Engagement, Diversity and Distinctiveness:
Anglicanism in Contemporary Culture
Rev. Prof. Canon Martyn Percy
Principal, Cuddesdon College, Oxford
Introduction:
Let me, if I may, try and capture something of the issues we might face as a church and as a Communion in a single vignette that might begin to illustrate something of the nature of cultural shifts with which we are engaging. As I drove purposefully down the road on a wet, April evening in 2003, I was already slightly late (as usual) for picking up my son from Cubs. But there was no need to panic, I mused, since the ever-enthusiastic Cub leader normally overran the meetings by at least 10-15 minutes. Sure enough, I arrived at the entrance to the church hall to discover a group of parents waiting somewhat tardily for their offspring to come out.
But as I joined the small throng to show solidarity in patience, I realised I had walked into a reasonably terse discussion. Each parent was clutching a letter from Akela, which reminded parents and Cubs that Sunday was St.George’s Day, and that Cubs were expected (indeed, the letter stated that it was ‘compulsory’) to attend church parade. Smart kit and clean shoes were also recommended. The parents stood around, discussing the word ‘compulsory’. One looked bewildered, and cast around for empathy as he explained that his son played soccer on Sunday, so attendance was doubtful. Another mused that the family were all due to be away for the weekend, and that changing plans for a church parade was neither possible nor desirable. Another looked less than pleased that a ‘voluntary’ organisation such as the Cubs, which she added her son went to by choice, should now be using words like ‘compulsory’. There was no question of obligation; attendance and belonging was a matter of preference.
At the beginning of the 21st century, a small vignette such as this would not be untypical in Western Europe. In the post-war era, a nascent culture of obligation has rapidly given way to one of consumerism. Duty, and the desire to participate in aspects of civic society where steadfast obligatory support was once cherished, has been rapidly eroded by choice, individualism and reflexivity. Granted, this is not the place to debate such a cultural turn. But its’ undoubted appearance on the landscape of late modernity has posed some interesting questions for voluntary organisations, chief of which might be religious establishments. Increasingly, churches find themselves with worshippers who come less out of duty and more out of choice. There is, arguably, nothing wrong with that. But under these new cultural conditions, churches have discovered that they need to have much more savvy about how they shape and market themselves in the public sphere. There is no escaping the reality: the churches are in competition: for people’s time, energy, attention, money and commitment.
But it is that last word, ‘commitment’ that has become such a slippery term in recent times. Few regular or frequent church-goers now attend church twice on a Sunday, which was once normal practice. For most, once is enough. Many who do attend on a regular basis are now attending less frequently. Even allowing for holidays and other absences, even the most dedicated church-goer may only be present in church for 70% of the Sundays in any given year. Many clergy now remark on the decline in attendance at Days of Obligation (i.e., major saints days, or feast days such as the Ascension). The Committed, it seems, are also the busy. The response to this from amongst the more liturgical churches has been to subtly and quietly adapt their practice, whilst preserving the core tradition. For example, the celebration of Epiphany may now take place on the Sunday nearest to January 6th, and not on the day itself. A number of Roman Catholic churches now offer Sunday Mass on Saturday evenings, in order for Sunday to be left as a family day, or for whatever other commitments or consumerist choices that might now fall on the once hallowed day of rest. The phrase ‘our duty and our joy’ has been, arguably, replaced in our consciousness with ‘our choice, and at our pleasure - time permitting’.
In such a context, religion undoubtedly lives – but no longer as a metanarrative. It is, rather, one of the many ideologies and activities that compete for time and interest in an increasingly ephemeral public sphere. Under such conditions, churches and theology have at least three tasks. First, to be able to ‘higgle’ – the old English (agricultural) word that describes the process of continuing to affect things by degrees. Second, to be able to ‘thole’ – an old Irish word that describes the process of survival under adverse conditions (i.e., ‘tholing’ through bad times at work, or perhaps through a difficult relationship). Third, to be engaged in renewal. Now, renewal can be read in two senses here. Renewal can mean a process of recovery and restoration; but it can also mean replacement. Here I want to suggest that both senses are implied for the churches and theology today. The Christian tradition must face the present and the future with courage, but it cannot neglect its past. There is scope for exploring radical diversity; but this must be pursued with a heed to maintain continuity.
Put another way, we might say that Christianity has to pursue its engagement with the world through a combination of resistance and accommodation. In a quite fundamental and deep way, this is something that Jesus draws our attention to through his telling analogy, found in the gospels:
‘You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its strength, by what shall it be salted? It will be strong for nothing except to be cast away and trodden underfoot by men.’ (Matt. 5: 13)
In interpreting this text, a majority of bible commentators work with a false assumption, namely that the ‘salt’ in this text is the white granular chemical we know as sodium chloride, where its purpose is to add flavour to foods, or occasionally to act as a purifier or preservative. But the ‘salt’ that Jesus is referring to here is actually a salt-like material or mineral such as potash or phosphate. These halas elements were available in abundance in and around the Dead Sea area of Palestine, and were used for fertilising the land and enriching the manure pile, which was then spread on the land.
This way of understanding the halas of the metaphor changes the sense of the text significantly. The ‘salt’ is not to be kept apart from society, and neither is it to be used as a purifier or as an additive stabiliser. The ‘salt’ of Jesus’ metaphor is a mutating but coherent agent that is both distinct yet diffusive in its self-expenditure. As a result of individuals, communities, values, witness and presence - the halas - being literally dug into society, the earth or soil will benefit, and many forms of life can then flourish. There is a temporal dimension here: what must begin as distinct and powerful to be useful ends up being absorbed and lost. Of course, this reading of the metaphor makes sense of Jesus’ own self-understanding, which in turn is reflected in his parables, teachings and other activities. So, if the church or the disciples of Jesus are the salt of the earth, they will begin by being a distinct yet essential component within society, but who will ultimately fulfill their vocation through engaging self-expenditure. The power of salt is that it is pervasive, and nourishing – it expends itself by giving life to others.
About Being, Not Just Doing:
I realize that the salt metaphor in relation to culture might sound a little too passive, but let me press this a little further with a different but related analogy. I have recently been enjoying a new book called What Mothers Do, by Naomi Stadlen. Intriguingly, the book is subtitled: ‘especially when it looks like nothing’. What Mothers Do: Especially When it Looks Like Nothing? Her argument is beautifully simple. She says that contemporary culture is mesmerisingly gripped by formulae and recipes, which seldom correspond to the reality of the ingredients. So-called ‘Mother and Baby’ books are a good example: they offer step-by-step advice, which appears to be simple and effective. But, argues Stadlen, most of these kinds of books infantalise the mother. What happens if I have a baby that doesn’t do what the book says? Guilt, frustration and anger can quickly set in. Or try another book: but then, what happens if that also fails to mould the child in the image of the author? The ‘how to’ books, says Stadlen, reduce motherhood to a series of tasks, instead of concentrating on the relationship between mother and child. (Most mother and baby books are, by the way, written by men – about 75% of them). She argues that mothers rarely need to be told how to care; it is learned and developed in and through relationships, not through advice-lines and programmatic books.
The heart of the book suggests that mothers are always doing something with their offspring, and most especially when it looks like nothing. They are engaged with their child. They are relating. They are being with and being for the child. So the question ‘what have you done today’ – often asked of a young mother – needs no obvious reply, even though it often prompts guilt and embarrassment. To simply have been with the child is ample; to have discovered a song or a sound that comforts him; or something visual that simply amuses and stimulates her. This is enough.
It seems to me that one of the most pressing problems that beset the church today is that it too is gripped by a culture of formulae. Many ecclesial recipe books have appeared in recent times: How to Grow your Church; How to Manage your Congregation; Mission Shaped Church; The Purpose-Driven Church; or Alpha Courses; and who can forget ‘the decade of evangelism’? Each of these initiatives is well-meaning, but also deeply in the thrall of the formulaic; but it can sometimes look like a kind of panacea for panickers. Clergy are easily seduced by such things. Many wince at Christmas when someone sidles up to them at a drinks party and says: ‘So Vicar, your busy time then’. Because the flip side of the question often asked of clergy is also implied by this remark: ‘what exactly do you do all day, Vicar?’
Clergy are often stumped for an answer. Communion in a residential home for five elderly people, a couple of visits, some paperwork, morning and evening prayer, one meeting, and perhaps a bit of time for thinking doesn’t sound like a very productive day. But here clergy are at one with mothers. They have been doing a lot: it just seems like nothing. They have deepened and kindled relationships. They have related to many people for whom dependency is a fact of life, concentrating deeply on being, not just doing. They have made somebody’s day, simply by dropping by, or by smiling.
In reflecting on this sense of achieving nothing, despite having expended a great deal of effort caring for the baby, Hannah Arendt’s discussion of the difference between labour and work is particularly helpful. In her Human Condition (1958) she describes labour as being driven by the necessity to sustain life. It is, by definition, repetitive; and its effort is consumed because it is not about producing things, but is directed towards maintaining life. Work, on the other hand, is driven by ideas and aims towards making things that are tangible and durable; the effort is put into the making of an end.
The work of mothering is labour. It is a repetitive cycle of effort driven by the desire and necessity of sustaining the life of the child. Our present culture is deeply committed to valuing work over labour, even when the ‘products’ of work are in fact made for our consumption. We speak (all too easily) of ‘working mothers’, and in so doing send a message that while a mother is engaged in full-time childcare, she is not, per se, ‘working’. We do not have the words to affirm the effort that goes into the being with and caring of, that is central to a baby’s wellbeing. As Stadlen says: ‘when they look at a mother sitting quietly with her baby, they cannot see much going on. It’s not most people’s idea of doing a mother’s work’ (p.83).
Similarly, and in the past when clergy had a certain status, there was rarely a need to justify what it was that a priest did beyond the provision of services. Yet in today’s climate, clergy can often feel a desire to produce some tangible sign of the effort they are putting in to ministry. This is particularly difficult for clergy who see a significant part of ministry being about building relationships, and being available to the needy. How do you quantify the value of visiting the housebound, or sitting in the toddler group and talking to new mums? How do you quantify time spent with the bereaved or the dying? Anecdotally, time spent is affirmed by assurance that one’s presence has been of inestimable help; but rarely is there anything tangible to show. Good pastorally-orientated clergy tend to be very busy, but the busyness doesn’t always look like ‘work’.
So formulas, like recipes, anticipate success: and churches are usually too tempted to worship both the rubric and the outcome. But unlike recipe books, courses and books that address the apparent malaise of the church forget that just every child is different, so is every congregation: a uniquely constituted set of ingredients. What works in one place probably won’t in another. So, the moral of this analogy is simple. Don’t impose formulae or strategies for growth on children or churches; and don’t try and cook up congregations or dioceses in the same way that you might try and cook up some food. Respect what has come naturally, and work with that. Even if that simply means just being, and apparently doing nothing: there is something to be said for having confidence in being, not just doing.
It would, of course, take some confidence to concentrate on being rather than doing, and yes, I know they can’t be easily divided: being is its own kind of doing, to be sure. But Stadlen’s cultural theory suggests to me, at least, that there is merit in focussing less on what we do and more on what we are actually about. And support for this idea comes from two unlikely sources: one a theologian (Karl Barth) and the other a sociologist (David Martin). Taking Barth first, he writes that:
The true growth which is the secret of the up-building of the community is not extensive but intensive; its vertical growth in height and depth..... It is not the case that its intensive increase necessarily involves an extensive. We cannot, therefore, strive for vertical renewal merely to produce greater horizontal extension and a wider audience.... If it [the Church and its mission] is used only as a means of extensive renewal, the internal will at once lose its meaning and power. It can be fulfilled only for its own sake, and then - unplanned and unarranged - it will bear its own fruits.
Here Barth is saying something very simple: true growth can only come through the quality of our relationship with God. And sometimes, in terms of extensive growth, that will appear to be fruitless. But this is precisely the point where we are called to contemplative persistence rather than pragmatism, and to question ourselves before we embark on a headlong rush into a search for new formulae or another strategy for our churches or diocese. Barth steers us away from this, quite rightly in my view, by reminding us that first and foremost we are to be for God, before we are busy for clarity, success and ambition for the kingdom.
In a similar vein, David Martin reminds us that the division between maintenance and mission is essentially a false one. As any Dean knows, a beautifully kept cathedral (or greater parish church) is, de facto, a sign of mission and a pointer to the kingdom. Active maintenance through gradual renewal is a form of mission, just as letting church buildings decline, collapse or simply appear shabby in the public sphere constitutes a very poor advert, suggesting that the church cannot take care of itself. Churches, in other words, can represent our being before God. Martin writes:
‘Not only are they [i.e. churches] markers and anchors, but also the only repositories of all-embracing meanings pointing beyond the immediate to the ultimate. They are the only institutions that deal in tears and concern themselves with the breaking points of human existence. They provide frames of reference and narratives and signs to live by and offer persistent points of reference’.
This, of course, raises some fascinating questions for us as a church. How are we to continue being ‘a persistent point of reference’? How do we adapt and survive as a Church or Communion? How are we to manage ourselves, and can we really afford to concentrate more on being and less on doing? Can we really risk a focus that looks more on our identity and less on our activity? How are we to engage with difference and disagreement? I don’t have all the answers to these questions, as you’d expect; but here are three modest proposals in the first instance.
First, it is probably the case that Anglicanism is easier to identify through persons rather than systems: examples of faith and polity rather than theories of it. In view of this, I’d be inclined to say that the practice of our faith is more of an art than a science, and most especially in relation to problem-solving. Here, the ‘management’ of the church within the context of the challenges of contemporary culture is much more like a ‘knack’ than a skill; organizing or shaping the church is about learned habits of wisdom more than it is about rules and theories (c.f., Donald Schon, 1983/1991).
Second, those charged with the ministry of oversight – in both sacred and secular spheres – often speak of intuition rather than extended calculation or analysis when dealing with ‘unique situations to which they must respond under conditions of stress and limited time’ (Schon, p.239). This ‘knack’ or ‘wisdom’ depends, as Polanyi might say, on ‘tacit knowing’, where over-seers seldom turn to theories or methods in managing situations, but instead realize that their own effectiveness depends on having learnt (and continuing to learn) through the ‘long and varied practice in the analysis of…problems, which builds up a generic, essentially un-analyzable capacity for problem-solving’. In other words, we learn by experience in the field,
Third, I’d suggest that the outcome of this has important implications for the collegiality of those engaged in the task of oversight. It is in sharing – quite deeply, I think, and at quite a personal level – how problems are addressed and resolved, and how individuals and organizations fare in this, and what reflections or analysis one may have about, that ‘tacit knowledge’ is built up – within relationships based on trust – such that the organization may then experience both stability and a degree of transcendence. What I think does not work, is the devolving of more power and authority to semi-detached ‘systems’ of governance or theories of leadership, no matter how worthy or novel. Granted, these may have their uses, but I would remind us that the Anglicanism remains stubbornly identifiable through persons not systems. Correspondingly, it is how we ‘hold’ issues, the character we exhibit under pressure, and how we continue to embody being the very best kinds of ‘reflective practitioner’ that may help the church most as it seeks to address the multiple complexities of being within contemporary culture. Put simply: I’d suggest we need a little more collegiality and the communion of shared wisdom; and perhaps a little less emphasis on science and formulae.
Anglican Distinctiveness and Cultural Diversity
With these comments in mind, let me say something about Anglican distinctiveness in the midst of cultural diversity. It would be quite possible here to talk at length about our explicit theological identity. But I prefer instead to address a few aspects of what I take to be our anthropological identity, which in turn suggests a nascent value-based implicit theological shape. It is said that Henry Scott Holland once stood on the hill at Garsington shortly before his death, and gazed over the valley to Cuddesdon College and parish church, where he had asked to be buried. He noticed a flock of starlings flying past, and remarked how like the Anglican Church they were. Nothing, it seemed, kept the flock together – and yet the birds moved as one, even though they were all apart and retained their individual identity. In an increasingly diverse and cosmopolitan world, of which the Anglican Communion is a part, birds of a feather still need to flock together, even though each creature is individual.
Holland’s observation allows us to develop another analogy here, centered on the identity of the species. The Anglicanism of the twenty-first century is recognisably different from that of the end of the nineteenth century. The flock, if you like, is no longer one type of bird. Evolution – through cultural and theological diversity – has meant that many Anglican provinces have evolved to ‘fit’ their contexts, and the ultimate diversity of the species clearly threatens its unity. But to extend the analogy just a little further, is it possible to still speak of a connecting DNA – some of the deep, core but hidden constituents of our identity which relate us, even though they may not be immediately apparent?
It was Jeremy Paxman who once quipped that the Church of England is the kind of body that believes that there was no issue that could not be eventually solved over a cup of tea in the Vicar’s study. This waspish compliment directed towards Anglican polity serves to remind us that many regard its ecclesial praxis as being quintessentially peaceable and polite, in which matters never really get to out of hand. For similar reasons, Robert Runcie once described Anglican polity as a matter of ‘passionate coolness’. In the past, and in my own reflections on Anglican polity, these are sentiments with which I have tended to concur:
‘In some of my conversations with Anglican theologians…I have been struck by how much of the coherence of Anglicanism depends on good manners. This sounds, at face value, like an extraordinarily elitist statement. It is clearly not meant to be that. What I mean by manners is learning to speak well, behave well, and be able to conduct yourself with integrity in the midst of an argument…It is often the case that in Anglicans’ disputes about doctrine, order or faith, it is actually the means that matter more than the ends…politeness, integrity, restraint, diplomacy, patience, a willingness to listen, and above all, not to be ill-mannered – these are the things that enable the Anglican Communion to cohere…’
In macro-theological disputes, such as those over the ordination of women, part of the strategy that enables unity can be centred on containing some of the more passionate voices in the debate. Extreme feelings, when voiced, can lead to extreme reactions. And extreme reactions, when allowed full vent, can make situations unstable. Nations fall apart; Communions fracture; families divide. Things said briefly in the heat of a moment can cause wounds that may take years to heal. What is uttered is not easily retracted. Good manners, then, is not a bad analogy for ‘ideal’ Anglican polity. In a church that sets out to accommodate many different peoples of every theological hue, there has to be a foundation – no matter how implicit – that enables the Communion to cohere across party lines, tribal borders and doctrinal differences. And just as this is true for macro-theological disputes, so is it also true for micro-ecclesial squabbles. Often, congregational unity in the midst of disputes can only be secured by finding a middle open way, in which the voices of moderation and tolerance occupy the central ground and enable a church to move forwards. This is something that the Windsor Report understands, and it is interesting to note how much attention the Report gives to the virtues of patience and restraint, whilst also acknowledging the place of passions and emotions in the sexuality debate. Clearly, there is a tension between these polarities (the polite-passionate axis), which is partly why the cultivation of ‘mannered-ness’ in ecclesial polity can be seen as being essential as it is beguiling.
This means, of course, continually listening to the experiences that lead to anger, and seeing them as far as possible from the perspective of those with less power. It means humility on the part of those who hold power, and an acknowledgment of the fear of losing power and control. It means a new way of looking at power relationships that takes the gospel seriously in their equalising and levelling. I am aware that this is one of the most demanding aspects of oversight, namely having the emotional intelligence, patience and empathy to hold feelings, anger, disappointment and frustration – other people’s, as well as your own. Episcopacy, it seems to me, is less about strategy and more about (deeply learnt) poise, especially in holding together competing convictions and trying to resolve deep conflicts.
But before conflicts can be resolved, they must first of all be held. And here we find another of the most demanding aspects of oversight within the context of considerable theological and cultural diversity. Because one of the tasks of the church is to soak up sharp and contested issues, in such a way as to limit and blunt the possibility of deep intra and inter-personal damage being caused, as well as further dislocation in people’s sense of faithful identity. Retaining composure, and somehow holding people together who would otherwise divide (due to the nature of their intense and competing convictions), is a stretching vocation. Anyone exercising a ministry of oversight will understand the costly nature of this vocation – a kind of servant leadership – that understands that much of Anglican polity is ‘open’ in its texture; and although it has a shape, is nonetheless unresolved and incomplete. Therefore, issues that cannot be determined often require being held; a deliberate postponement of resolution. Put another way, there is a tension between being an identifiable community with creeds and fundaments; and yet also being a body that recognises that some issues are essentially un-decidable in the church. Indeed, ‘Anglican un-decidability’ (a phrase coined by Stephen Pickard), may turn out to be one of the chief counter-cultural Anglican virtues; it is very far from being a problem, as some appear to believe.
The desire and need to sometimes reach settlements that do not achieve closure, is itself part of the deep ‘habit of wisdom’ that has helped to form Anglican polity down the centuries. It is embodied liturgically in the Book of Common Prayer, but can also be traced in pastoral, parish and synodical resolutions that cover a significant range of issues. Essentially, this ‘calling’ is about inhabiting the gap between vocation, ideals, praxis and action. No neutral or universally affirmed final settlements can be reached on a considerable number of issues within the church. But provisional settlements have to be reached that allow for the possibility of continuing openness, adjustment and innovation. Inevitably, therefore, any consensus is a slow and painful moment to arrive at, and even when achieved, will usually involve a degree of provisionality and more open-endedness. This is, of course, a typical Anglican habit, embodying a necessary humility and holiness in relation to matters of truth, but without losing sight of the fact that difficult decisions still need to be made.
In this respect, the scriptures are of course helpful and vital in guiding the church through this complex dimension of its polity. Decisions often involve an irrevocable commitment to the future, which in turn can require obedience rather than dissent. This, of course, places a further and heightened value on un-decidability, since this allows for the continuance of courtesy and hospitality, which is essential in a Communion that embodies so much diversity. Paula Nesbitt, in her reflections on the Lambeth Conference of 1998, shows how the Anglican Communion has been unable to avoid being gradually split: caught between increasing cultural diversity and the conflicts this produces on the one hand, and the need to provide coherence and identity on the other.
She notes how successive Lambeth conferences have moved sequentially from being grounded on traditional authority (i.e., the establishment of churches and provinces during the colonial era), to rational authority (which presupposes negotiation through representative constituencies for dominance over meeting outcomes), to (finally) negotiated authority (but which normally lacks the power to stem the momentum of change). She notes that these kinds of authority, when pursued through the four ‘instruments’ of unity in the Anglican Communion, are usually capable of resolving deep disputes. They enable complex inter-action and conversation, but they do not lead to clear and firm resolutions. Correspondingly, Nesbitt argues that a new, fourth authoritative form has emerged within the Anglican Communion, which has in some senses been present from the very beginning, and is now tied-up with the identity of scripture. She writes of this authority:
‘[it] could be used to countervail the relativism of cross-cultural alliances without affecting their strategic utility: symbolic authority. The symbol, as a locus of authority, has a tangible and timeless nature. Where the symbol is an authoritative part of the institutional milieu, either traditional or rational authority must acknowledge its legitimacy…scripture is [that] authoritative symbol…’.
Nesbitt points out that the symbolic authority of sacraments may create shared bonds and enhance communal cohesion, but they are normally unable to regulate or negotiate conflict. But in contrast,
‘Scripture, when canonized as complete or absolute, becomes symbolic of a particular era or set of teachings and beliefs. However, unlike sacraments, the use of scripture as symbolic authority can be constructed and constituted according to selecting those aspects or passages that address an issue at hand. Furthermore, scripture as symbolic authority can be objectified or absolutized, which transcends cultural boundaries in a way that other forms of authority can less easily do. The appeal of scriptural literalism provides an objectification of authority that is independent of the influence or control of dominant perspectives, social locations, and circumstances. As symbolic authority, it can be leveraged against cultural dominance as well as provide common ground for cross-cultural alliances…’.
In other words, with scripture raised almost to the level of apotheosis, a cross-cultural foundation for authority exists that can challenge the dominance of rational authority, which is normally associated with highly-educated elite groups from the West or First World. Scripture, given symbolic authority, becomes an important tool in the hands of Southern (non-elite) Christians who are seeking to counter-legitimate more Conservative perspectives.
As Nesbitt notes, ‘scriptural literalism as symbolic authority represents the easiest and most accessible form of counter-legitimation across educational or cross-cultural divides’. And as Lambeth Conferences, like the Anglican Communion itself, have become increasingly diverse in their cultural expression, symbolic authority has risen to the fore. So at present, and from one perspective, the only contender for being a focus of symbolic authority is the Bible, since cross-cultural negotiation only leads to sterile relativism. We should note that the only other alternative to the Bible – the Communion itself becoming or attaining the status of symbolic authority – has so far struggled to assert itself, mainly because the very resourcing of that requires a looser, more elastic view of truth-claims, and a necessary tolerance towards competing convictions.
This is a pity, because one of the chief virtues of living within a Communion is learning to be patient. Churches, each with their distinctive own intra-denominational familial identity, all have to learn how to negotiate the differences they find within themselves. For some churches in recent history, the discovery of such differences – perhaps on matters of authority, praxis or interpretation – has been too much to bear: lines have been drawn in the sand, with the sand itself serving only as a metaphor for the subsequent atomisation. Yet where some new churches, faced with internal disagreement, have quickly experienced fragmentation, most historic denominations have been reflexive enough to experience little more than a process of elastication: they have been stretched, but they have not broken. This is perhaps inevitable, when one considers the global nature of most mainstream historic denominations. Their very expanse will have involved a process of stretching (missiological, moral, conversational, hermeneutical, etc), and this in turn has led directly to their (often inchoate) sense of accommodation. However, this process itself has led to two very different versions of the Communion and its future.
The first sees Anglicanism in concrete terms. The polity will be governed by law, and scripture will be its ultimate arbiter. Here, Anglicanism will become a tightly-defined denomination in which intra-dependence is carefully policed. Diversity of belief, behaviour and practice will continue, but they will be subject to scrutiny and challenge. The second sees Anglicanism as a more reflexive polity; one that has a shape, but is able to stretch and accommodate considerable diversity. Here the polity will be governed by grace, not law, and the Communion itself will continue to operate as both a sign and instrument of unity. Anglicanism will continue to be a defined form of ecclesial polity, but one that tolerates and respects the differences it finds within itself.
Personally, I pray and hope for option two. But I also pray that I will not be divided from my sisters and brothers who favour the first option. I pray that in the midst of our common and diverse struggles, we will discover ourselves afresh in the learning church, within that community of peace we still know as the Anglican Communion. I believe that this may well stretch the Communion to its limits, and test its viability vigorously. But I believe the stretch will ultimately be worth it. For in reaching out just beyond ourselves, and moving outside our normal boundaries and comfort zones, God’s own hand is already waiting to clasp at our feeble groping.
Summary:
If part of the problem that Anglicans are currently facing – namely a searching examination of our ‘deep identity’ (manners, civility, tolerance, diversity, fluidity, etc) – is itself being tested to the limits by cultural and theological diversity, then what might we say about our identity and ministry by way of a brief conclusion? The synergy between salt and motherhood, to which I alluded earlier, might now be said to come into its own. Both of those metaphors invite us contemplate our future: how the process of attending to otherness is both necessary and enriching; that patient higgling and tholing is worth the effort; that the labour of being together might be worth more than the immediate and tangible fruits of clarity and certainty; and that what we offer and give to the world is costly and demanding; we nourish through our being and by our example.
Of course, both metaphors also suggest something else, namely that what is given in salting, fertilizing or in mothering cannot guarantee any kind of uniform outcome. The cost of being a disciple is to recognize that although we may sow, tend and water, it is God who gives the growth. And this growth is, at least in some ways, likely to be potentially problematic for any global denomination, because it invariably leads to difference and diversity. The Caribbean theologian Kortright Davis expresses this moment of epiphany simply enough:
‘Western theologians are [now] attempting to educate themselves about the new theological surges emanating from the Third World. They have finally realized that there is no universal theology; that theological norms arise out of the context in which one is called to live out one’s faith; that theology is therefore not culture free; that the foundations on which theological structures are built are actually not transferable from one context to another. Thus, although the Gospel remains the same from place to place, the means by which the Gospel is understood and articulated will differ considerably through circumstances no less valid and no less authentic…’ (1990, p. 70).
But to concretize this just a little more, let me offer three brief remarks. First, Anglicanism is something that is formed by worship, praying the scriptures and through an ecclesial practice that is, at one, local and catholic. A Communion is a complex body immersed in the complexity of the world, in which all seek to participate in God’s purposes for a wide range of reasons. Anglicanism is, then, a kind of practical and mystical idea that embodies how people might be together. It is not a confessional church in which membership is conditional upon precise agreement with articles or statements. In spite of the internal difficulties that global Anglicanism encounters, its strength may still lie in its apparent weaknesses: its unity in its diversity; its coherence in its difference; its shape in its diffusiveness; its hope in a degree of faithful doubt; its energy in passionate coolness. It embodies ‘feint conviction’; it practices ‘truthful duplicity’; it is Protestant and Catholic; it is synodical and Episcopal; it allows for ‘troubled commitment’; or, as one commentator notes (Urban Holmes), it can hardly ever resist the pairing of two three letter words: ‘Yes, but…’.
Second, maintaining unity in the midst of considerable cultural diversity will lie in developing our poise and capacity to hold together intensely held competing convictions. In the past, this rhetoric of ‘holding’ has been treated with jocularity or even cynicism by the church and the public (including the media); it has been a kind of code for saying that no decisions can or will be made, (or the bishop doesn’t like to make decisions, and prefers to sit on the fence). But increasingly, I think, the language and business of ‘holding’ will need to come to the fore, and this work and vocation is very far from being vapid or neutral. ‘Holding’ together intensely held competing convictions is, to my mind, one of the most demanding and costly tasks in episcopacy; a ministry of oversight that presides over conflicts of belief and interests. Under such conditions, the demand for a serious emotional and organizational intelligence (or wisdom) in dealing with passionately held beliefs is becoming increasingly vital.
Third, we may need to learn to celebrate the gift of our ‘un-decidability’ a little more. In being able to sustain a community of intense difference and competing convictions, we are actually offering a form of witness rather than a lack of unity. As the American theologian Urban Holmes notes, ‘I have never known two Episcopalians agree totally…[but] the fact that we can admit our disagreements is indicative of our Anglican freedom to acknowledge the polymorphous nature of all human knowing – something that not every Christian body is comfortable admitting’ (1982). Holmes realizes that Anglicanism, although a system of a kind, is more identifiable through persons than articles of faith. It models itself through examples of faith. It is a ‘mode of making sense of the experience of God – a particular approach to the social and sacred construction of reality, and to the building of the world’. Anglicans occasionally write great theology; but they are better known for poetry, hymnody, liturgy, music and spirituality. When we do get round to theology, we remain absorbed, interestingly, with the incarnation, ethics and ecclesiology: all of these being person-centred and systematic attempts to concretize our witness within the world.
In summary, we can say that it is partly for this reason that our deep desire for Anglican comprehensiveness is so manifest. It is not the case, I think, that Anglican consciousness is essentially accommodating – especially in its more vapid forms. It is, rather, that comprehensiveness prioritizes conversation and quest over precision and absolute resolutions; at its best, Anglicanism is a community of being, love, thought and worship, rather than being a definitive body that has achieved mutually agreeable confessional closure. In other words, we remain open because we see ourselves as incomplete; we are constantly caught between innovation and stability; the possibility of new patterns of being, and faithfulness to what has been revealed; between loyalty to what has gone before and still is, and what might or shall be.
Furthermore, the embodiment of this accommodation is, strangely, a person-centered ecclesial polity rather than being system-driven. This is hardly surprising when one considers the historic Anglican affection for the doctrine of the incarnation: salvation comes through embodiment, example, sacrifice and inclusiveness. Anglicans know – through their deep tacit knowledge and instinct, I think – that systems or formulae do not redeem us. Nor do they make our church. We re called, held and saved by a person, and our polity seems to know that our being together (even with our differences) is a primarily human and relational. This is why being together in some kind of ‘centre’, where we can face one another with our different perspectives, and be in a place of conversation, is so vital for our future polity.
And this now means, of course, that the centre ground is becoming the radical ground: ironic and oxymoronic, I know – but holding to some kind of centre is, to a large extent, evolving into a task and role which makes the hardest demands upon those charged with oversight. All the more so, because as those who work and study in the field of international conflict resolution remind us, the most difficult and demanding battles are those which involve our own allies or close relationships: what one scholar rather tamely terms ‘cooperative disputes’.
So, our future life together as Anglicans is probably dependent on appreciating those implicit charisms and virtues that have shaped us for so long, and beginning to make them more explicit. Of having confidence in our un-decidability and elasticity. And in holding the church together, and keeping it open, remembering that we are first and foremost, held by God in his open hands, who knows our weaknesses and differences only too well; but will still cling to us, and not let us go. As we try to hold our people and ourselves together, so shall we be held. Urban Holmes ends his meditation on Anglican polity, written twenty-five years ago, with these words:
‘…[our] course leads to living in the world as God sees the world. We can debate the trivial points, but the vision is largely clear. To love God is to relieve the burden of all who suffer. The rest is a question of tactics’ (1982).
Revd. Canon Professor Martyn Percy
Principal, Ripon College Cuddesdon, Oxford
Discussion: Anglicanism in Contemporary Culture
‘[Leadership]…means, of course, continually listening to the experiences that lead to anger, and seeing them as far as possible from the perspective of those with less power. It means humility on the part of those who hold power, and an acknowledgment of the fear of losing power and control. It means a new way of looking at power relationships that takes the gospel seriously in their equalising and levelling. I am aware that this is one of the most demanding aspects of oversight, namely having the emotional intelligence, patience and empathy to hold feelings, anger, disappointment and frustration – other people’s, as well as your own. Episcopacy, it seems to me, is less about strategy and more about (deeply learnt) poise, especially in holding together competing convictions and trying to resolve deep conflicts….’
‘…we may need to learn to celebrate the gift of our ‘un-decidability’ a little more. A number of commentators…have commented on how valuable a political and cultural model Anglicanism is for today’s society. In being able to sustain a community of intense difference and competing convictions, we are actually offering a form of witness rather than a lack of unity. As the American theologian Urban Holmes notes, ‘I have never known two Episcopalians agree totally…[but] the fact that we can admit our disagreements is indicative of our Anglican freedom to acknowledge the polymorphous nature of all human knowing – something that not every Christian body is comfortable admitting’ (1982).
