Introduction: So They Will Be In Us

‘My prayer for all of them is “that they may all be one, just as you and I are one Father; that just as you are in me and I am in you, so they will be in us” ’ (Jn 17.21). The high priestly prayer of Jesus addressed most richly my hopes for the Lambeth Conference, 2008. This unity in which I set my hope, was not a bland sameness, but a way of being different together. I prayed that the Spirit, working through a global fellowship, would reveal something that none of us had discovered on our own; a way through the impasse the Communion was experiencing.

Jesus’ cry for unity came from the depths of a man who knew that his time was drawing near. This same cry comes from the depths of every man and woman who experiences the pain of loss, even before the loss occurs. It is entering the pain of death while still in life; sensing what is to come while remaining in hope. These same feelings resided in the hearts of many bishops. During the years leading to the Lambeth Conference, I felt the chipping away of the Communion; a set of chisels of our common making, was slowly, and sometimes dramatically refashioning our fellowship. What was and is emerging is fraught with uncertainty. Strong voices and dramatic actions, heightened by technology, challenge the structures of Communion presently in place. There are few precedents for the bold and independent actions that currently test the bonds of an untidy unity that has sustained us for 500 years.

My prayer for a new sense of unity came from a personal feeling of spiritual disequilibrium, as I find validity in various sides of the issues confronting our Anglican disposition, though not usually agreeing with the whole of any argument. ‘They will be one, just as you and I are one, Father; that just as you are in me and I am in you, so they will be in us’ (Jn 17.21).

This extraordinary prayer of love reminds us of the indissoluble relationship that Christ holds with humanity, with each of us. It is not something we choose, but something he chooses, and in which we are captivated. It is more than a feeling fleeting and whimsical, but an enduring identity; the voice of the shepherd calling, the sheepfold place of yearning, field of grace. I went to Lambeth believing that the Shepherd was calling us to new pastures, and that we were at a transformative time in the life of the Communion.

It would be easy for us to forget that this remarkable prayer includes, ‘Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth’. The unity, the holiness in which we are already bound, is fused with the truth that Jesus discloses. However, discordant and conflicted voices believe to know Jesus’ truth, each claiming a passionate rightness. And I wonder, who are we as mere mortals to know Jesus’ truth, anyway. Though recipients of holy scripture, two millennia of history, and a theological and ecclesiological inheritance, we are bumbling, and clumsy, self-serving, and high-minded; tangled in our actions, parsing words, and tossing out judgements that question each others claims for legitimacy and faith itself. Some proclaim boldly the one truth, and others, just as boldly announce a multi-faceted truth. And both, I believe, possess and profess a deep love for Jesus.

At Lambeth, the tensions among us were both unsettling and exciting, as though we were a collective Lazarus, waiting for Jesus to unbind us from our death; our fractiousness and divisions, our lack of trust in one another, and of those whose positions differed from our own. I wanted Jesus to shout ‘Come out’, and we would emerge from the graves of our certainly and find a new life together.

Michael Ramsey, Archbishop of Canterbury in the 1960s and 70s, asked if we could acknowledge ‘a many-sided wholeness’. My interpretation of this is that there is a solid core of truth, which in our shortsightedness and human limitations, cannot be grasped in its fullness.

A young boy once asked a rabbi, ‘Rabbi, do you know God?’ The rabbi pondered the question and answered, ‘If I knew God, I wouldn’t know God’. Is it possible for us to admit that we do not know the mind of Christ, but are willing to be guided, even misguided by the church on earth, while all the time seeking the mystical church. Right now, we are splitting and breaking, crumbling and muddling, losing the sense of unity for which Christ prayed. Can we join the rabbi in admitting that God is beyond our grasp, however close in imagination and heart? Can we both know God and not know the whole of the Saviour?

I join with many others in asking whether or not Anglicans can clarify that which is at the core of our identity, and express that identity in different contexts. This would help to lead us into the many-sided wholeness of which Dr Ramsey wrote. It is not a many-sided truth, but a many-sided expression of Christ’s truth and unity, while recognizing the limitations imposed on us by our status as impaired, sinful human beings.

Archbishop Rowan Williams offered wise and tempered leadership, offering insights that invited our reflection, while providing no specific answers. He raised the question of Anglican identity, and the expansive reach of a global Communion. In his opening address, he called for transformed relationships leading to ‘new habits of respect, patience and understanding that are fleshed out in specific ways and changed habits’. This was not an invitation to a loose federation, or to a confessional church, or to a magisterium. He asked if there was a middle way? It is this middle way that continues to elude me. I seek Christ’s fullness, and try to fashion my life in his truth, but I know that I am not the arbitrator of his truth. Is it possible to be part of the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church, while holding certain ideas and opinions that are mutually exclusive from those held by other members of the same Church? If these opposing viewpoints are of the essence of the faith, no. If they are not of the essence, yes. The frustration is in the word, ‘essence’.

The fourth and fifth century church discovered human words to clarify divine realities, albeit over a significant period of time. Beginning with the First Council of Nicea in 325 AD, which issued the Nicene Creed; the Council of Ephesus which affirmed Mary to be Theotokos, ‘God-bearer’, or ‘Mother of God’; then the clarification of the doctrine of the Trinity at the Council of Constantinople in 381 AD; and the affirmation of the nature of Christ as truly God and truly human at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 AD. These provided the framework for the ‘essence’ of church doctrine and teaching that remain to this day. Of course, the bishops laboured without the helpful and hostile ‘benefit’ of computers, text messaging, blogs, websites, and the myriad of ever-emerging technologies that connect the global community while often disconnecting people from each other. Engaging in an honest and open debate that leads to discernment without premature interpretation and frequent distortion from outside ‘commentators’ is a challenge for the Church today.

The Lambeth Conference provided opportunity for informal conversations during meals, on buses, as we walked from one location to the next, and in our living quarters. But conversation was organized as well, particularly in bible study groups, and the 16 Indaba groups, each composed of 40 bishops.

Each Indaba chose one member to represent the heart and mind of the group, bringing a sense of the gathering to a larger Reflection Group. I was honoured to represent my Indaba group and joined 15 other bishops in reading verbatim accounts of the discussions of the day and shedding light on the feelings and sensitivities that paper and pen could not express.

As I look back on the experience, several things come to mind. First, and the most abiding, is how difficult it was to both listen and digest the content of the conversation, and to observe and integrate the unspoken subtleties shared by the members of the Indaba. We spoke a variety of languages — even in English — and the matters at hand were both personal and church-related; heart-wrenching and humbling. I later described this challenge as serving as both scribe and poet. The scribe exacting, the poet inspired. It was difficult to give each role its due.

Collating the content and inspirations from the 16 Indaba groups was one of the most exhausting experiences I ever had. At its worst, we met until mid-night, and gathered again at 6 AM. We met through many celebrations of the Eucharist, and all afternoon sessions. If we did attend an evening gathering, we met after its conclusion. I believe that we produced a very fair and comprehensive document, representing the different positions, ideas, and aspirations of the bishops gathered. Though a wonderful experience, we were all exhausted and missed some very important parts of the Conference. Might there be a better way forward in the future?

Having said that, the poet and scribe are still at work, as the voices of Lambeth echo well past the conference and my reflections continue. These reflections have led me to see the Conference in the context of the Paschal Mystery.

The Paschal Mystery is that implausible unfolding of Christ’s death and resurrection: beginning with the Passover meal and betrayal; moving through his cross and death, walking with the followers to the empty tomb and sharing with them as they begin to grasp the risen life.

In this context, I feel as if our Communion is living in the throws of Good Friday and Holy Saturday. The tensions within the Communion continue, and the messages become more strident with the passing of time. Accusations abound, and the words used to describe the ‘other’ are not always charitable. The comments on some blogs border on the slanderous, and misquotes abound, with glee! The Good Friday crowd is all around, shouting.

Having listened to apologists for many sides of the various issues, I frequently hear reference to the word ‘victim’. Whether the issue is sexuality, doctrine, interpretation of scripture, ordination of women, the role of tradition, or the way of doing theology, people representing various sides claim to be victims of the Church or the opposition, or whomever or whatever is seen as the perpetrator. The ‘perpetrator’ is often portrayed as insensitive, unjust, phobic, unchristian, heretical, power hungry, and so on. As I look at the crucifixion accounts, I do not remember the Paschal Victim blaming his predicament on any group or person. His cry was not as the victim but as one forsaken. We claim him victim, a designation he did not claim for himself. The Innocent Victim, enfolded in the mystery of the Pascha did not attack his accusers. When groups define themselves as ‘victims’, the way forward is complicated. When groups define themselves as ‘forsaken’, a more gentle pathway may emerge. The victim blames, the forsaken weeps.

I have a nineteenth century triptych in my office that depicts the crucifixion. During a particularly difficult period in my episcopate, when disgruntled voices found an echo chamber in my mind, I initially saw myself as the victim in a ‘he said, she said’, series of conflicts. By praying in front of the triptych, I found a peculiar strength in contemplating upon the silent Jesus. He spoke no words of condemnation, only of forgiveness and reconciliation. Here is the Christ of loving mercy, forgiving the sinner, re-forming the family, reconciling the world to himself, revealing ‘a many-sided wholeness’.

Wounds have been inflicted on all sides of our present discontent, and the body has yet to heal, though in certain quarters we are told it is healing. In others a triumphalism reigns. We know that the familiar church is dying and we grieve for different reasons. I do not mean that The Church — the Body of Christ — is dying, but our human formation of the church is called to discover a new and global character. We are trying to discover the freedom of autonomy and the limits of an autonomous life. We are seeking the boundaries of independence and the responsibilities of an interdependent community. We are in the process of discovering what it means to be bound to one another in Christ, and to be unbound from the tomb of despair. We are listening to the voice of the shepherd, but suspicious of the sheepfold.

Something has died and the promised re-building of the temple has yet to be revealed. I sometimes wonder, if the Advocate were here today, who or which group would the advocate defend.

If we see the present experience in the church as part of the paschal mystery there is hope. The struggle is to remain in the present long enough to allow new life to come into view. In the meantime, there will be expressions of the ‘true’ faith that stretch our forbearance and even our sensibilities. This is part of the mystery of dying and waiting. One has only to re-visit the early controversies of the church to be reminded of the time it took for our present ‘orthodoxy’ to emerge. The wheat and tares are our neighbours, our sister and brother parishioners, our selves, and if we prune too fiercely we may decimate the field. Is this a desirable goal? Who will decide? How?

The Risen Christ met the bewildered disciples, revealing himself in the most unlikely places and in the most ordinary ways. I am convinced that the Risen One is walking in the midst of us now, and we are struggling to recognize his voice. He meets us ‘on the road’, and in the ‘upper room’, in the Word and in the Bread and Wine. However, there are expressions of uneasiness with our most unifying symbols and sacraments. Some have chosen to receive the one body at separate tables, and others question how we hear and interpret Holy Scripture. Our boundaries are being stretched, our comfort challenged. In previous times Word and Eucharist were the containers that held our common life, and from which mission, and companionship found their source of unity and strength. By the grace of God, there are many bishops who continue to reach across the discontent, holding what is life-giving and in the service of God’s kingdom.

If the state of our Communion is in a season of ambiguity and tremendous challenges, could it be the time and place in which the Risen Christ is appearing? If weeping spends the night, will not the dawn bring joy? I pray that one day, when the veil is removed from our eyes, we look back on the current situation and say, ‘weren’t our eyes opened…’. Then, perhaps we will discover ways to live together. Hopefully, the door to reconciliation will still be ajar.

The Windsor Report continues as a guiding document, and the Covenant moves forward albeit slowly. Synods continue to meet, The General Convention USA has representation from all dioceses though in new configurations, Companion Dioceses are mutually supportive, and to outstretched hands ‘The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven’, is still offered and received.

One of our challenges is to find a way to accommodate the different opinions now being expressed without believing that with a little more knowledge, wisdom, or sensitivity, the people who hold them will finally adapt to our point of view. Can we honour the differences without seeking to change them prematurely, or even at all? And, how much difference is possible while maintaining a cohesive Anglican identity?

If some groups desire to chart their own course, how might the door for their return remain open? In looking to the future and seeking to serve future generations we should be vigorous in maintaining relationships with our Anglican ‘cousins’, so that bonds of affection are held across the borders of our discontent, in the belief that we will re-discover our unity.

I continue to join in Jesus’ prayer for unity, especially from my position in the middle-of-the-road on many of the prevailing conflicts, believing that the Communion is larger and more comprehensive than her member churches, yet believing, paradoxically, that even the church on the local level is the whole church. The varied characters of the member churches bring comprehensiveness to the Communion, and reveal the many-sided wholeness that speaks so pastorally to me.

This does not mean ‘anything goes’, but continues the Windsor Report’s invitation to discover those things that are essential to our faith, and those which are of a secondary nature. In the midst of this exploration, I pray that our threads of unity remain strong, for they are Christ himself.

Lambeth 1998, with its assortment of legislation and documents, produced some fine work, but was followed by a decade of discontent. Legislation, by its nature, limits the unfolding of truth, and without a level of clarity of shared beliefs, practices, structures, and accountability, identity wanes.

Lambeth Update: The TEC General Convention

This same legislative process was everywhere present at the General Convention of The Episcopal Church, 2009. Indeed, a clarity emerged around issues of sexuality. In my opinion the moratoria asked for in the Windsor Report and reiterated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, was breached. By a wide margin, clergy and lay deputies, and members of the House of Bishops passed resolutions that opened the possibility for same-sex unions and the consent for the election of a bishop in a same-sex relationship. As one who voted with the minority, I anticipate deeper divisions within TEC and the wider Anglican family. However, in the midst of my chagrin, I was refreshed by Paul’s words to the Church at Corinth: ‘The troubles they have been through have tried them hard, yet in all this they have been so exuberantly happy that from the depths of their poverty they have shown themselves lavishly open-handed…going to the depths of their resources’ (2 Cor. 8.2–3; NEB).

While I’m stretching Paul’s intention a bit, I wonder if it is possible for us to enter the depths of our present conflict while at the same time rejoicing with exuberance for the joy of knowing the Risen Christ? Can we enter into each other’s poverty, as well as our own, and lean forward with an open-handedness that reveals the depths of grace?

I pray for a re-discovery of the unity that already exists, and for the man of Truth who is always with us. I pray that we may re-discover our sanctity in Christ, in whose death we share, and in whose resurrection resides our hope.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank the Lambeth Conference for the inspirations derived from their BBC articles, The Book of Common Prayer (1979), NRSV and NEB bibles, The Theology of Michael Ramsey and Archbishop Rowan Williams’ first address to Lambeth.