts, and their work in the world as the body of Christ. I knew that though I still felt a great deal of uncertainty regarding my place in the church, there was space for me in this community as I was. 

My visual art practice is typically a reflection on a text I’m digesting, or contemplative prayer. Lectionary readings typically guide the formation of the pieces I make for the noon service. I work in two very different mediums: printmaking and mixed media collage. Printmaking requires planning, lots of sketches and carefully carving an image into a linoleum block. In this practice, I develop a clear vision of my end product before beginning the carving process. It is a practice of patience and of developing a clear intention for my work. Collage work is nearly the opposite process: it begins with a meditative emptying and waiting. From finding images to mixing paint colors, I remain open to whatever wants to materialize. There is a sweetness in this process for me, letting go of control in this way. Finding even the colors that emerge from mixed paint feels like blessings. It has been a very healing art for me in my grappling with faith. Each piece playfully reminds me: Yes! Yes! These philosophical quandaries will persist, but look at this shade of blue or this image of wild flowers. Isn’t God unspeakably beautiful? 

Creating art for the noon service has aided in my dismantling the deep-seated belief of art as trivial in the work of Christ in the world. I’m surrounded by people who deeply honor God’s work through creatives. This has instilled a deep sense of belonging for me, dispelling fear as my contributions are received by my community with reverence. 
In the age of COVID-19, the noon service continues to strive for warmness and vulnerability within our community. When the pandemic first began and our cathedral shut down in-person gatherings, the community moved to Zoom. We were already comfortable with an informal gathering (and our community uses Slack for announcements, prayer requests, etc.), so switching ourselves to a Brady Bunch/talking-heads style of church was easier for us than probably most congregations. The first week we gathered, I offered the same song as both the opening and closing part of our online worship. I asked the community to mute their Zoom mics so that our virtual collective singing didn’t get too trippy, and as I looked across the virtual landscape, I made eye contact with a regular member of our beloved community. She looked back, her lips moving in her muted little online cell. We smiled at one another as we sang from our hearts: While we are waiting, come. While we are waiting, come. Jesus our Lord, Emmanuel, while we are waiting, come.

This article is by: