What If Predictability Is the Point?
A reflection on liturgy, trauma, and why repetition might just be sacred
In the wake of recent heartbreak in our community, I’ve been reflecting more deeply on what it means to offer safety—not just physical safety, but emotional and spiritual safety as well. Pastoring in the aftermath of tragedy reveals just how many people walk through our church doors carrying invisible wounds: grief, fear, and memories of past harm. It has reminded me again how essential it is that our churches become sanctuaries in the fullest sense of the word—spaces of consistency, gentleness, and care.
As someone committed to trauma-informed ministry, I often think about what elements of our tradition can help rebuild trust for those who have been hurt by faith communities. I continue to return to this: predictability. The Episcopal tradition is teaching me that predictability is not just a liturgical characteristic—it is a pastoral gift.
What follows is a reflection on the healing power of predictability, drawn from my own story and shaped by my work with others who carry spiritual trauma. If last week I wrote about the sacred work of showing up in crisis, this week I write about the steady work that happens after—the kind of slow, faithful presence that helps people begin to feel safe again.
After a recent Confirmation service, I found myself sitting with a group of young adults, swapping stories over a meal. To my surprise, several of us realized we had grown up attending AWANA programs. I hadn’t thought about Awana in decades, and we laughed together at this strange point of connection.
For those who are cradle Episcopalians or non-religious, Awana is a beloved program for children and youth found in many Baptist and non-denominational churches, whose name stands for “Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed.” It is a Scripture memorization program, complete with badges, prizes, and a heavy emphasis on formation through achievement. Many of my closest friends in high school spent their Wednesday nights earning Awana pins, and while the memories are tinged with the weight of our spiritual trauma, they are also touched with a kind of bittersweet humor. Despite our possible pain—or maybe even because of it— we were able to find common ground and laugh together.
Ironically, even as a young girl memorizing Scripture under the gendered language of “workmen,” I still felt called to leadership in the Church.
That call endured, though the path was not always straightforward. I once had an Episcopal Bishop tell me, quite plainly, that I was "not one of us"—a reference to the fact that my ordination had taken place in another tradition, and that I had not yet formally become part of the Episcopal Church. When I have shared this story with other priests, they often respond with apologies, assuming it must have been a hurtful moment. But I received it differently. I heard it as an invitation.
Perhaps this is my great flaw—or my great gift: when others see a barrier, I see a bridge waiting to be built. When faced with a challenge, I do not hear "no"; I hear "rise up." And I’m very aware that my nature in this regard can drive some people crazy.
As someone who carries my own burdens of religious trauma—particularly from the evangelical world—I find the predictability of Episcopal worship to be a profound and steadying gift. Knowing that we will share in common prayer, that we will confess, hear absolution, proclaim the peace, and gather at Christ’s table week after week, is a comfort deeper than words, like a type of antidote.
Religious trauma often teaches people to expect volatility: sudden changes in leadership, inconsistent messages about God’s love, praise one moment and shame the next. For survivors, worship spaces were often arenas of performance and fear, not sanctuaries of stability and grace.
Predictability, then, is not a flaw in our tradition. It is a balm.
The dependable rhythm of the Episcopal liturgy — its seasons and prayers, its familiar cadences — offers a soft place to land. The prayers stay the same. The invitation to the Eucharist remains steady and unchanging. In a world where trust is so often broken, the consistency of our common worship helps to restore it.
Predictability says: "You are safe here. You know what is coming next. You are invited to rest in the steady love of God."
In trauma-informed ministry, we often speak of the "window of tolerance" — that space within which our nervous systems can remain regulated rather than overwhelmed. One possibility is that predictable worship practices widen that window. They create the conditions in which people can encounter the Holy without being re-traumatized. At least that is my hope and prayer.
No liturgy can erase all wounds and no institution is perfect. But a predictable litrugy can offer something just as sacred: a reliable place to breathe. A sanctuary where the soul can unfurl, knowing it will not be ambushed or shamed. A holy space where we are tended to, not tested.
In the end, it is often the ordinariness of our worship—the repetition, the rhythm, the known prayers—that makes extraordinary healing possible.
For clergy and lay leaders, it is worth asking:
Are our worship patterns steady enough to be trusted by those who are wary of church?
Are we consistent in our welcome, not only in word but in practice?
Are we creating spaces where survivors of religious trauma can experience the constancy of Christ’s love, week after week, season after season?
The liturgy does not demand our perfection. It simply invites our presence. It weaves our faltering prayers into the prayers of the whole Church across time and space. And in its holy predictability, it offers the healing we often do not know we need.