Boom, Bust, and the Hand-off - The Christ Church Stories, Part Three, Episode 3

How Vision, Trust, and an Old Issue Rattled Anglican1000 and Me

From David Roseberry
Thank you all for your birthday wishes. I read them all from an Airbnb that Fran had set as a surprise family reunion for me. I am so grateful to my family for the love and joy they shared with me as I entered a new age bracket. (I heard many times that 70 is the new 50—but the people saying it were in the 70’s.)

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Today’s post might be contentious, and some may push back. But all comments should be civil and Christian.

I haven’t forgotten that I have an update to write. I’ve been busy.

D

A Vision Worth Pursuing

In 2012, as part of Anglican1000, I brought together a group of rectors from around the country to form the Simeon Fellowship. We named it after Charles Simeon, the long-serving evangelical rector of Trinity Church, Cambridge. He had long been a hero of mine and of many leaders I looked up to.

The goal of the Fellowship was direct and ambitious: plant churches near major universities and raise up the next generation of leaders. Young men and women would be trained to plant churches of their own. It was slow work by design.

The entry requirement was simple. You had to be the rector of a multi-staff church with at least one full-time associate. Only churches with that kind of maturity could afford to release a staff member and resources for church planting. We weren’t theorizing. We were building a system.

Twelve or fifteen rectors came to that first meeting. The energy in the room was real. These were leaders with people, budgets, and momentum. We imagined planting strategically—near campuses, in unreached cities—with real backing.

I was excited about the plan. The goal of Anglican1000 was to plant a thousand churches, but I never expected simple replication. The ACNA had about 500 churches then (my memory is sketchy of the number). However, asking each of those churches to plant a church was unrealistic. Many were too small to hive off a group of people to form the core of a new church.

But a hundred churches planting four churches? That, too, was Mission Improbable. However, the movement successfully changed the subject of ACNA. The Simeon Fellowship would concentrate on our larger congregations and enlist their help. (I think this idea was Daniel Adkinson’s.)

In any event, the Fellowship met and started to dream. It was exciting.

A few months later, I took the idea to a broader group of priests and bishops in California. The mood was optimistic.

Then came the hand grenade.

A Bishop’s Objection

After I made my presentation to a room of about 80 bishops and clergy, one bishop stood and asked, “Are there women clergy in the Simeon Fellowship?”

“No,” I said. “There aren’t.”

“Why not?”

I answered plainly:

“Because the criteria required being the rector of a multi-staff church—and at the time, no women met that criteria.”

He looked at me and said,

“For that reason, we cannot support this effort. We will withdraw.”

I was stunned. I thought we had left those identity battles behind. But we hadn’t. In that moment, I realized something: we were still lashed to the wreckage of our metaphor.

That moment discouraged me more than I care to admit. I had been free to lead as a rector—vision-driven, instinctive, local. But the bishop’s objection reminded me how fragile the movement still was. How unresolved. How ready the old divisions were to surface again and claim new ground.

I was a doer. They might be better off with a diplomat.

Women’s Ordination to the Priesthood.

I had grown up in the Episcopal Church, where women had gained access to the priesthood in what seemed, by ecclesial standards, a blink of an eye—just a few decades. The debate had flared, and then, at least institutionally, settled.

But old habits die hard. Old traditions die harder. Our realignment didn’t erase the issue—it exposed it again. Dioceses and congregations found themselves churning, not just from old conviction, but because hopes for a new unified Province seemed elusive.

I’ve always understood both sides of the issue. Not just the logic, but the instincts. My childhood church was formal and Anglo-Catholic—smells and bells in Southern Arizona. My church in college was a large congregation filled with university students and families in a much more informal, conversational style. And my seminary? Well, it was one of the most progressive, liberal schools in the Episcopal constellation of seminaries.

In the ACNA, the issue of women’s ordination was not really about how to read the Scriptures. It was a difference in the understanding of the role of the priest itself and thus of the bishop, also. (Bishops are always priests.)

For those in the more Catholic tradition of our church, the priesthood is iconic, typological. The priest is not Jesus, of course, but he stands in that place—he is a living metaphor, a symbol of Christ the Bridegroom. And the Church is not “the wife” of Christ, but His Bride—betrothed, awaiting the final consummation, pledged to one another in a covenant of complementarity.

The imagery is vivid and important. It shapes the liturgy, the architecture, and the imagination. And in that view, when a woman stands at the altar, something essential is lost—not just the image, but the clarity of the metaphor. It becomes confusing. Jarring. For some, it doesn’t work at all.

Others in our Province see it differently. They hold to the full equality of men and women before God—co-equal in dignity, calling, and capacity. For them, the altar is not a symbolic theater but a pastoral space.

A woman can represent Christ as well as any man, they argue, because Christ’s humanity is what matters most, not His maleness. Gender doesn’t define the effectiveness or faithfulness of a priest’s ministry. In their view, the pulpit and the table are open to those God has called, regardless of sex.

I’m not here to solve the issue. Frankly, I don’t think it can be solved—not in a way that satisfies everyone. My intent in this story is more modest. I’m not making a case; I’m making a record of how I led, what I chose, and how I tried to shepherd a church through this very real tension.

Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

Susan

Susan was part of that story.

She was a faithful member of Christ Church before the split from TEC, and she felt a call to priestly ministry. I supported her as she entered seminary. When we left the Episcopal Church and joined the ACNA, I couldn’t leave her behind. And I wouldn’t. She came with us. And in time, she was ordained.

I didn’t change my theology. I didn’t recant. But I adapted. I supported her work. I made a distinction between the role and the place of the priest. She preached regularly. She was a wise woman with a strong faith. She presided at communion in our chapel. But not at the main altar.

That was the arrangement I came to. It wasn’t about her. It was about the image I believed that altar bore.

Was it a compromise? Yes. Did I compromise my principles? As I mentioned, my principles were not fully formed on the issue, even after decades of ministry. But in a complicated world, pastors often make complicated decisions. I wasn’t trying to plant a flag. I was trying to care for the flock.

And I wasn’t going to strand a sister in Christ on a hill I wasn’t ready to die on.

So it worked until it didn’t.

One weekend, the proverbial perfect storm forced me to make a change. One priest was out of town, another was sick, and I was recovering from back surgery. I called Susan and said, “You’re up. All four services.” She stepped in, and with grace and strength, she led the people of Christ Church from the chapel and at the main altar.

And the roof didn’t fall in.

Did I change my mind? Not exactly. But I changed my posture. I stopped gripping the issue so tightly. I led from a different place. She stepped up when I needed her to, without question or reserve.

I still see both sides, but I also saw Susan. Susan was a good priest and an important and trusted leader at Christ Church.

What I learned is that movements are not built solely on conviction. They also require kindness. And churches are not built on arguments. They are built on trust.

So I don’t offer this story to settle anything. I offer it to say: This is how I led, with the people I loved, in the church I served. That’s enough for me.

This issue is deeply contentious. There are strong voices and thoughtful commentators on both sides, and I respect many of them. I hesitate to even leave the comments open, because few topics generate more conflict—or more careless remarks—than this one.

So please, be gentle. Be gentle with each other, and with me. I don’t claim to have the solution. But I do know this: the Church will be navigating these choppy waters for some time, and we’ll need grace to stay afloat.

The Pressure Builds

I opened this story with a bishop’s objection. At the time, it seemed petty. His diocese hadn’t planted even one church, and to my knowledge, still hasn’t. But it was defending an old quota system that should have been long gone, left behind.

Still, I wonder if I should’ve pushed back and made the case. Clarified our intent. Instead, I kept quiet. I didn’t have the energy to get pulled into another round of church politics. It felt too much like the Episcopal Church I had left behind.

Meanwhile, the pressure was rising. People were asking real questions. Who approved these decisions? Was I running my show? Who did I report to?

Christ Church was paying a good chunk of the bills. But that didn’t shield me. One person told a friend she couldn’t wait to watch the Executive Council clip my wings.

Then, while I was leading a tour in Israel, Daniel Adkinson called. He was sitting in the Executive Council meeting. The pushback had begun. The questions sharpened: Who’s he answering to? What structures are in place? Who’s in charge?

Handing It Back

I hadn’t built systems. I had built momentum. I saw myself as a planter inside a solid frame. But if that frame didn’t want what we were building, I wouldn’t force it.

I told Daniel, “Give it all back to the Province.”

We weren’t near a thousand churches. But we’d crossed 300 in a few years.

The annual conference moved to Church of the Resurrection in Wheaton and continued under new leadership. I wasn’t invited, but maybe I was traveling. I can’t recall.

But I remember this: Christ Church lit the torch. When the parade came, we were asked to stand aside.

Conclusion

Movements are brittle. They start with vision, run on grit, and fall apart if conflict and drama outpace trust. Anglican1000 was no different. It sparked real work. Real churches. Real people. It needed to move forward apart from the person who had kick-started it.

And it wasn’t my movement. I was clear about that. It belonged to my friend Bob Duncan, and I think he saw that letting it go would be good for me, for Christ Church, and for the movement itself. Why? Because movements don’t last on energy alone. They need unity. They need patience. They need trust.

Let someone else count the fruit.

I’ll count the privilege.

Grace and peace,

David Roseberry ☩
The Anglican

The Anglican is the Substack newsletter for LeaderWorks, where I share insights, encouragement, and practical tools for clergy and lay Christians. I’m also an author of over a dozen books available on Amazon.

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