A Shamanic Moment

One of the simultaneously bitterest and sweetest responsibilities of a priest is to bury the dead. I did that, once again, this morning, and, once again, I was amazed at how capable the Prayer Book liturgy is of "bearing the freight" of that sort of occasion. If allowed to do so, it simply does precisely what needs to be done, and I'm so glad I'm not in an ecclesial tradition where funerals have to be invented from scratch each time.

I was particularly struck this morning by something that has never occurred to me before. It has always been my practice to walk in front of the casket all the way out of the church, not stopping at the door and letting the pallbearers go it alone from there, but leading down to the sidewalk and standing by until the door is closed on the hearse. No one ever told me or taught me to do it. It just seems right intuitively.

This is one of those moments of priest-as-shaman. Please, I'm not trying to incite a cyber-riot by suggesting a parallel between pagan and Christian "priestcraft," but ... well ... there's a parallel between Christian priestcraft in this context and what we might call "generic" priestcraft. When I lead the casket all the way out to the hearse, I am exercising priesthood for the sake of the deceased. I am in that moment no longer a teacher, or an evangelist, or a community leader, or a care-giver, and not simply a presbyter in the technical Christian sense. I am a priest, conducting a soul out of this world and through the portal to what comes next. My responsibility during those few steps is not to the grieving family, or other parishioners and non-parishioners present, but to the deceased, represented by his body. When the door of the hearse shuts, then I stand relieved, and turn my pastoral attention once again to the living. The Communion of Saints waves hello to me. "See you again soon," they say, as indeed they will. And someday I'll be the one that another priest escorts to that point and then hands me off to them. So this is good practice.

A Slight Momentary Affliction

UPDATE: Thanks to an energetic friend, the link in my "links" sections now leads to a .pdf on GoogleDocs, rather than the blog, since there have been several requests for such. However, if you really like reading it on a computer screen, here's a link to the blog. Another energetic friend is in the process of finding several typos. These will be fixed in due course.

If you were following this blog about 15 months ago, you may recall my announcement that I had finished writing a novel, the working title of which is A Slight Momentary Affliction. Even when I started it, I knew the chances of it being published in the conventional manner were quite slim, and I reconciled myself to the probability that hard copy would gather dust in a closet somewhere, and my heirs would dispose of it upon my demise.

The advent of free hosted blog sites has provided a more attractive alternative. If you're interested, click on the link (eyes right, and a little down) called My Novel.

De Trinitate

Tonight's regular Wednesday Eucharist at St Anne's was a votive Mass "Of the Holy Trinity." I gave something resembling the following as an extempore homily. Like I said, something resembling...

I certainly can't exhaust the mystery of the Holy Trinity in a brief homily. Volumes have been written on the subject, and they only scratch the surface. The one insight that comes to me--I hope, in answer to my prayers--tonight is to hold up our trinitarian language about God--the language the Christian community uses to talk about God--as a sort of "canary in the coal mine." (This image, of course, comes from the old practice of coal miners, realizing that canaries are more sensitive to dangerous gases than humans, taking a canary down into the shaft with them to serve as an early warning system for potential hazards.)

Even though passages like tonight's gospel from Matthew 28 (the Great Commission) use language that seems compatible with full-blown trinitarian theology, it is a mistake to read that theology back into those passages. The fact is, it took the Church more than 400 years to sort out how we speak of God in trinitarian terms--or, more precisely, how we don't speak of God in trinitarian terms, because this is one area of theology that is done pretty much by elimination: We discerned/discovered ("were told," actually, by the Holy Spirit, but that's a faith statement) that "this" is not how we can speak about God, and "that" is not how we can speak about God, etc. etc. So, whatever is left after eliminating all the demonstrably false articulations of the mystery is what's available to us. That becomes the raw material for our theologizing. And what we are left with is "one God in three Persons": Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

One of the things our trinitarian language for God reminds us of is that the God we worship is not a concept, not an abstraction, not merely the idea of a Supreme Being. Rather, we worship a particular God. This is something our polytheistic forbears (even our polytheistic Hebrew forbears; Psalm 29 tonight mentions "gods") could see more easily than we can through our staunchly monotheistic lenses. In the Daily Office, we've been reading through II Kings. Recently, we read how, after the Assyrians deported the population of the Northern Kingdom, the settlers sent in to replace them were beset with plagues. The Assyrians just figured they didn't know how to properly worship the (particular) God of that land, so they sent back a priest from among the exiles to teach them how to do it! And when the LORD appears to Moses in the burning bush (tonight's reading from Exodus), he stresses the particularity of his identity: "I am the God of your fathers; the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob." It wasn't just any God that Moses was dealing with, not simply a deity, or even The Deity. No, it was the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and, as St Paul would add, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. This is the God, and no other, whom Christians worship and serve.

So, the language of our trinitarian theology--the words we use to talk about God, and, by implication, the words we don't use to talk about God--serves as a boundary, a fence. It reminds us of the particularity of the God who is the object of Christian worship, because, left to our own devices, we will very quickly generalize our experience of God into vague abstractions. I know that, to many, trinitarian theology seems arcane and fussy, something professional theologians may get excited about, but which doesn't have any real impact on the real lives of ordinary Christians. Yet, this is precisely where it functions as the canary in the coal mine, because whenever we get the urge to jump the trinitarian fence, the canary keels over. Church history is full of examples of individuals and groups ignoring or contradicting orthodox trinitarian language. When that happens, nothing but turmoil and schism result. It never ends well.

Of course, ultimately the Trinity is not a doctrine that we must understand, but a God whom we must worship. So let us get on with that job, and worship the glorious and undivided Trinity.

More Dispatches from the Hymnal 1940

Today, in my regularly-scheduled prayer time (yes, I know that sounds a little weird) at the console of the mighty Rodgers, I held a conversation with the Holy Spirit with Hymns 253 through 262 (fr0m the section "Missions") in front of us. It was a time of nostalgia for me. According to one of the characters in the AMC TV series Madmen, nostalgia is one of the most powerful emotions a person can experience. It signifies the vestigial presence of an old wound, a bittersweet feeling, the call of a place and time that one yearns to go back to, but can't.

Hymn 254 is "From Greenland's icy mountains...". The text is from the great missionary bishop Reginald Heber (part of whose legacy is that he has several namesakes who went on to distinguish themselves in Anglican ministry--more than any other single person I am aware of). He died at the age of 49 (by definition, prematurely, IMO) while Bishop of Calcutta.

I can remember attending a service in an Episcopal parish in the mid-1970s where this was used as the entrance hymn. It was not unfamiliar to me from my Baptist upbringing, so I did not think it strange. Yet, even then, among the avant garde of missiologists, it would have been considered anachronistic at best, and quite possibly racist. Despite being one of the most popular hymns of the nineteenth century, in both Britain and America, it was eliminated from the Hymnal 1982, and one can scarcely imagine a setting in which it would be used today.

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,

Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand.

From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain,

They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high,

Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny?

Salvation, O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,

Till each remotest nation

Has learnt Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,

And you, ye waters, roll,

Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;

Till o'er our ransomed nature

The Lamb for sinners slain,

Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.

Why? Because the paradigm that it assumes is now clearly a relic of the past. Both British and American society are rushing headlong into post-Christian secularism, while the gospel has taken hold and is flourishing by "Afric's sunny fountains," among other places. The image of souls in "heathen" lands "calling" missionaries (per the Madeconian who appeared to St Paul in a dream) from "Christian" countries is no longer even plausible, let alone compelling. There are other objections as well, but let's first look at another of the genre, "Remember all the people...":

Remember all the people

Who live in far off lands,

In strange and lonely cities,

Or roam the desert sands,

Or farm the mountain pastures,

Or till the endless plains

Where children wade through rice-fields

And watch the camel trains.

Some work in sultry forests

Where apes swing to and from,

Some fish in mighty rivers,

Some hunt across the snow.

Remember all God's children,

Who yet have never heard

The truth that comes from Jesus,

The glory of his word.

God bless the men and women

Who serve him oversea;

God raise up more to help them

To set the nations free,

Till all the distant people

In ev'ry foreign place

Shall understand his kingdom

And come into his grace.

These lines are from the pen of Percy Dearmer (1867-1936), a distinguished English priest, liturgist, and advocate for social reform. I don't remember this one from my growing-up years, and I can't say for certain that I have ever been present when it was used in an Episcopal service, though I definitely remember singing it (and chortling while doing so) in the Lutheran congregation in which I sojourned for a while en route to Anglicanism.

The anachronisms present in the Heber text are grossly magnified in this one. It bespeaks a world where it was still possible for something to be exotic, a possibility that information and communication technology has now pretty much done away with. It exemplifies a naive occi-centrism that is now not only very much out of fashion ideologically, but not not even plausible (the "apes swinging to and fro" line makes me laugh still).

So, from whence comes my nostalgia? First off, I enjoy the tunes (Missionary Chant and Far Off Lands, respectively). But I realize that my growing fondness for all-things-Victorian as I advance into my dotage is an anomaly, and not widely shared. Beyond that, however, I miss the unashamed passion for evangelism that is present in these hymns. Strip away all the intimations of cultural imperialism, and what shines through is an honest and fervent conviction of the universality of the gospel. The mysterium fidei is honest-to-God good news for all people in every place and in every time. There is no hint of forcing it on anyone; despite all the attempts at constructing a counter-narrative to the great era of European and American missionary endeavor, we're talking about genuine heroes here. (Reginald Heber lost his life to the exotic climate and micro-fauna of India more than to anything else.) They purveyed the gospel through acts of love and gentle persuasion. And there is certainly no hint of syncretism or universalism of a different sort--no "I'll take my road and you take your road and we'll meet at the peak." That era understood that to know Christ is to live in light and to not know Christ is to live in darkness, and they were passionate about bringing people to know Christ.

In fact, according to the Hymnal 1940, at least, mission is virtually synonymous with evangelism. It's a great thing to dig wells and build schools and make micro-loans to people in developing countries, but all that is an adjunct to mission, not mission itself. Mission is when you are in a position to say to someone, "May I tell you about Jesus?"

We need some new missionary hymns that don't make us laugh (though I think I won't like the tunes nearly so much as the old ones). But perhaps we need to first recover a passion for worldwide evangelism. A little resurrected Christian triumphalism wouldn't be such a bad thing now, would it?

An Annoyed Rant...

...against the Revised Common Lectionary.

I'm trying to be a good sport about this. I really am. I was opposed to its adoption, single-handedly stalling it on the floor of the House of Deputies in 2003 and failing to do so when it was brought up again in 2006. (No always means 'No for now' while Yes means 'Yes forever'.) But there's no core theological or moral principle at stake here (not at long as we have the two track option for the first reading, at any rate), so, per my ordination vows, I use the ****** thing.

But as I begin to prepare my homily for All Saints Day (which actually falls on Sunday this year), I am reminded how, the more I use the RCL, the less I like it. Let me count the ways (the ones that affect me right now, anyway):

• Gone is the familiar and beloved passage from Ecclesiasticus 44 ("Let us now praise famous men ...") that has been part of the Prayer Book liturgy for All Saints since 1549. Not just from this year of the cycle, but from all three. It's not there anymore. That disavowal of our tradition makes me sad and angry.
• Instead, in this Year B, we have another familiar passage from the Apocrypha--Wisdom 3:1-9 ("The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God..."), often used at funerals and at a handful of lesser feasts and votive Masses. This is not an altogether implausible choice. However, in conjunction with the other readings, one can see it as part of a package that falls short of the mark of a robust theological illumination of the meaning of the feast.
• The second reading is from Revelation 21 (New Jerusalem, God dwelling with humankind, no more tears). This is a passage of hope and comfort, but what does it say about the heroic hagioi ("holy ones") who have come through the Great Tribulation and whose robes have been washed in the blood of the Lamb and who cast their crowns before the One seated on the throne? In other words, how is it an All Saints' Day text?
• The gospel is from John 11 (Jesus shows up to raise Lazarus, weeping in the process). Again, very comforting. But what does it have to do with the occasion?

I am left wondering whether the framers of the RCL even understand what All Saints' Day is, what its history is, and how it relates to the following day (All Faithful Departed in the BCP, known popularly as All Souls). Have they fallen into the trap of conflating the two (along the lines of the para-Christian Latino observance of El Dia de los Muertes)? Do these lections contribute to the blurring of the appropriate distinction between November 1, when we honor the heroic holiness of those from whom we are inclined to request prayers on our behalf, and November 2, when we remember more ordinary departed Christians for whom we are more inclined to offer prayers on their behalf? The readings from Wisdom 3 and Revelation 21 seem more fitting for the latter than for the former.

Anyway, back to sermon prep. I must play the hand I've been dealt. I will actually come up with a sermon based on these readings.

Somehow.

The Holy Spirit is always faithful in my homiletical ministry, I have found. But I'm not a happy preacher at the moment.

Keep Moving ... Nothing to See Here

Anglican cyberspace is abuzz this morning with the release of a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Central Florida Bishop John Howe, which is in response to a request from the leadership of that diocese for Dr Williams to more specifically outline a process by which dioceses may adopt the Anglican Covenant even if the provincial church of which they are a member fails to do so. The Archbishop commends Central Florida's endorsement of the three sections of the covenant document that are presently actionable, and then adds that, technically, only provincial churches of the Anglican Communion can adopt the covenant. The reason is that, at present, it is the Anglican Consultative Council that "owns" the covenant, and that body is constitutionally capable of dealing only with its own members, which are the 38 provinces of the communion.

This news is being spun--on both the hard left and the hard right--as a setback to the initiative of the Communion Partners and the signers of the Anaheim Statement. It is, in fact, nothing of the sort. It's not even news, since this is precisely what the Archbishop told the seven CP bishops who visited him a month ago. Dr Williams is just stating the facts, as dull as they may be.

He is also being utterly consistent with his previous words and actions. (Rowan is nothing if not consistent.) In order for the covenant process to have any integrity, the document must first be offered to the provincial churches. I believe a good case can be made that the Episcopal Church has already materially rejected the covenant in advance of its promulgation by General Convention's adoption of B025 and C056; I have made that case myself. But it has obviously not yet done so formally, and it is on formalities that we must stand in situations such as this.

By rejecting the covenant, as I believe will happen in 2012, TEC will, per the Archbishop's consistent schema, be relegating itself to the second Track/Tier of Anglicanism--that is, "associate" status. It is only when that happens that the actions of dioceses such as Central Florida (with others to follow, I have no doubt) enter the game. There will then be a solid basis on which Rowan and the other Instruments of Communion to recognize "endorsement" as de facto "adoption," and maintain the fullest sacramental communion with endorsing dioceses (and, one hopes, parishes that are under the non-geographical oversight of bishops from endorsing dioceses). The Archbishop's letter to Bishop Howe pretty well says as much. You don't even have to dig between the lines; just moving a few leaves and twigs will suffice.

This letter is not a "development," and is nothing for anyone to stress over.

A Hymn Geek's Version of Oldies

The Hymnal 1940, which was in the pew racks of Episcopal churches and chapels and cathedrals from 1943 until 1985 (and in some places, long afterward), was instrumental in my transition into the Anglican way of Christian practice nearly four decades ago. I thought to myself then, "If there's a church that actually sings these hymns, I need to be in it." And so I am, even though I was to later learn that some of the hymns that so captivated me as a I played through them on a Westmont College practice room piano during spring break of 1971 didn't actually get sung very much. This particular collection is something of a classic, in my estimation. I don't advocate wholesale return to it, as we have moved on, appropriately, from too many aspects of its milieu. But setting aside the essential problem of anachronism, it's "better" than its successor (the Hymnal 1982), in the way the the venerable Eleventh Edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica is "better" than its successors, even though you wouldn't want it to be the only encyclopedia you have access to.

Many years ago I discovered that sitting down at a keyboard (organ or piano) and playing through hymns is not just recreational for me; it' s a form of prayer. So I have incorporated it into my regular prayer discipline. Recently, on one of these occasions, I was working my way through the sections devoted to Ordinations, Litanies, and the Departed, respecitvely.

In the first of those three, I was especially struck by #221, Ye Christian Heralds...

Ye Christian heralds, go proclaim

Salvation in Emmanuel's name;

To distant lands the tidings bear,

And plant the Rose of Sharon there.

God shield you with a wall of fire,

With holy zeal your hearts inspire,

Bid raging winds their fury cease,

And calm the savage breast to peace.

And when our labors all our o'er,

Then may we meet to part no more,

Meet, with the ransomed throng to fall,

And crown the Savior Lord of all.

Yes, it's over-the-top Victorian in its sensibilities, and many today would call it racist. I find the tune (Missionary Chant) quite stirring, but I'm a hymn geek, and most today would find it stodgy. I can't imagine a contemporary occasion in which it would be appropriate to be sung. And I grieve for that fact. Even though this text is in the Ordination section of the hymnal, it clearly bespeaks an occasion of apostolic commissioning that is at the same time more concrete and more generic than simply an ordination. Those being sent with this hymn are heroes--they are putting their lives in danger, indeed offering their lives to be spent, consumed, in their vocation. As was the case with Paul and the Ephesian elders when he took leave of them, it's with the understanding that this is a farewell, not just a goodbye. Only the third stanza, completely eschatological in tone, hints at any future reunion. I wince that what passes for "mission" in today's Church is so anemic, so easy, by comparison.

I also rediscovered, in the Departed section (i.e. funeral music), #224, a text by the inimitable John Ellerton (who is himself worthy of the doctoral dissertation I would write in the parallel universe where I would write a doctoral dissertation):

Now the laborer's task is o'er;

Now the battle dayis past;

Now upon the farther shore

Lands the voyager at last.

Father, in thy gracious keeping

Leave we now thy servant sleeping.

There the tears of earth are dried;

There its hidden days are clear;

There the work of live is tried

By a juster Judge than hear.

Father...

There the penitents, that turn

To the cross their dying eyes'

All the love of Jesus learn

At his feet in paradise.

Father...

There no more the powers of hell

Can prevail to mar their peace;

Christ the Lord shall guard them well,

He who died for their release.

Father...

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust,"

Calmly now the words we say,

Left behind, we wait in trust,

For the resurrection day.

Father...

The first tune given is Pax, and it is sublimely lovely, though more appropriate for a practiced choir than a funeral congregation. The text may fall short of the sense of paschal victory that has since been recovered in our funeral rites, but it is solidly realistic, and therefore comforting, in a very pastoral way.

Making Friends with the Imprecatory Psalms

It is part of my Rule of Life to pray the Daily Office according to the form prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer (1979). Tuesday through Friday, and on Sunday morning, I do so publicly at stated times (though, to be sure, the universe of those who might join me on any given occasion is quite small). During Ordinary Time, the lectionary for the Daily Office takes one through all 150 Psalms every seven weeks. The option is provided for certain whole Psalms, and sections of others, to be omitted from this round. If you look at some of these texts, the reason for their permitted (suggested?) omission is intuitively obvious. Here are some verses from Psalms 59:

6 Awake, and punish all the ungodly; *

show no mercy to those who are faithless and evil.

7 They go to and fro in the evening; *

they snarl like dogs and run about the city.

8 Behold, they boast with their mouths,

and taunts are on their lips; *

“For who,” they say, “will hear us?”

12 Slay them, O God, lest my people forget; *

send them reeling by your might

and put them down, O Lord our shield.

13 For the sins of their mouths, for the words of their lips,

for the cursing and lies that they utter, *

let them be caught in their pride.

14 Make an end of them in your wrath; *

make an end of them, and they shall be no more.

Such sentiments certainly cause a Christian conscience a little uneasiness, at least, and probably evoke the "What would Jesus do?" question that was so in vogue a few years ago. Other examples of imprecatory Psalms and portions of Psalms are found at 7, 35, 54, 55, 58, 69, 79, 137, and 139. But the most hair-raising example of sustained petition for disaster to befall one's enemies has got to be 109, which calls down divine fury on even the innocent children of malefactors:

5 Set a wicked man against him, *

and let an accuser stand at his right hand.

6 When he is judged, let him be found guilty, *

and let his appeal be in vain.

7 Let his days be few, *

and let another take his office.

8 Let his children be fatherless, *

and his wife become a widow.

9 Let his children be waifs and beggars; *

let them be driven from the ruins of their homes.

10 Let the creditor seize everything he has; *

let strangers plunder his gains.

11 Let there be no one to show him kindness, *

and none to pity his fatherless children.

12 Let his descendants be destroyed, *

and his name be blotted out in the next generation.

13 Let the wickedness of his fathers be remembered before

the Lord, *

and his mother’s sin not be blotted out;

14 Let their sin be always before the Lord; *

but let him root out their names from the earth;

15 Because he did not remember to show mercy, *

but persecuted the poor and needy

and sought to kill the brokenhearted.

16 He loved cursing,

let it come upon him; *

he took no delight in blessing,

let it depart from him.

17 He put on cursing like a garment, *

let it soak into his body like water

and into his bones like oil;

18 Let it be to him like the cloak which he

wraps around himself, *

and like the belt that he wears continually.

19 Let this be the recompense from the Lord to my accusers, *

and to those who speak evil against me.

Psalm 109 pops up in the lectionary as regularly as all the rest--every seventh Wednesday morning, to be specific. Now, Wednesday happens to be the day when my whole parish staff attends Morning Prayer together, just prior to our weekly (or thereabouts) meeting.

Of course, I would be within my rights to exercise a certain pastoral discretion and omit verses 5 through 19, as they are enclosed in parentheses in the lectionary. But I choose not to avail myself of this option. Every seven weeks, these words of seething hatred cross the lips of five or six of the nicest people I know. We squirm--at least I squirm--but we say them.

It's not often at all that any imprecatory Psalmody makes its way into the principal liturgical experience of most Christians who worship according to the Prayer Book, the Sunday Eucharist. Today (Year B: Proper 20) was a notable exception. In my parish, a singularly sweet-voiced soprano cantor chanted these lines from Psalm 54:

5 Render evil to those who spy on me; *

in your faithfulness, destroy them.

So, the obvious question is ... why? Why are texts that are so opposed to the spirit of "Love your enemies" and "Do good to those who persecute you" even granted admission into the canon of Christian liturgical texts? How is our corporate worship possibly enhanced by forcing ourselves to speak lines that we would never allow to be part of our public prayers?

There is no flip or glib or otherwise easy answer to this question. And therein lies the first clue, I think, to why Psalm 109 and its companions are still in the Prayer Book--precisely because it is hard to have them there, precisely because they are the proverbial skunk at the garden party. We wouldn't voluntarily pray such words . . . or would we? Many years ago I found myself, in the context of the Daily Office, praying one of these passages. As so often happens, my mind wandered as part of it remained dedicated to the text in front of me. Then, as now, I was more engaged than the average cleric, to say nothing of the average layperson, in the soap opera of conflict that has consumed the Anglican world of late. And then, in an embarrassingly lucid moment, I suddenly realized that as I was asking God to curse my enemies, the "enemies" I had in mind were not only fellow Christians, but members of my own church!

This experience yielded a hugely important spiritual insight: It showed me that I was subliminally demonizing my opponents in church conflict. I was thinking of them not as brothers and sisters with whom I had profound disagreements, but as enemies who needed to be vanquished, as minions of evil deserving of God's destructive wrath. I suppose it's possible that I might have come to this realization without the assistance of whatever imprecatory Psalm I was praying at the time. But the fact is, it was the Psalm that shined the light on an important step of spiritual growth I needed to take. The imprecatory Psalms force us to look unflinchingly at our "dark side" (Jungian shadow?), and be brutally honest about what we see. By being invited (or, in the case of my staff, forced!) to speak words that we would not otherwise choose to speak, we are provided with a "safe" release for some toxic stuff that will poison us from inside if we don't get it out.

Of course, making friends with the imprecatory Psalms also requires the cultivation of a certain amount of sanctified spiritual imagination. Such a process offers us an opportunity to redefine who the "enemy" is. Instead of directing the energy of our hatred--which is very much there, even if sublimated--toward people (individuals or groups), whom we are commanded to love, our hearts can be trained to direct that energy toward Evil in all its dimensions: Cosmic Evil ("spiritual forces of wickedness [stoichea tou kosmou if you're into New Testament Greek]) that rebel against God"), Social Evil ("evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God"), and Personal Evil ("sinful desires that draw [us] from the love of God"). After all, these are the three classic renunciations (aka "the world, the flesh, and the devil") that precede Christian baptism. Somewhat in the tradition of lectio divina, we can acquire the habit of "translating" verses of imprecation, redefining the intended target.

I don't know that I will ever absolutely love the imprecatory Psalms. I would probably be much more comfortable ignoring them. And that is exactly why I should not--and, with God's help, will not--do so.

An Emerging Secondary Infection

I'm probably the exact opposite of a hypochondriac, but I pay enough attention to medicine as a "popular science" to know that the first bug to bite you sometimes makes it possible for a second bug to bite you, and that the effects of the resulting "secondary infection" are sometimes more damaging than those of the original. Secondary infections are often "opportunistic"; they have no organic connection to the primary infection, but merely use it as a vehicle.

Within the Anglican world of the last several years, the "primary infection" has certainly been conflict over sexuality and sexual behavior, and the consequences have been severe, it not devastating. There is honest question whether Anglicanism as a recognizable current within the Christian river can actually survive very much longer.

But within the segment of the Anglican world known as the Episcopal Church, there is a secondary infection that has emerged suddenly--only in the last several weeks--and is growing virulently. Even though the sexuality debate was the vehicle that delivered it to the scene, it has no organic connection to sexuality or the range of theological positions with respect to sexuality. It could easily have been another issue ("lay presidency" at the Eucharist, for example, or communion of the unbaptized), but just happened to be sex.

What I'm talking about is the tension--indeed, the dilemma--that some are experiencing between their identity as Anglicans and their identity as Episcopalians. Not too very long ago, this would have been an inconceivable dichotomy. It was axiomatic that if you are a member of the Episcopal Church (USA), you are also automatically an Anglican, and if you live in the U.S. and wish to practice Christian religion as an Anglican, the place to do so is in the Episcopal Church. Except perhaps in the first session or two of an Inquirers' Class, it all went without saying.

So what has changed? Two things, mainly: First, the various breakaway chunks (too large to be called "splinter groups")--AMiA, CANA, et al; now perhaps congealing as the ACNA--have quite understandably appropriated themselves the moniker "Anglican" while broadcasting their perception that the Episcopal Church has terminally squandered its Anglican inheritance. So we hear things like, "My parish is Anglican, not Episcopal." This can be said both truthfully and innocently, of course, like a resident of Philadelphia saying, "I live in the United States, not in New York." But it can also carry with it an implication of mutual exclusivity and put-down, like I've heard some say, "I'm a Christian, not a Catholic." So when lay Episcopalians who are not well-informed about their own ecclesial identity hear or read such a remark, they might plausibly infer, "If that non-Episcopalian says she's an Anglican, then I must not be an Anglican." This is nonsense, of course, but it is understandable nonsense.

Second, the rhetoric of the primary infection (sexuality conflict) abets the spread of the secondary infection. It has exposed where people's core sense of ecclesial identity lies. It has revealed that, among those who once casually accepted the premise that "to be an Episcopalian is to be an Anglican, and vice versa", some understood the primary category to be Episcopalian, with Anglican as a nice add-on, while others understood the primary category to be Anglican, with Episcopalian as the necessary add-on if one lives in the United States. Of course, most who hold what would be described as conservative views on sexuality are among those who are most concerned about the strained relations within the Communion, and those who hold liberal views tend to be less concerned. But it's not all that simple. There are some whose convictions on the sexuality debate are agnostic or even "progressive," but who feel their Anglican-ness so strongly that they are led to dissent from the decisions of General Convention. Similarly, there are those whose views on sexual morality lie decidedly on the traditional side of center, but who feel their Episcopalian-ness so strongly that they are not bothered by the potential for broken relations with the Anglican Communion. It doesn't necessarily break cleanly along predictable "party lines."

I know (all too well, as does anyone in parish ministry), the practical truth of the saying, "Perception is reality." But some perceptions are plain false, not rooted in fact, and while they need to be dealt with gently and compassionately, in the end they need to be challenged. The truth is, there is no dilemma. There is no "Episcopal or Anglican" disjunction. There is only the "Episcopal and Anglican" conjunction.

Let's look at the Preamble to the Constitution of the Episcopal Church. It speaks volumes:

The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, otherwise known as The Episcopal Church (which name is hereby recognized as also designating the Church), is a constituent member of the Anglican Communion, a Fellowship within the One, Holy,Catholic, and Apostolic Church, of those duly constituted Dioceses, Provinces, and regional Churches in communion with the See of Canterbury, upholding and propagating the historic Faith and Order as set forth in the Book of Common Prayer. This Constitution, adopted in General Convention in Philadelphia in October, 1789, as amended in subsequent General Conventions, sets forth the basic Articles for the government of this Church, and of its overseas missionary jurisdictions.

A preamble, of course, is the governing rubric for the entire document; it is the interpretive key that unlocks the meaning of all the follows. So here we have it, plain as day: The core identity of the Episcopal Church is as a "constituent members of the Anglican Communion ... in communion with the See of Canterbury." Anglican identity is not (as they say in Louisiana) lagniappe, an optional extra. It's central, essential. And Anglican identity means being "in communion with the See of Canterbury." So those who assert the unbounded autonomy of the Episcopal Church are mistaken. According to our own constitution (I speak as an Episcopalian), the moment we cease to be in full communion with Canterbury, we have ceased to be who we are. We cannot cast off our Anglican identity without simultaneously casting off our Episcopal identity. In this light, then, the actions of recent General Conventions have put us on a collision course with ourselves. We are like a snake swallowing its own tail; it will lead only to our own demise. We are on the verge of violating our own constitution.

But wait ... there's more. The Preface to the Book of Common Prayer, which is our governing liturgical formulary, says this about our relationship to the Church of England:

It seems unnecessary to enumerate all the different alterations and amendments [between the English and American Prayer Books]. They will appear, and it is to be hoped, the reasons of them also, upon a comparison of this with the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England. In which it will also appear that this Church is far from intending to depart from the Church of England in any essential point of doctrine, discipline, or worship; or further than local circumstances require. (emphasis added)

One of the repeated themes of the "Windsor Process" (which is now culminating in an Anglican Covenant) is that communion (koinonia) is the natural limit on provincial autonomy. Some have suggested that this is an unwarranted imposition on TEC from outside, not respecting our polity, not honoring our autonomy. Yet, a careful examination of our own foundational documents leads to the inescapable conclusion that the process is in fact calling us back to who we are, inviting us to remember our identity. The Episcopal Church is a body slipping rapidly into dementia, if not amnesia. It is a secondary infection, to be sure, but its effects have the potential to endure long after the sexuality mess is sorted out. The Anglican Communion is offering us an antidote. The new point of contention is between those who want to receive that antidote gratefully and those who want to persist in a perception that is not grounded in reality.

Report from the Lambeth Seven

"This just in," as they say in the news trade. The originating source is Bishop McPherson, via email to another blogger. I offer it here without comment, but may have something to say in due course.

A Report of the meeting of the Bishops of Albany, Dallas, North Dakota, Northern Indiana, South Carolina, West Texas and Western Louisiana with the Archbishop of Canterbury on September 1, 2009.

As seven representatives of the Communion Partner Bishops, we are grateful to have met with the Archbishop of Canterbury to discuss our concern in light of the recent actions of the General Convention and the subsequent nomination of candidates "whose manner of life presents a challenge to the wider church and will lead to further strains on Communion" (General Convention 2006, B033).

At this meeting we expressed our appreciation for his post-convention reflections, "Communion, Covenant, and our Anglican Future," and were especially interested in his statement about whether "elements" in Provinces not favorably disposed to adopt the Anglican Covenant "will be free ... to adopt the Covenant as a sign of their wish to act in a certain level of mutuality with parts of the communion."

Given our commitment to remain constituent members of both the Anglican Communion and The Episcopal Church, we are encouraged by our meeting with the Archbishop. We agree with him that our present situation is "an opportunity for clarity, renewal and deeper relation with one another - and also Our Lord and his Father in the power of the Spirit." We, too, share a desire to "intensify existing relationships" by becoming part of a "Covenanted" global Anglican body in communion with the See of Canterbury. We also pray and hope that "in spite of the difficulties this may yet be the beginning of a new era of mission and spiritual growth for all who value the Anglican name and heritage."

We understand the divisions before us, not merely differences of opinion on human sexuality, but also about differing understandings of ecclesiology and questions regarding the independence or interdependence of a global communion of churches in discerning the mind of Christ together. However, we also shared our concern that the actions of General Convention have essentially rejected the teaching of 1998 Lambeth Resolution 1.10 as the mind of the Communion, and raise a serious question whether a Covenant will be adopted by both Houses at General Convention 2012.

At the same time we are mindful that General Convention Resolution D020 "commended the Anglican Covenant proposed in the most recent text of the Covenant Design Group (the "Ridley Cambridge Draft") and any successive draft to dioceses for study during the coming triennium" and invited dioceses and congregations to "consider the Anglican Covenant proposed draft as a document to inform their understanding of and commitment to our common life in the Anglican Communion."

Therefore, at this time we make the following requests of Communion minded members of the The Episcopal Church and the wider Anglican Communion:

1. We encourage dioceses, congregations and individuals of The Episcopal Church to pray and work for the adoption of an Anglican Communion Covenant.

2. We encourage dioceses and congregations to study and endorse the Anglican Communion Covenant when it is finally released and to urge its adoption by General Convention, or to endorse the first three sections of the Ridley Cambridge Draft and the Anaheim Statement, and to record such endorsements on the Communion Partners website (www.communionpartners.org).

3. We encourage bishops, priests, deacons and laypersons of The Episcopal Church who support the adoption of the Anglican Communion Covenant to record such endorsement on the Communion Partners website.

4. We encourage dioceses and congregations, in the spirit of GC2009 Resolution D030, to engage in "companion domestic mission relationships among dioceses and congregations within The Episcopal Church."

5. We encourage Bishops exercising jurisdiction in The Episcopal Church to call upon us for service in needed cases of Delegated Episcopal Pastoral Oversight.

6. We encourage relationships between Communion Partners and primates, bishops, provinces and dioceses in other parts of the Communion, in order the enhance the ministry we share in the life of the Communion.

7. We invite primates and bishops of the Communion to offer their public support to these efforts.

+Mark J. Lawrence, South Carolina
+Gary R. Lillibridge, West Texas
+Edward S. Little, II, Northern Indiana
+William H. Love, Albany
+D. Bruce MacPherson, Western Louisiana
+Michael G. Smith, North Dakota
+James M. Stanton, Dallas

Taking Counsel

I have had this information for some time, and was never asked to embargo it. Nonetheless, it seemed best to wait until the event was actually in progress. It now is.

Seven diocesan bishops of the Episcopal Church are presently at Lambeth Palace for a brief--but, I'm sure, intense--consultation with the Archbishop of Canterbury. All seven are members of the Communion Partners, and all seven are signatories to the Anaheim Statement.

I have no inside knowledge of the subjects under discussion, but it doesn't require any eavesdropping equipment to figure out that they're talking about how Dr Williams' "two tier/two track" plan might actually get implemented. More specifically, it is a safe bet that each of the seven is interested in what steps a diocese might have to take to remain on Tier/Track One even as TEC per se is assigned (consigned?) to Tier/Track Two.

The Archbishop's schema is going to happen; of that I am more certain than ever. It will happen too quickly and too decisively to suit the ruling party in the Episcopal Church. It is long since past happening too slowly and too subtly to suit those in what had been TEC's conservative wing, and who are now part of the GAFCON-ACNA axis. But the Archbishop has behaved with utter consistency and coherence since the advent of this crisis in 2003, and there is no reason to think he will deviate from that path now. He will never send the Presiding Bishop an email saying, "The tracks have been assigned. You're in #2." He will say something like, "Here's the Anglican Covenant. Churches that adopt it as their own will remain in full communion with the See of Canterbury."

The General Convention, of course, will never do so. In time, the consequences of that decision will be seen in the form of invitations to Primates Meetings that never reach 815, and registration materials for the Anglican Consultative Council that never make it to TEC's chosen delegates. It will not come with a bang. It won't even be a whimper. It will simply be the sound of silence.

The wild card in the mix, of course, is the ACNA. Despite the word "Anglican" in their title (and on the signs in front of their churches), it could be plausibly argued that the ACNA, technically, is not Anglican. Not yet, at any rate. But they are aligned with GAFCON, which represents the overwhelming majority of the world's actual Anglicans. So they are part of a matrix that is capable of putting immense political pressure on Lambeth Palace. I suspect the seven bishops and Dr Williams are discussing this fact as well.

So I pray ... and wait ... and pray. Like my bishop (one of the seven, of course), I have neither an intent nor a desire to separate from the Episcopal Church. I also have neither an intent nor a desire to be in anything less than full unhindered communion with the See of Canterbury (read: Track One). There is, admittedly, some tension between these twin commitments. I am looking for a way to honor both of them, and have hope that the next step in such a way is having a light shined on it by what's happening in London right now.

Love in a Time of Impasse

The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America is the latest to make news in the sexuality wars, and I am quite happy to let them have the limelight for a while. It was a little eerie to follow the story, as they were meeting at the Minneapolis Convention Center, where General Convention pulled the switch on Anglicanland's ongoing roller-coaster ride in 2003. I was there then, so I could picture the environment in my mind's eye. It is also eerie to read first reports of how the ELCA's decision is playing among those Lutherans who dissent from the majority position of their Churchwide Assembly. The refrains are all too familiar.

We are at an impasse. At certain levels, of course, the majority has spoken clearly and, as they say, "elections have consequences." But if we either zoom in or zoom out from either the Churhwide Assembly or the General Convention, the picture is murkier. One of the "consequences" of General Convention's "election" looks increasingly likely to be some degree of marginalization for the Episcopal Church in the councils of Anglicanism--the Archbishop's two-tier/two-track scenario--and an attendant effort by the minority within TEC to remain in Tier/Track One even while the church as a whole is consigned to Tier/Track Two. These consquences may strike many as abstract, far-removed and slow-moving. But they are quite real, and their effects at the level of "here and now" are already being felt. Communities of Christians--Episcopalians--who have an investment in one another--a history together, networks of deep friendships, shared joys and sorrows, godparents to one another's children--find themselves riven, on opposite sides of the Great Divide. They don't have the luxury, in any sense--nor, frankly, the desire, the stomach for it--of going separate ways. Yet, convictions are held very deeply, and whatever capacity there may once have been for pretending that the differences don't exist is evaporating very quickly.

To complicate matters even further, there is another dimension of disagreement that cuts obliquely and jaggedly across the scene. Is the Issue at Hand--i.e. the place of same-sex relationships in the discipline and sacramental life of the Church--an appropriate "ditch" in which to "die"? This is not a liberal-conservative split, but a question that divides liberals from liberals and conservatives from conservatives. We have seen this so far most clearly and painfully among conservatives ("reasserters," to use Kendall Harmon's helpful taxonomy). The Anglican Church in North America (ACNA) is filled with reasserters who answer the "ditch" question in the affirmative; anyone who advocates for anything other than heterosexual marriage as an acceptable ethical context for sexual activity has stepped out of bounds, and there is no imperative to remain in communion with such people. The Communion Partners (bishops and rectors) represent those reasserters who do not believe it is necessarily a church-dividng issue, and who thus seek to stay in relationship (albeit a differentiated one) with the Episcopal Church, fully within the structure of its constitution and canons.

But the self-styled "progressives" ("reappraisers" in Harmon's parlance), are not immune from this dimension of the conflict. There are those within dioceses and/or parishes that tilt in a reasserter direction who are immensely troubled, and who wonder whether they are providing "aid and comfort to the enemy"--cooperating with the purveyors of injustice and bigotry--by their mere continued presence and participation in ministry and mission. Some have withdrawn altogether; others have pulled back from positions of leadership. Still other reppraisers who are at odds with their parochial and diocesan contexts have found themselves able to "suck it up and soldier on," believing that there is still more that unites us than there is that divides us.

Of course, both reasserters who remain in TEC and reappraisers who remain in cooperative relationships with reasserting leaders do so at the cost of some credibility among those with whom they are in fundamental agreement on The Issue.

So we are at an impasse. How then shall we live?

I suppose I have to acknowledge at the outset that any answers I might propose to this question are addressed only to those on either side of the Great Divide who have decided that it is neither necessary nor desirable to unchurch (or unchurch themselves from) those with whom they disagree. I'm not going to argue that prior question here. I'm speaking to that set of Episcopalians who want to keep the bridges in good repair even in the midst of our profound disagreements over issues that skirt perilously close to the boundary between adiaphora ("matter indifferent") and core doctrine.

No one likes to be at an impasse. But the first step in the direction of getting us out of this undesirable place is counterintuitive, and that is to accept it; indeed, to make friends with it, to learn to see this time of tension as a channel of grace. This means, of course, laying aside any expectation of persuading "them" to accept "our" correct point of view. Reappraisers tend to assume that time and momentum are on their side, and that if they're just patient, reasserters will quit reasserting what is demonstrably false and "come around" in due course. This attitude is, as a British diplomat might say, "unhelpful." But so any corresponding expectation among reasserters that any honest and thorough appraisal of scriptural and theological evidence can only lead to a conclusion that affirms the traditional understanding of sexual morality, and that we should therefore drop the question entirely. So I'm not suggesting that we should stop the converssation about sexuality; quite the opposite, we should keep talking. But "progress in negotiations" should not be an implicit condition for continued sacramental and ecclesial communion.

Thinking at the same time more tactically and more spiritually (ascetically?), I’m increasingly aware of our need to cultivate the habit of mutual generosity. This means, among other things, bending over backwards to give one another the benefit of the doubt as to motives and intentions, to resolve to jump to the best possible conclusion about another’s words and actions, rather than the worst. It means forgiving our brother or sister, not seven times, but, per Jesus, seventy times seven. It means learning to ask ourselves what in our “opponent’s” position we can learn from? How are they are gift to the whole? How are we all richer and more blessed because they and their views are among us? How are we challenged and called to stretch?

The key to this attitude of generosity is that it is indeed mutual—reciprocal, working both ways. It can’t just be something that we expect “them” to do. Times of conflict can turn into great opportunities for growth—indeed, times of blessing—if we can abandon a Win-Lose mentality. For what it’s worth, I am persuaded that, generations from now, neither “side” in the present conflict over sexuality will be proven “right.” Rather, I suspect that both sides will have been shown to be wrong. What our descendants will recognize as “right” will probably be something we are not now imagining. If we are who we say we are as the Church of Jesus Christ, and if the Gospel is what we believe it to be, we will persevere in humble generosity in anticipation of that day.

If I Were a Software Engineer

Twenty years ago I was still getting settled into my new digs as curate and school chaplain at St Luke's, Baton Rouge. I had a computer at home, the one that had gotten me through seminary. (It was an original IMB PC, with dual 5.25" floppy drives. WordPerfect was the only software I ever ran.) If I needed to use a computer while on church premises, I had to make nice with the office staff and use one of theirs when they were away for something. My personal organizational tools consisted of a Rolodex, a pocket liturgical calendar, a small desk calendar (I "synced" the two manually), and a pad of sheets labeled "Dumb things I gotta do," or some such. The internet was still at least five years away from being on the common persons's horizon.

Some four years later, by then in my second cure, a small parish across town from St Luke's, I stepped up to the Franklin Planner, a marvelously integrated personal management system contained in one very solemn-looking ("Monarch" size) black leather seven-ring binder. Carrying that thing around (and feeling like I would need to open a vein should I ever lose it), I impressed even myself.

That held me for about the next eight years, but I eventually went paperless, all of a sudden, in 2001, with the purchase of my first laptop, which, when asked nicely, talked to my Palm Pilot PDA. And I have never looked back. As much as I loved my Franklin Planner, moving beyond it was a good decision for me.

So that's how I became addicted to Microsoft Outlook. It came automatically loaded on my Dell Inspiron laptop (running Windows 2000). For a while I used Franklin's (by that time Franklin Covey) proprietary software, but soon acquired F-C's Plan Plus for Outlook, an add-on that brings a more robust functionality to the process of task planning. (It does other things as well, but that's pretty much what I wanted it for.) This arrangement served me quite well for a number of years, and despite occasional techno-glitches with a succession of devices that succeeded the Palm Pilot, I was relatively techno-happy.

Then, two years ago, I moved to my present venue, where they had (and indeed still have) a fancy arrangement known as a Microsoft Exchange Server. Danger, Will Robinson: Unless you're part of a large organization that has an in-house IT staff, don't ever get a Microsoft Exchange Server. It's like the Borg: It will assimilate you. Resistance is futile. Outlook suddenly stopped playing nice with PlanPlus, even though I purchased and installed a series of upgrades, thinking, "Maybe they've finally worked out the bugs." Data would evaporate from my hard drive, only to turn up later somewhere on the server--or not, sometimes. Syncing became a nightmare of caprice, never working the same way twice. I almost bought a Mac--that's how bad it got!

Now, I am pleased to say, I am a recovering Outlook addict, with nearly two months of Outlook sobriety behind me. It's getting easier every day. Naturally, you are intensely curious as to how I actually have a life without Microsoft Outlook (and, for that matter, Microsoft Exchange). Well, here's how:

I've gone to Google Calendar for my calendar needs. In fact, the whole office has. Nobody uses Outlook. It's easy, it's free, and it does the job. Plus, I can access it on any computer in the world with an internet connection.

I made friends with Gmail's user interface. I've had a Gmail account for quite some time, but always found their interface a little off-putting, preferring to download my messages into client software ... like Outlook. (I had a brief flirtation with Thunderbird, but the Borg sucked me back in.) But a little tenacity has paid off, and Gmail's highly functional (and always improving) interface has won me over. I now prefer it to any client software that I've seen.

I exported my Outlook contacts into Gmail's contacts. Very easily done, and all my contact information is a click away from my inbox.

For task management, I signed up for a Nozbe account. It costs me $14/month, but I could chop that by 75% with a two-year commitment, and I expect I will do so very soon. Nozbe is based on the Getting Things Done method of task management. I should probably actually read the book, but a series of very helpful training videos takes the pressure off needing to do so. Nozbe has an iGoogle version that I have conveniently embedded on my iGoogle home page (which I use on the desktop computer at home).

I signed up for an account (free) with Evernote, and downloaded their desktop software. Evernote replaces the Notes function in Outlook, but is a great deal more robust in its features. I have only yet begun to explore its capabilities, and expect to be using it much more than I even am at present.

I bought an iPhone. Best technological decision I have ever made. It has been a quantum leap in the experience of personal management. I used to dread the thought of receiving email on my phone, since I have a difficult time managing one inbox, let alone two. But the syncing is seamless and in real time. When I "manage" my inbox in one place, it's taken care of in the other. The same goes, of course, for contacts and calendar. Nozbe and Evernote both have iPhone apps, so I'm able to capture ideas and tasks right when they come to me, literally anyplace except the shower (which is still a problem, since a lot of ideas come to me in the shower!).

So what do I miss about Outlook? Three things, really:

1) Outlook is pretty. The Office 2007 version, running on Vista, is really quite visually attractive. Google, for all its imaginative functionality, still hasn't come up with anything quite so aestheticallyt appealing.

2) Outlook's calendar features are almost infinitely flexible and adaptable. I miss being able to schedule a repeating task or event in virtually any way I can imagine, and being able to color-code different categories of events. I hope both Google and Nozbe begin to catch up in these areas.

3) Outlook is integrated. I admit, that appeals to me perhaps more in concept than in actual execution, but it's something I miss.

So ... if I were a software engineer, I would be going after the Holy Grail of personal management: An integrated one-stop application that is stunningly beautiful, feature-rich and customizable, with seamless syncing between its resident app, its web-based mirror, and its iPhone app--the best of all possible worlds. OK, all you wonks, get to work!

Detestable Enormities?

In this era of Anglican fissiparation--something really quite unprecedented since Henry VIII's Act of Supremacy in 1534--the temptation to articulate some sort of Anglican taxonomy is almost irresistable. Communion Conservatives, Federal Conservatives, Institutional Liberals, Ideological Liberals, WWAC, ACNA, AMiA, CANA, TAC, CP--no wonder the secular media are so confused. We need a scorecard by which to tell the players.

Of course, it is tempting to wax nostalgic about a simpler era when all we had to keep track of was High & Crazy, Low & Lazy, and Broad & Hazy. There were some fuzzy borders between these three Anglican world views, and a fair amount of breadth within them, but there seemed to be certain assumptions and pre-suppositions about each that we could take as axiomatic.

When I embraced Anglicanism (and the Episcopal Church) some 35 years ago, I entered, so to speak, through the High & Crazy door. This no doubt affected my ecumenical outlook, particularly in the direction of Rome and the Eastern Rite churches. They were our "Catholic cousins"--you know, the old "branch theory" ecclesiology from the halcyon years of Victorian Anglo-Catholicism. The Church of Rome was our Mother. The Reformation may have been necesssary, but it was a necessary evil. Any schism is evil. And in England, of course, it was as much (or more) a political event as a religious one. Since the Catholic Revival of the 19th century, and in the light of Vatican II, there is more and more convergence between Anglicanism and Rome, and with a little more patient endurance, we can look forward to organic reconciliation.

So went the narrative, at any rate. Sadly, it appears to have been a high water mark in ecumenical relations that will probably not be equalled in my lifetime. As I monitor cyber-traffic, in fact (which I do a fair amount of, though I know there are those who process much more), I am disturbed to notice a resurgence of anti-Roman polemic among some Episcopalians. It doesn't come from the traditional source, however, which would be the Low & Lazy contingent (i.e. Evangelicals). No, this time it emanates from our Broad & Hazy friends (aka "progressives").

Most recently, Episcopalian anti-Roman bile seems to be in reaction to reports like this one, which calls attention to the subtle but unmistakable Romeward ecumenical gestures that are present in the Archbishop of Canterbury's post-General Convention reflections. I can't help but notice the irony in listening to Episcopalian liberals wrap themselves in the rhetoric of the Reformation as they protest (thus making them, generically, "protestants") what they perceive as Archbishop Rowan's inappropriate fawning toward the Holy See. Invariably, it isn't long before they bring up the sexual abuse scandals that have made headlines over the last decade, as if that anomalous dysfunction can negate everything else that the Roman Catholic Church is and stands for. One expects the next General Convention to entertain a resolution that the petition "From the Bishop of Rome and all his detestable enormities, Good Lord deliver us" be restored to the Great Litany!

Balderdash.

I have often said that I am a Christian by call, a Catholic by conviction, an Anglican by preference, and an Episcopalian for the sake of expediency. That is to say, in terms of the subject at hand, that I choose to be an Anglican because I believe myself to have, if there is such a thing, an "Anglican soul." The temperament, the ethos, the spiritual tradition of Anglicanism seems to me to have the best prospect, over time, of making me holy and fitting me for Heaven. And since I am "Anglican by preference," I can't actually be some other kind of Christian, including a Roman Catholic Christian.

But I have nothing against Roman Catholicism. I do not believe it to be a false religion, something to be eschewed or avoided. I hold that Church in the highest regard, and am a huge admirer of the present Pope and his predecessor. I have not exhaustively read the Catechism of the Catholic Church, but I cannot imagine that there is anything of substance in it that I could not wrap my mind and heart around if it were necessary for me to do so. Although I don't expect to see it happen, nothing would give me greater joy than to be part of some body of canonical (that is to say, Canterburian) Anglicans that is sacramentally reconciled with the Holy See before I die.

Moreover, I would contend that my own position is not on the margins of Anglican thought, practice, and ecclesiology, but, rather, squarely in the mainstream. The kind of Rome-bashing that is going on in some quarters of the Episcopal Church is inherently un-Anglican in character, and not worthy of those who purvey it. Beyond making awfully strange bedfellows of American TEC liberals and Sydney-style evangelicals, it's just a smokescreen for the trenchant refusal of the General Convention majority to understand autonomy as having meaning only in the context of accountability-in-communion. It's much too Catholic a notion for them.

The Political Challenge of Catholic Anglicanism

On the Sunday evening that fell during General Convention, it was my privilege to serve as a panelist in a roundtable discussion sponsored by The Living Church. The subject was The Promise of Catholic Anglicanism. What follows is not a transcript of what I said on that occasion, but a fleshed out version of the notes from which I spoke.

I’ve been asked to bring some remarks on the theme of this event—The Promise of Catholic Anglicanism—by putting it in a very specific context—the context of politics. I should say that my wife regularly scolds me for using any form of the word “politics” in a churchly context, for idealistic reasons I would suspect are fairly obvious. But she’s not here, so I am at some liberty if you all promise not to tell!

Here we are, at a convention, an organism given shape—indeed, given life—by Rules of Order, resolutions, caucuses, shifting alliances between interest groups and their proxies, and, of course, votes. General Convention is an inescapably political animal, a manifestation of the polis—the laos—assembled and purpose-driven, with everything that the word implies: appealing, unsavory, or indifferent. When I was on a tour of the Holy Land earlier this year, our Israeli tour guide reminded us that “politics” (along with “police”) comes from the same Greek stem as “polite.” So I can affirm that the most robust political activity within the church can—and indeed must—be unfailingly polite.

It may help give my comments some perspective if I allow myself to be briefly autobiographical. I embraced the Episcopal Church some 35 years ago specifically to become an Anglican, and I embraced Anglicanism specifically in order to become a Catholic, and I embraced Catholicism specifically in order to find rest—intellectually and spiritually—in the glorious given-ness of the Christian revelation. You see, I was raised in a Christian tradition where I was expected to develop “my” theology of this or that, or whatever. I attended a Christian college that, in many ways reinforced this notion. I can remember an exchange of letters with a church friend from high school days in which the subject of eucharistic theology came up, and he wrote, “I just haven’t worked out my theology of Communion yet.” Well, neither had I. And while that remark—and the fact that I found it perfectly plausible—strikes me as strange now, it didn’t then. Indeed, sometimes it felt like I would need to write my own Summa before I could give a coherent account my faith to a stranger on a bus.

What I didn’t realize when I was in college is that “given-ness” is a deeply Catholic notion. The content of the faith is not what “I” conclude based on my painstaking research and spiritual discernment, but we “we” have been given. The phrase “faith once delivered” may be overworked and abused, but it makes the needful point. And the “we” that has been “given” the faith is ultimately something much larger than the Episcopal Church and much larger than the worldwide Anglican Communion. It is something kata holos—“according to the entirety”, i.e. Catholic.

The opposite of “Catholic,” then, is not “Protestant” or “Evangelical”, but anything that is not “of the whole” or “of the entirety”—that is, anything that is merely “sectarian” or “denominational.” I know we’re about to adopt a “denominational health plan” at this convention, but I get very nervous when that term is used of the Episcopal Church, because it denotes something fundamentally un-Catholic, and it would be tragic for us to think of ourselves in such terms.

So the urgent political task (I might suggest) of Catholic Anglicanism is to resist those forces that narrow and constrain the focus of our ecclesial sense of identity, in which the “we” to which we are accountable becomes nothing larger than … this convention! This raises some quite highly-charged questions—political questions. For instance, it raises the question whether the Episcopal Church is a unitary organism or a voluntary confederation of dioceses. Unfortunately, the secular courts are being forced into deciding this question for us, but regardless of what they decide, the theological issue remains on the table. It raises the question of what the preamble to our constitution, wherein our identity as a church is constitutionally linked to something larger, actually means. And it raises the question of the evolving character of the relations between provinces of the worldwide Anglican Communion, and the emerging Covenant document that has been on all our minds.

This is a daunting political agenda, because the center-of-gravity in our common mindset has already slid, I’m afraid, quite far in the direction of sectarian denominationalism. We see a grasping at autonomy and the denial of any accountability beyond the concurred actions of the two houses of this convention. We see a tendency to evade accountability through appeals to “our polity”, with the subtext that our polity is not only “ours,” but inherently superior to that of our sister churches. We see an almost obsessive attachment to certain aspects of our baptismal liturgy in such a way that not only rips them out of context in reference to the rest of our own Prayer Book, but also in reference to the Catholic tradition to which we owe our identity. And this, in turn, leads to an idiosyncratic notion of “baptismal ecclesiology” that is cultured in isolation from the larger tradition, and therefore grows more sectarian and denominational (and therefore less Catholic) with every iteration.

I suspect I’ve now already stirred up enough angry hornets, so I’ll quit!

An Age of Irony

It's six days now since returning to green Indiana after three-and-a-half weeks on the mostly brown west coast. The fact that I am back to blogging means that I have pretty much resurfaced; the infrastructure of my life (I am a creature of routine if there ever was one) is back up and running. At a macro level, I am immeasurably blessed and grateful; I love my life. At a micro level, things are ... well ... interesting.

One of the tidbits of reality that was impressed on me at the recent General Convention of the Episcopal Church is how many lives my "ministry of the word" touches--whether at this venue, or over on Covenant, or on the General Convention listserv (the venerable, and often toxic, "HoB/D"). The number of people who sought me out to thank me for what I do in cyberspace was both surprising and amazing.

My day job, of course, is as a parish priest; I'm rector of an extraordinarily well-resourced (in every way) congregation in small-town middle America. For the most part, my day-to-day pastoral and administrative duties don't intersect much with my life in cyberspace, which, for better or worse, is dominated by the conflicted state of ecclesiastical politics in the Anglican world. In fact, I probably tilt in the direction of shielding my flock from the unsavoriness of church politics and the issues that drive it. The everyday joys and sorrows that I share with my parishioners are, in a sense, much more "real" than the subtleties of the Windsor Process, the balance between the Instruments of Unity, and the tortuous legislative machinations of General Convention.

At times, however--and this is one of them--the planets are aligned such that my worlds collide. And I am thereby learning a great deal about the embedded ironies in our church-political and pastoral landscapes.

All during convention--during my short-lived and ill-fated candidacy for Executive Council, and again as it became clear that I would be, very visibly and vocally, on the losing side of the two major controversial votes--a steady stream of people from the "majority party" approached me and, with great sincerity which I have no doubt was genuine, assured me of their personal esteem for me, that they are grateful for my presence in the Episcopal Church, and that my (minority) voice is one that they value, and that needs to continue to be heard. One evening, after a two-martini dinner rendered my demeanor a trifle less guarded than is my wont, I responded to the effect that, "Yes, I would love to be your token conservative." (That was the evening of the day that C056, the second hammer-blow, was concurred by the House of Deputies.)

But before I got too deep into the pity party, a friend reminded me of the larger perspective--namely, that what is the undisputed minority view on matters of sexual ethics within the Episcopal Church is manifestly the majority view in the larger Anglican Communion, to say nothing of the wider Christian world. So I immediately began to turn the tables on my "progressive" friends, wasting no opportunity to remind them how glad I am I that they're part of the Anglican Communion, how important it is that the majority hear their voice, and how much I hope "we" can find a way for "them" to remain with "us." I got to be magnanimous in victory, and discovered that it felt a whole lot better than being gracious in defeat.

Then (after a vacation interval) I came home. I came home to a parish community that includes the full range of views on contrverted questions--both reactive and reflective, in both directions. This was the case long before my arrival on the scene two years ago, and, from the moment I met them, I have always been impressed by these people for the very reason that the first Christians impressed the pagan world around them: "See how they love one another." Some of the strongest friendships in the parish are across the Great Divide. Somehow we have heretofore managed to live our lives and do ministry and look beyond the divisive issues. It isn't like we've had zero casualties. We've taken some hits, losing a handful of households off our right flank and probably losing the same number off our left flank by simply never gaining them in the first place. But, I am grateful to say, there has been a core that is committed to maintaining unity in the midst of diversity.

That committed core is being put to the test in the wake of the Anaheim convention, and I am veritably bathing in irony as I attempt to shepherd them through it. Some (at least) of my "progressives" (some quite key people in the life of the parish) are on the "winning" side of General Convention, but, I suspect (still haven't debriefed them completely), are feeling deprived of savoring their victory because both their rector and their bishop opposed the big decisions of the convention, and there is no foreseeable prospect of any same-sex unions being publicly recognized and blessed either in the parish or the diocese.

And the irony is this: I find words on the tip of my tongue that are effectively the same as the affirmations my "progressive" friends sent my direction in Anaheim, which, while authentic, I found distinctly off-putting. I see parishioners who are "winners" when TEC is the universe under consideration, but "losers" when that universe is the diocese or parish or worldwide communion, and I (as a local and communion-wide "winner" but provincial "loser") want to tell them how much I value them and their contribution to our mission and ministry (which I do from the bottom of my heart), but I grope and struggle for a way to say as much that doesn't just sound patronizing, because I know all too well what it feels like to hear those words from a position of powerlessness, to feel profoundly victimized.

I am also challenged by the rather more numerous conservative "wing" of my congregation. Part of my response, I think, is to make them aware of the levels of irony that are in play. In the near term, they can take some relief that they have a sympathetic rector and bishop. But they're smart enough to realize that rectors and bishops come and go, so there's only limited comfort I can offer. I also need to gently lead them away from their most reptilian instincts, and help them affirm that we will be a community that welcomes everyone to participate fully in our life together, even as we respect appropriate boundaries on those things to which we will presume to invoke God's blessing.

If, a couple of generations from now, when the remains of the Baby Boomers are inhabiting columbaria across the land, in God's mercy these present wars have become the proverbial "thing of the past," one "take away" I hope our descendants might enjoy is some skill in dealing with their own experience of irony, from whencever it might arise. Knowing how to behave in both victory and defeat, especially when they come at the same time, does not exactly come naturally. I hope somebody profits from our experience.