Protestants did not assume that the Virgin Mary had been assumed. Nor did they ascent when Queen Mary ascended. When she came to the throne of England in 1553, she did for tomato juice what Anita Bryant did for orange juice. Her reign of terror changed the face of the English Church forever.

Some protestants bent their consciences and their knees to the "new" faith. Others died rather than renounce. Still others fled the flames to Europe where they experienced a different way of being the church. They returned with a flame in their hearts. These were the Marion Exiles.

As a young man I, too, experienced a period of exile. But it was not flames I feared. On the contrary, as an adolescent chronologically and a babe spiritually, combustion was what I sought. What I left behind was the tentative and tepid churchmanship of my youth. I had met a vital Jesus through vigorous people who lived on the spiritual edge. I spent a season in "para-parish" ministry, living on faith and on the edge. I eschewed institutions and traditions. But I grew in my faith, and, like the Marion Exiles of ages past, I returned to my home. When I did, I brought with me a dual sense of appreciation and possibility.

I appreciated what the church had been all along: the bride of Christ, the steward of the sacraments, the guardian of the faith, the herald of the kingdom. But I also saw possibilities that I hadn't known existed before. I had experienced a Christian faith that was more than I could ask or imagine as a child. I longed to bring that sense of adventure and vitality to the structure which I believe has God's imprimatur.

At the parish level I have experienced some success. But at the higher elevations the air gets thin. After a dozen years as a priest, I find myself sitting through meetings where people lament lackadaisical attendance at lackluster events. The solution is to schedule more meetings to discuss why no one comes to the meetings. We are making grease to grease the machines that make the grease.

My dad once bumped into one of his entertainment icons on a busy street in Washington, D.C. He was so stunned, all he could blurt out was, "Didn't you used to be Phil Silvers?" Didn't we use to be the church? Of course, we still are, but who could be blamed for wondering if they'd missed our obituary. We have been mismanaged, mismarketed, misdemeanored, and misanthroped in the estate of an endangered species.

On the 25th anniversary of Elvis' death, a bunch of buddies and I noted with amusement that 5 percent of the American population believes Elvis is still alive. We were amused, that is, until someone pointed out that that was five times as many people as are Episcopalians.

Are we Packards? (Not Hewlett-Packard, maker of state-of-the-art technology; not Green Bay Packers, champions of their violent little world) Packards were stately and sturdy motorcoaches (not simply "cars" please) that once graced the highways of a younger America. "Packard, yeah, great old car, my grandad had one. Whatever happened to them?" What, indeed.

I am an Anglican by choice. And I am grateful for my Anglican heritage and my Anglican Communion. But I have seen other ways of doing church that work. Some of them work right well.

When people accuse me of naivete and say, "Aw, it's bad everywhere," I know that ain't so. Yes, it is bad a lot of places. But to blandly and blindly seek solace in assertions about some sort of mutual malaise of ministry is to betray other's naivete, not mine.

I did not come home to be nostalgic, nor did I come home to lament what we have lost. I came home to be a part of a church that is vital, vigorous, and adventurous. Can the Episcopal Church in America recapture that part of its Anglican heritage and align itself with that part of the world-wide Anglican Communion that is aflame for Christ? I hope so. But don't patronize us by telling us it isn't there for the asking. We've been there. We've done that. And we can do it again.

The Rev. Sam C. Pascoe is rector of Grace Church, Orange Park, Fla.