My mother told me a story, once or twice, about a conversation that her aunt had with a Roman Catholic priest. My mom’s family lived in Puerto Rico, in a town called Saint Just, near the Episcopal Seminary of the Caribbean. In order to provide for the household, her aunt was contracted to make vestments for the seminarians, as well as for local clergy in the area. On the other hand, any alterations and repairs, as well as any new vestments, ordered by the Catholic Church were done for free as her way of contributing to her church. One day, the Catholic priest was visiting in order to have a cassock repaired and he noticed that there were some vestments ready for the Episcopal seminary. He said to her, “Those aren’t church Fathers.  They are fathers, heads of households.” My grand-aunt responded, “Father, I really don’t care because they are the ones that feed this family.”  

When I sat down to think about my own Anglican identity, that story came to mind. My church is one that feels like a household: one in which we are all responsible for each other, not in a metaphorical way or even just a spiritual way. As a father and mother are responsible for the guidance in a household and all of the family is responsible for each other’s well-being, so is the church family.  

I have read much about Anglican identity being all about the history of the church going back to the time of Augustine of Canterbury traveling to modern day England and his mission to the Anglo-Saxons and early Celtic Christians. Some people really identify with Celtic Christianity and yet others identify more with the traditions of our Roman roots.  For me, there is a disconnect between those identities and the church that I know well and love dearly.

The first time that I attended an English-speaking service at the Cathedral of the Diocese of Southeast Florida, the seriousness of it all took me by surprise. The elegance of the building and the beautiful, and obviously expensive, murals that adorn the chancel took my breath away. I was fascinated with that place and, in some ways, I continue to be, even after having visited some of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world.  

That fancy church, with all its pomp and circumstance, was nothing like the church I had known up to that point. My father, an ex-Roman Catholic Priest from Spain, was one of those students who needed a new vestment upon entering seminary for his Anglican Studies year. He met my mother there, in her own house, and married within the year. By the time I was born, my family was serving at a church in a rural area outside of San Juan. His next call, when I was four years old, was to establish a Latino Ministry in the Diocese of Southeast Florida, in a city which became one of the ten least diverse cities in the United States, with a Latino population of 95.64%. The majority, if not all, of the parishioners wouldn’t be able to tell you who St. Augustine is, or even have any idea of the effect the Reformation had on Henry VIII’s decision to sever ties with Rome. And, even when they do learn that history, it doesn’t mean very much to them and very rarely does it contribute to their desire to attend an Episcopal church.  

The Episcopal Church began to have a presence in my country and in many other countries in response to the needs of expatriates. For example, in Puerto Rico the first Anglican Church was established under the direction of the Bishop of Antigua in order to serve the English citizens living in the city of Ponce. At the time, the island was a territory of Spain, where Roman Catholicism was the established church, and its citizens were expected to attend the Roman Catholic Church. It wasn’t until the island was taken over by the United States that Spanish services were introduced. The Episcopal Church in Puerto Rico grew throughout the island and expanded to include Episcopal schools and healthcare facilities.

In Central America, also, the church established missions for the benefit of Americans living in the areas.  In 1964, my father became the first Spanish-speaking priest to serve the Church in El Salvador.  The native community was an afterthought and, for the most part, treated as such.

Once local clergy, including bishops, were trained and ordained in these countries, they were a part of the communities they served and they had a stake in what happened in those churches. The churches that were planted were modest and lacking in financial resources; the parishioners were poor and unable to support a church in the way an Anglo community could. Staff and paid musicians were nonexistent.  Parishioners and the clergy took on those responsibilities. Church music was provided by a group of parishioners with maracas and other instruments made out of root vegetables. Clergy were tasked with extensive pastoral care, due to the extreme need in the community.  A community that has extreme needs is not worried about church history or fancy church fixtures. It becomes a cohesive community that looks out for each member of that body. In our countries, outreach is not something that you do for other people. You don’t raise funds for the needy in another country if you have hungry people of your own in the pews or down the block.

This way of being church transferred to Latino communities being developed here in the United States, especially because, although the fastest growing demographic in the United States identifies as Latino, the Episcopal Church has treated us as outreach ministry.  When we are invited to be a part of the Church, we are asked to start from scratch, with minimal funding and support. I have seen Latino churches that have sprung up from Anglo churches, who are not allowed to utilize any of the existing church supplies on hand, including such basic things as altars and other church furnishings, things that are essential yet outrageously expensive. We are counted as members of the bigger church but are not asked to participate in the governance of that same church or asked to participate in any other significant way. This doesn’t happen at every church.  There are some wonderful success stories of growing Latino Episcopal churches, but there are widespread challenges in our community, which has allowed for a Church that is much different than an Anglo Episcopal community.

I had someone at seminary tell me that my Anglican identity challenged that person’s own Anglican identity and it wasn’t appreciated.  We worship the way we do because we formed a church in the image of our greater communities. As Latinos, in our native countries or here in the States, we are naturally more outwardly emotional. When we come together to worship as siblings in Christ, we treat each other as exactly that. Because we have no riches to share and no centuries of tradition to honor, we’ve created a Church that looks and feels like us and allows us to the be the loving community that Christ modeled for us over two thousand years ago. For many of us, that is enough. Our Anglican Identity is rooted in loving God and each other as Christ loved us. The fancy stuff is extra and beautiful and breathtaking, but the church, our church, is so much more than that.