The English Heresy

A long time ago and in a land far away, by which I mean Fife, I was a theological student. It was a good time in my life. By and large I was in the company of clever people, learning clever things from clever people. Theological education can be exciting and that was an exciting time for me.

In the course of that time, I remember a little game that some of us used to play occasionally. It wasn’t Cards Against Humanity or even the Christian version, A Game for Good Christians that theological students are fond of in current times. No, it was called the Heresy Game and you could play it just about anywhere, including in the pub, so long as no-body had imbibed too much. (As an aside, the standard test for whether or not someone was drunk in my day was whether or not they could spell Schleiermacher with their eyes closed).

The rules of the Heresy Game are simple. One person thinks up a new heresy and describes it. The others then have to prove that it isn’t a new heresy at all by showing that the basic idea has already been declared a heresy by the church. Was it silly? Yes. Was it pretentious? Yes, deeply pretentious. Was it a good way of learning Fourth Century Christologies about which one was going to be examined? Well, actually, yes it was.

I have been thinking about this little game this week whilst reading some interesting commentary on where current thinking lies in the Church of England about how to move forward on the marriage of same-sex couples.

The first thing to note perhaps is that there does now seem to be a conversation about how this might be done which is getting more attention than conversations about whether this should be done at all. However, I am not 100% convinced that all that is being proposed is good and holy.

Now, why does this matter to me? After all, I don’t belong to the Church of England myself and would vote in favour of any proposals to heighten Hadrian’s ecclesiastical wall.

Well, the trouble is, and this is trouble that we’ve met many times over the years, things that happen in one part of the Anglican Communion affect those who worship the Lord in other parts of the Anglican vineyard. What we’ve never really established is what the things are that we should care about and what the things are that we should leave to the decisions of other Provinces.

Notwithstanding my many assertions over the years that changes that some churches brought in over the marriage of same-sex couples were best decided by the various Anglican provinces alone, somewhere in the back of my mind is the idea that the way that change happens can be just as important as the changes themselves. Indeed, in some cases, one might care less about what is changing and more about the way that change is being brought about.

Which brings us to current thinking about the way in which same-sex marriage might come about in churches of the Church of England.

Last week I read the most interesting thing about this that I’ve read in some time. It is a reflection from the Rev Canon Simon Butler on the outcomes of private talks held between those who want the marriages of same-sex couples to be a possibility and those who don’t. It is interesting, thoughtful and intelligent.

The common assumption seems to be that the marriage of same-sex couples in the Church of England is coming, albeit with a conscience clause for those opposed, and that many of those who are opposed to it would be able to stomach being in a church which does it.

So far so good.

The trouble is, it is claimed that the conscience clause isn’t enough.

Now, I’ve got a bit of history with the idea of a conscience clause in relation to same-sex marriages. The idea emerged within the local Regional Council that I belong to in Glasgow and was subsequently taken up by the diocese and then by the Scottish Episcopal Church and forms the basis on how we moved forward on this question. It was the Glasgow North-East Regional Council’s finest hour.

However, the idea of a conscience clause in Scotland was not simply to legitimise those who didn’t want to perform the marriage of same-sex couples. The idea of the conscience clause arose from the idea that the consciences of everyone in the church should be protected in relation to the marriage of same-sex couples. It was easy to agree that the consciences of those who disagreed with such marriages should be protected only so far as it was also agreed that the consciences of those who did want to conduct such marriages were also protected.

Pro-gay people have consciences too. This understanding that everyone’s consciences needed to be protected unlocked the impasse we had been in and allowed us to move forward in a way that kept almost all the church together.

What is being suggested at the moment in England is a conscience clause that would protect only the objectors and the assertion is being made that this wouldn’t be enough to satisfy objectors either. To any conscience clause would be added some form of structural change in the church that would mean that in some way those who objected to the marriage of same-sex couples would receive only the ministrations of bishops who also objected to the marriage of same-sex couples. It would set up an anti-gay structure within the Church of England that would be somehow protected forever.

Now, is this ringing any kind of bell?

Yes, of course, it is how the C of E has enabled the ordination to the priesthood and the episcopate of candidates who happen to be women. There are claimed to be two integrities in the Church of England and both are supposed to flourish forever.

Quite how the ministry of ordained women is supposed to be regarded as flourishing when the institution has set up structures to advance the cause of those who don’t believe that they are really ordained is, to say the least, problematic.

One the one hand, this solution allowed women to be ordained as both priests and as bishops and some people clearly think that was a price worth paying. However, from outside the system it does look very much as though they rode a coach and horses through catholic order as though it simply didn’t matter.

I rather think that those of us who are Episcoplians/Anglicans outside the C of E should have cared more about this at the time.

However, the Church of England voted for this mess and to a certain extent it is getting what it deserves.

But the prodigal daughter of that particular settlement could well be something similar for the (presumed majority) pro-gay folk in that church.

The question I have, is how far the C of E intends to go with this model?

Just how many “integrities” can you have?

It was often said that the marriage of same-sex couples would be a slippery slope and that no sooner were we marrying men to men and women to women, we would find ourselves authorising polygamous marriages, throuples and marriages of people with their pets.

Now this didn’t happen but I find myself wondering whether the real slippery slope in all this is that the C of E will continue to set up further church-within-a-church structures where people can have so-called sacramental confidence that they are only ever going to be dealing with bishops who share their own theological peccadillos.

I’ve been ordained for a long time now and have had the ministry of a number of bishops. I’m pretty sure that they would all be horrified at the idea that they could only be my bishop if they shared my views. (This works both ways, but putting it that way perhaps focusses the mind).

Now, my question for all of us who are playing the Heresy Game today – for remember, I co-opted you into a quick round of that game at the start of this post, is this… Has the Church of England managed to invent a new heresy – specifically, that bishops will be provided to cater for particular theological positions?

Tell me, C of E friends, what’s next? Will we be having bishops for those who in all conscience don’t believe in racial equality too?

Oh, I know that’s an offensive question. (And I also know those whose lived experience is that there’s more than enough church leaders who have racist views already).

I know many will think that it is completely unacceptable to compare those who are unable to accept the ordination of women or the marriages of same-sex couples, or the consequent bishops living openly in such marriages, to those who are racist.

The trouble for the Church of England is that the general population aligns those various issues and can’t really see the difference.

Deep in my heart, neither can I.

The conscience question cuts both ways. Those who are in favour of the marriage of same-sex couples shouldn’t be expected to live and work in a church which structurally discriminates against those in same-sex relationships. Women in ministry shouldn’t be expected to live and work in a church which structurally discriminates against women. And calling that experience thriving or flourishing is just plain cruel.

Somewhere along the way, the C of E is devising “solutions” to these questions which compromise the morality and common-good expectations of the general population.

That’s a matter for folk in England though why any church should think such solutions are good, bewilders me.

But they compromise good catholic order too, and that’s something that all Anglicans should care about.

The trouble with heresies is that people tend not to keep them to themselves.

Turning Up and Being Counted

I’m currently going through a strange time. I’m away from my congregation on sabbatical. It is a good thing to do and I’m having a great time, meeting fantastic people and learning a thing or two by stopping for a while to breathe.

There’s always things that you miss when you are away from the place you know best. For me, the fact that Branston Pickle has not conquered the world is astonishment and I’ve missed it in far flung places all around the world over the years. However, there’s something more quirky, churchy and odd that I really missed this year.

Last Sunday was the day that the Scottish Episcopal Church counts all the people in its churches and reports the numbers back to each diocese, which then sends them to the General Synod Office in Edinburgh and the numbers are published in the new year. The count always happens on the Sunday next before Advent – the one we call Christ the King. The idea is that it is a fairly normal Sunday at a time of the year when most people are not on holiday and so you get a fair idea of the size of the worshipping population of the church.

They key thing though is that you have to turn up to be counted.

You might be on an electoral roll for a congregation (we report those numbers too) but if you are not there you would not be included in the annual count of who is in church on the Sunday next before Advent. You might have been baptised in the church or confirmed in it. You might have had the most glorious nuptials that church ever witnessed or have buried your great uncle Albert’s surprising bidey-in in the churchyard. You may have had tea with the rector once or even been to a carol service in 1972. But no matter how close you think your relationship is with the congregation, on the day when the count takes place, you won’t be counted unless you are there.

And I missed it.

Somehow not being counted made me feel a long way from home.

There’s all kinds of criticism of the kind of congregational statistics that we gather in Scotland, as there is in many other parts of the Anglican Communion. But the trouble is, we’ve got a great data set of next before Advent statistics and we need to keep measuring that one, even if we want to start to measure other things, if they are going to be of any use to us.

I’d quite like us to record average Sunday attendance as well. Some people want to count the number of people who enter the church at any time to measure the effective reach of the church. And some people don’t like the idea of counting at all.

But I do.

I don’t particularly want to rehearse the arguments for how we should count people in church but it does seem to matter to me that we have some sense of the trends and patterns of people’s worship patterns.

Quite a lot of people care more about the numbers of people whom the church is in contact with through the week and through the year than about the numbers of people in church for worship.

I’m probably in the minority by not counting myself amongst them.

I do care how many people are in church to worship and tend to think that worship is not only the most distinctive thing that churches offer but also the most interesting.

There are currently some very deep fears amongst clergy and lay leaders in a great many churches and of different traditions and theological persuasions around the numbers attending. It is also very difficult for Christians to talk about these fears openly.

There are obvious fears about how to keep paying the bills and the fact is, the greatest and most glorious expenses that most churches have are the people who work in them. Clergy, lay workers, musicians are all looking at attendance figures at the moment and thinking about the future a little nervously.

Clearly churches have to pay the bills and usually this money comes from those who turn up. One of the questions that the pandemic has raised is whether the link between turning up and coughing up (cash not phlegm!) is being broken.

I seem to be hearing stories of congregations being significantly down in number but where giving has risen at bit during the pandemic but no-one knows what that really means.

I have another anxiety which goes beyond worrying about how we are all going to pay the bills though. My primary anxiety about current changes in churchgoing is that what is done in church only really makes much sense if you are there every week to experience it.

The Liturgical Movement, which led to the kind of worship that many mainstream congregations now have, is predicated on the very idea that if you turn up, week by week, your personal faith will become deeper and more satisfying by being formed by the worship that you experience. Not just that, but when you gather all those individual experiences of deepening faith together, you build the strength, confidence and witness of the whole people of God who, acting out of that renewed faith, will turn the world upside down, usher in God’s kingdom of justice and joy and all the world will be saved.

(I know it isn’t particularly fashionable to talk about all the world being saved, but some of us still think it kind of matters).

One of the things that I realised as the events of 2020 unfolded was just how badly the Liturgical Movement had prepared us all for the pandemic. Somewhere along the way we’d become so focussed on community piety and devotion that we’d lost the idea that individuals on their own can deepen their faith.

Two years on, our communities can gather again in most places. However, all around the world, people are reporting that numbers are still quite disappointing.

It is clear that in many places some people have simply given up coming to church during the pandemic. Links were broken. Relationships were harder. Some people got angry in the midst of it all. And as usual with anger, it is difficult to pin down. Anger at oneself, anger at the pastor, anger at God, anger at those one lives with and anger at just about anything were all part of the pandemic.

However, my hunch is that numbers are still down in very many churches not primarily because of people who have left but more because of people who are turning up less often than they used to do. That was already a feature of life in the pre-pandemic church but as with so many things, the pandemic itself seemed to hit the accelerator on this process.

It is also the case of course that some people have changed health circumstances and are simply not able to do what they used to do.  (Online worship is a joy to some but we’ve no idea how to count those attending that way).

This year’s statistics, gathered in many different ways and in many different denominations, are going to show that a lot of people did not show up and were not counted.

But how are we going to talk about this in public?

Clergy are very wary of telling people that they must come to church every week and for good reason. We don’t need people to come to church because of a guilt trip that someone has induced in them. We need people to come to church for more positive reasons.

I want people to come because turning up helps them make sense of life. I want people to come because it is gloriously fun. I want people to come to be inspired to help make the kingdom of justice and joy a reality. I want people to come because it helps us to learn how to live when life isn’t gloriously fun. I want people to come because friendships formed as we worship together challenge us all to live as salt and light in the world. And I want people to know that sometimes,  out of what I can only describe as a very strange sense of humour, God even seems to enjoy teaching us good things through people whom we would never otherwise be with.

It has been the universal expectation of Christianity that worshipping together weekly is the norm for Christians. I suspect that there have been very many times in the history of the faith that those who count the numbers have sighed deeply and wondered how to convey the giddy joyful truth, that deepening one’s faith by committing to weekly worship, is life changing and life affirming.

Clergy and lay church leaders are planning how to deliver another festive season that will be both wonderful and exhausting. Very many, I suspect are also trying to work out how to convey that maybe, just maybe, part of our healing from pandemic-driven exhaustion might be found in finding regular, weekly rhythms of faith.

You know the drill. Advent Sunday is upon us. A new church year dawns. Ecclesiastical new year resolutions are the best new year resolutions of them all.

In a few weeks time we’ll be celebrating someone who turned up and was counted in a census just over 2000 years ago.

And a God is for life, not just for Christmas.