Will You Walk Away?

Late this afternoon as I was browsing some blogs, I found this post on Brian’s site, which led me to this article and discussion on titusonenine . After reading 44 responses, I felt moved to respond. This is not something I do frequently on titusonenine. While discussions there tend to reflect more thought and reflection and listening than most sites coming from the “reasserter” or “traditional” side of Anglican arguments, it is only the best of a bad lot. Rather than add to the fire, and open myself to those responses, I tend to simply click away, with an intellectual shake of the head. However, today I responded. My response is as follows.


So much of this saddens me. How shall we imagine finding common ground if we cannot even find “shared space?”

I grew up in a culture where the most common standard for Biblical interpretation was “literally true, verbally inspired, inerrant and infallible.” Now, that goes quite a way beyond “containing all things necessary to salvation.” In that light, it is not simply my opportunity, it is my responsibility to live with Scripture to discern what is necessary to salvation, and what is not.

Will you walk away from me because of how I understand Scripture? Certainly, I have reappraised some parts of Scripture. I do not hesitate to wear shirts of a blended fabric. And I am part of a long tradition of reappraisal in big things and little. I am reasonably certain I have ancestors who plowed their fields with mules. I am reasonably certain I have ancestors who owned slaves. I believe God created (and continues to create), but I don’t believe it happened in six 24-hour days. I am heir to the saints who reappraised the prophecies of the Old Covenant and recognized in them the things pertaining to Christ. I have been doing this all along, making no pretence. Will you walk away from me now?

I say with conviction the Nicene and Apostles Creeds. I affirm the Baptismal Covenant, and seek to live it out to the best of my ability. I believe in and preach the full divinity and full humanity of Christ, and believe that he is still living and present, in the Spirit, in and through the Church, and in the Sacraments. Will you walk away from me, claiming that this issue, this understanding of these portions of Scripture, negate all of that?

Again, how can we speak of common ground when we cannot imagine shared space? I have been with you on the path all this time, claiming and proclaiming the faith, and appraising and reappraising in light of Christ the word as received in Scripture. I have not changed. Will you walk away from me now, and then blame it on me?

I don’t know whether this will bring a direct response. It has not as of the time of this posting, but only time will tell. And as for the possibilities that we might reconcile, that we might still “walk together:” well, only time will tell about that, too.

ADDENDUM: I have received a comment from Kendall of titusonenine that confronted me and called for clarification of the phrase, "best of a bad lot." I have responded to him directly by email, but in the interest of clarity have included it as a further comment to this post.

Hope for the Future

Of late I have found myself looking through Episcopal blogs for those who are in seminary. I have also found two Episcopalians going through or interested in CPE. I find myself looking at those and wanting to say something – something intelligent, something supportive, something.

This reflects to some extent a natural pomposity that was a part of my predisposition for priesthood. At the same time, it also represents hope for the future of the Church generally and of the Episcopal Church in particular. I am hopeful for the future of the Episcopal Church, even in these tumultuous times; and the voices I’m hearing, or at least the thoughts I’m reading on those blogs is, by and large, encouraging to me.

And, so, it also represents a desire to help. I’m sure my prayers for blessing are well received. I hope my thoughts and suggestions are also well received.

Part of this is my conviction that it is the responsibility of the Church to help people find their vocation as early as possible. For those who might feel a vocation to orders I think this is especially important. And once we have discerned as a Church a vocation, whether to orders or to another ministry, we have the responsibility to support those persons in growing into wholeness in those ministries. We baptize infants and are called to take responsibility with parents in raising them to wholeness in the faith. We are called in the same way to help those discerning their ministries to grow.

This has not been my experience of every professional path. Some seem to believe the strongest candidates are identified and nurtured through conflict and competition. Frankly, I find this decidedly un-Christian. But worse I find it largely a failure. Focusing on the best and the brightest, and believing in winnowing out not only those truly inadequate but also those who are adequate but not spectacular, creates a very narrow sense of how professions are lived out, and how different people may be served. As in a healthy ecosystem, it is the diversity that will best serve us, and not monoculture, however efficient.

I think it important that we seek for all persons to succeed. That means helping those who might not fit some narrow definition of “the best and the brightest” see success in discovering the broader, sometimes other, avenues to which God is calling them. It is not a question of whether they have vocations; God calls to all of us. It is a question of how each of us can help each of them hear God’s call more clearly and respond more effectively.

I’m not about to retire, but I’m already planning (my wife and CFO will not let me fail). Sooner or later – and at this point in my career it’s sooner – I will turn the Church over to others, even in the small extent that I am part of running things today. I find reason to hope in where I see the Episcopal Church going in the blog thoughts of my younger Episcopal colleagues.

On the Mountaintop

The patient’s anxiety was clear, and the patient’s question to me was one I had heard before – one I had cried out before myself. “I believe. I have so much faith. But, how do I know? I want to feel God with me. How do I know?”

Peter, James and John went with Jesus to the mountaintop, “apart, by themselves.” There they saw Jesus, not as they knew him, but “transfigured…his clothes… dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” And, he was not alone. There were Elijah and Moses, those shapers of Jewish history and identity, with him, caught up in conversation. Poor Peter, thinking apparently that he must do something, even if it’s wrong, had a suggestion: “Let’s give everybody someplace to sit, to stop and talk for a while.” And then there was that Voice – a voice so distinct it could only be portrayed with a capital “V” – saying, “This is my beloved Son; pay attention!” And then it was over, and there stood Jesus once again, as they had known him before – sort of.

Somehow, when we want to know God is with us, we look for something overwhelming, something spectacular. We seek that blinding light, that overwhelming Voice. Even if we expect to hear God’s voice in the deafening silence, we want the comfort of the roaring wind, the rolling earthquake, the raging fire. We will trust that the voice in the stillness is God because we have heard the tread of his heavy footsteps coming our way. And if we don’t hear those footsteps in wind and quake and fire, we doubt ourselves, our faith, our worth to God. “I want to feel God with me. How do I know?”

What is interesting to me is that on the Mount of the Transfiguration it is not the light that moves the apostles. Peter does not bask in the light or praise its brightness. Instead, he responds to the men who stand there: to Moses and Elijah, and to Jesus, now shown clearly to be their colleague. He wants to honor them, to care for them. But he doesn’t really stop to think what it means that they are there. And it’s only after he tries to stop time and freeze the moment that he hears the Voice, that Voice that fills his senses with the words, “This is my Son. Now do you get it?”

You see, throughout the history of the people of God, time and time again God comes in a person. The message of God comes to us through a messenger. Jesus gave us a hint of this when he said, “This generation will only get the sign of Jonah!” He didn’t mean the sign that Jonah received. He meant the sign that Jonah was. So it was that the three did not see Jesus with cherubim or seraphim, or with a pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire, but with Moses and Elijah: two who had brought the message before, now standing with him who would bring the message in fullness. God had not simply spoken from the sky. God had spoken to us through people. And now he would not only speak to us through a prophet; he would be with us in his Son.

We of all the peoples of the earth, we Jesus people, we should know this. We call ourselves the Body of Christ, and reflect on our vocations: are we an eye to see, an ear to hear? We celebrate that each of the members of the Body has a function. But precisely because we have a function, a vocation to express the ministry of Christ, we also realize that we are in a concrete sense the continuing presence of Christ in the world. When we live out our vocations in concrete ways, we are the tangible presence of Christ, reflecting powerfully God’s love in Christ for all those we touch,

And that was my answer to the patient: God does not come to us simply in the voice in our hearts. God comes to us in the voices in our ears and in the hands on our shoulders. If we can be a tangible part of the Body of Christ for others, surely others can make the Body of Christ tangible for us. “God has come to us in a perso'" I said. "And that’s how God comes to us still. When you know people love you, care for you, act in your best interest – not always what you want, but always in your best interest – perhaps you can know that God is with you in them.” And with that I looked at the friend at the bedside, the friend who said, “Whatever you decide I will be here with you.” And the patient’s eyes widened, as if seeing in a new light.

On Throwing Rocks

All right, I'm going to come clean: I'm a fan of curling. It's the one sport I've been following faithfully during the Winter Olympics. I have forgone skiing and snowboarding events, and even Men's and Pairs skating to watch people slide round rocks down a long sheet of ice toward a large, round target.

I started watching years ago. I was living in Detroit and watching a lot of Canadian television. I discovered this apparently obscure sport by accident. At first I was confused, and then intrigued: and eventually I was hooked. Here was a game not dependent on brute strength or raw endurance. It was a game of skill and precision, and a good deal of physics. Sure, it took some physical skill. The stones weighed 22 pounds; and it had to take some grace to throw that rock just right while sliding, balanced on one foot, or to keep one's feet while sweeping the ice ahead of the rock. But it wasn't determined by the most perfect or most durable physical specimen.

Which also had another charm: this was a game played by folks like me. These were real people, apparently ordinary people in comfortable clothes. And they weren't all kids. (The oldest Olympian this winter is a curler who's approximately my age.) Sure, they're doing things I couldn't do. They were sliding heavy, round stones down 94 feet of ice, controlling the speed and direction, frequently knocking other stones out of the way, and still coming to a stop within inches of the intended target. But they weren't so different from me as to do things I couldn't imagine doing. It was almost as if curling were the winter sports’ embodiment of the old saying that “age and cunning will beat youth and strength every time.”

So, that's how I got hooked on curling. That's why I've been getting up early in the morning and missing supper. It's why I've been searching the cable channels owned by NBC (sure, I know it's not going to shine on prime time, but they don't have to move it from one day to the next). I suppose it’s just another one of my idiosyncrasies – one of many – an indulgence to be savored every four years. Be that as it may, I am certainly enjoying it now.

I also see some parallels between curling and life; but that will be the topic of another day.

On the Cost of Believing in Reconciliation

I have been reading the Thinking Anglicans web site. Sometimes it makes me sad, but it’s the best discussion site on the current troubles in the Anglican Communion with predominantly progressive participants; and even the traditionalist participants are, by and large, thoughtful and respectful. It is largely English in its perspective. I only wish there were an American site with the same level of participation.

So, today while I was reading about the debate within the Church of England regarding women bishops, I was struck by the sense from conservative voices that there was no possibility of reconciliation. This was particularly so in two articles linked from the discussion. However, the more I thought about the rhetoric I had been hearing, the more it seemed an accurate reflection of the what’s been said in so many places.

It seems to me that the reason is that for the extremists, shouted especially loudly by the traditionalist extremists, reconciliation is capitulation. That is, this is an either/or matter. There is no room for living together with the issue, because they see nowhere to live. I think it’s largely projection, but this is how I think they see it: 1. We are right, and the only truly right position is the one we espouse. 2. If anyone wants to be right, he has to take our position; and we would certainly enforce conformity. 3. We can only expect those we disagree with to expect to enforce conformity to their position; after all, it’s what we would do. 4. Therefore, either way, it’s all or nothing.

I caught this when I read the following comment in an article by a Church of England bishop, one who opposes women in the episcopate. In reflecting on proposed “Transferred Episcopal Arrangements,” he said, “But my real sadness is this. The rejection of any ‘separate’ provision, by Guildford and many others, as nigh on schism seems less to do with the heartbreak it would cause to either party (though it jolly well should) than the mostly unspoken but widely hoped for view that this is a temporary problem that needs a temporary solution.” (By “separate provision” he means a third province in England [parallel to Canterbury and York], or similar structural provision, that would totally exclude women as bishops, and probably as priests.)

Now, this is not a strident shout of, “Never, never, never. I shall hold my breath until I turn blue.” That is not the tone of the article. However, he captures something profound. TEA is intended, I think, as a temporary solution; just as Designated Episcopal Pastoral Oversight (DEPO) is explicitly intended as a temporary solution. Not to hold up these solutions as temporary is to reject the possibility of reconciliation. If we are to believe we might somehow be reconciled, not in the sense of capitulation but in the sense of finding common, shareable, if uncomfortable ground, then any solution we choose now must be temporary.

Suddenly today I have a new sense of what has been going on at Canterbury and at 815. I am among those who have wondered why neither ++Rowan nor ++Frank have come down more strongly in response to those who seem determined to tear apart the Communion, and several of its constituent national churches. The traditionalists have proclaimed, “Either we get our way or we tear the house down.” To respond with the same level of rhetoric is to reject any possibility of reconciliation. If we believe that ultimately we are called to live together, we must understand these circumstances as temporary, and continue to not only hope but work for reconciliation.

I’m not sure ++Rowan and ++Frank are correct in their decision. Reconciliation isn’t possible if we have no partner. But if we believe (and I do believe) we are called to seek reconciliation, even if we have to suffer for it (isn’t there something Biblical about that?), then we have to continue to see this situation as temporary. At the very least we cannot be the ones who make it permanent.