Storyteller’s World

I made a mistake this morning. In my enthusiasm for Mary Magdalene, whose feast this is, I blithely tweeted that she was the first apostle sent by the risen Christ. So why not women bishops? I asked.

(If you have been following what we choose to call the ‘debate’ on this, you’ll know that for some of the opponents of women bishops, the idea that Jesus chose only men to be apostles, and that the apostles are the basis of the Church’s ordained ministry, is a convincing argument that women cannot be bishops, and no one can say different.)

Someone who follows my tweets immediately responded with a biblical reference which they believe to be conclusively anti-women bishops. Followed by claims to be unashamedly and faithfully following the word of God, rather than the word of man, and that was all they had to say on the matter.

I am going to try not to do theological discussion via Twitter in future. I very much like the discipline of trying to communicate meaningfully in 140 characters or less: a tweet is like the haiku of the internet. But theology, I have learned, needs to be more nuanced. Or maybe just prolix.

A, (if you are reading this), I have not responded to you on Twitter, because I don’t want to argue with you or for us not to be friends. But don’t you see that the Bible is surprisingly silent about whether we should appoint women bishops in the Church of England? (I’ve read it, I know.) In fact, it doesn’t actually say anything about women bishops at all. So any texts or passages we think have any bearing on the subject, it’s on the basis of our, or someone else’s, human interpretation. We have to find other ways of choosing and justifying the interpretation we adopt, than simply claiming it is God’s own. We have to engage in the much more demanding work of thinking about the whole revelation of God, rather than a series of texts which we (or, more likely, someone else) have decided are relevant.

As with the parables, God has left us to work out the truth, and what we do about it, for ourselves. I guess he wants to treat us like grown-up children. God knows why, we don’t often behave like it.

Doing some research on J. M. Neale (1818-66), I came across the talk he gave to the Camden Society in 1841, on the History of Pews, from which this is the first paragraph:

The subject on which the Committee have requested me to offer, this evening, some remarks to the Society, is one so interwoven with the internal arrangement of our churches, so directly bearing on the reverent performance of our services, and so powerfully influencing, not the taste alone, but the devotional feelings of our worshippers, that, uninviting as it may at first sight appear, we are in fact deeply interested in it. And I was the more willing to lay before you whatever information I may have been able to procure on it, because Pews have never yet found an historian. Nor need we wonder at this. For what is the HISTORY OF PEWS, but the history of the intrusion of human pride, and selfishness, and indolence, into the worship of GOD? a painful tale of our downward progress from the reformation to the revolution: the view of a constant struggle to make Canterbury approximate to Geneva, to assimilate the church to the conventicle. In all this contest, the introduction of Pews, as trifling a thing as it may seem, has exercised no small influence for ill; and an equally powerful effect for good would follow their extirpation. Hence it is that, from the first moment of our existence as a Society, we have declared an internecine war against them: that we have denounced them as eye-sores and heart-sores; that we have recommended their eradication, in spite of all objection, and at whatever expense: that we have never listened to a plea for the retention of one; for we knew well that, if we could not destroy them, they would destroy us.

Yes! out with them!

Just finished reading Tom Wright’s Virtue Reborn (well worth a read.)

In it he includes this wonderful, moving and extraordinary tribute:

Another, more recent example. I was at a huge service in an enormous church, with wonderful music, flowing robes, and a crowd of thousands that only just fit into the large building. Suddenly, about ten minutes into the service, some men pushed their way roughly past the ushers at the doors, injuring one of them, and ran into the church shouting slogans. The disruption was caused by a protest group that had recently acquired a national reputation for behaving outrageously in pursuit of their cause (which, by the way, had nothing directly to do with the church or any of the people there).

The protesters reached the front of the church, shouted some more slogans, waved their placards, and then simply stopped. Clearly they hadn’t decided what they would do next, if they managed to get that far. But nobody in the church had any idea what to do next, either. The ushers were clearly frightened and unsure how to proceed. Nobody wanted a scene (except perhaps the protesters, who would have loved to be carried out by the police, shouting more slogans as they went). The service had been massively disrupted as it was. Scuffles, and the violence necessary in restraint, would have soured the atmosphere even more. As all of us wondered what would happen next, one of the senior clergy walked quietly across toward the leading protester and had a short, quiet conversation with him. He then walked over to the presiding cleric for another brief conversation. A moment later the presiding cleric spoke to the congregation, informing them that “our unexpected guests” had agreed to state their case for three minutes and then leave the building quietly.

How was it done? I was in awe of the man who had stepped forward and spoken with the protester. I wouldn’t have known what on earth to say. I would have been frightened what the group of protesters might do if I approached, and worried that I would make matters worse by words or action. Apparently, as I discovered later, he pointed out that they had made their protest and that if they continued much longer they would alienate more people than they influenced. But how had he been able to do that so calmly?

Then I remembered, many years before, watching the same cleric walk down a street in one of our busy cities. Dressed as a priest, he stopped quietly and sat down on the pavement to chat with a group of men who were drinking methylated spirits. He made his approach look natural, and they received it that way. He was on his way to preach at a service, but he didn’t appear to be in a hurry. Such meetings were obviously already a habit. He knew, from long experience, how to speak calmly and wisely with people of whom most others would be afraid. By the time it came to that great service, fifteen or more years later, the habit of faith, love, and courage had long been fully formed. And when the moment came, he didn’t have to think about it. Second nature kicked in. He knew, authentically, what to do and how to do it. I have learned many things from that man, but this one stands out. His name is Rowan Williams.

I think this ought to be much more widely known and shared. We are truly blessed to have as Archbishop of Canterbury not only a man of intellectual brilliance, but a saint as well.