To the Delegates of General Convention

Dear Ones,

Know, first and last, that you are being prayed for by many.  The affection and support of your respective dioceses goes with you to Indianpolis, and shall not be withdrawn regardless of the outcomes there.  We would not have send you if we did not value you, and think you would do the right thing.

I have been pondering much, as the days have drawn near.  From our diocesan convention some months ago, where we were introduced to the “proposal for a proposal for a restructuring of the Episcopal Church” accompanied by Power Point presentations and sermons against “the vested interests” of shadowy figures somewhere far away, out there, to groups of passionately committed Episcopalians who have spend decades in ministry to and through our Church, to informal gatherings at campfires and on front porches where the subject of General Convention has been raised.

I’ve noticed something in all of those conversations.  Something that makes me nervous.  Unhappy even.

FEAR.  Over and over, expressed in all sorts of language, directed “out there somewhere.”  Sometimes individuals were identified by name, more often groups were referenced by allusion or innuendo.  “Them people.”

In one amazing conversation with a new friend, the idea was presented that in fact we are, each of us, more powerful than we think we are.  And that fear of that power provokes a need, or a desire, to control that fear either by delegating it to others (Bishop, priest, president, whoever…) or by refusing to engage that power in any but the safest, least offensive ways.

One delegate to our diocesan convention made a statement during the final session, regarding the resolution calling for the restructuring of the Episcopal Church, “We’re going to go [to General Convention] and make them responsible for doing the right thing.” (Italics mine) 

Who is “Them”?

Ours is a large, complex, multinational Church.  We cannot be reduced to an undifferentiated unity.  At a number of points, in conversations and presentations, I have observed what appeared to be an underlying assumption of “Simple is good; complex is bad; anything that can’t be conveyed by a series of bullet points must be suspect.”  In some sense that is a function of the wider culture in which we live, but nevertheless it’s worth noticing.  In one such presentation, the assembly viewed six or seven Powerpoint slides, each of which contained the names of two dozen or so committees and commissions of the Episcopal Church, passed over the screen in such rapid succession as to render them utterly illegible.  The intended point of this display was to insinuate that such complexity was inevitably incomprehensible, top-heavy, bureaucratic, unresponsive, and boring.

I take exception to this insinuation, and to the method by which it was presented.  I realized in the moment that I knew some of those committees and commissions, and some of the people who served on them.  I wondered what would have happened if we had been permitted to read those slides, and discover some of the richness of the Mission and Ministries which our Church has engaged in over the last few years.  I wonder how many of those committees and commissions might have piqued the interest of those who read of them, who might have thought “I believe I’d like to learn more about that!”

It seemed, in my estimation, both a half-truth on one hand, and a wasted opportunity on the other.

We gather this July for the General Convention in Indianapolis.  The coming autumn will see a highly contested, highly emotional, highly funded electoral cycle in the United States.  We are already feeling the waves of the storm.  I wonder if some of this anxiety about our national life isn’t leaking over into the conversations about our ecclesial life as well.  The vague threat of Immanent Collapse seems to be operative in both spheres, and the desire to act quickly (regardless of what the proposed action might look like or require) could well be causing more than one sleepless night and upset stomach among our people.

One of the reasons I love the Episcopal Church, with all its flaws and quirks and challenges, is that we are able to disagree—passionately so—about the issues that divide us, and yet we then go to the Eucharist together.  Our disagreements do not prevent us from loving and caring for one another.  We are committed to staying in relationship with each other, “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.”  Because this is so, we need not fear that someone will just get up and leave the table and the relationship.

Except that some have.  Some have excommunicated themselves over various issues at various times.  Some have left in anger; some in grief; some in pain.  Some will do so after this Convention, regardless of the outcome.  And we will all bear the marks of the severed limbs.

And I wonder if it is not fear of that loss—the potential of it as might be, even more than the actual is when it comes—that lies at the root of our anxiety.  In a culture riddled with brokenness and fragmentation, where pundits and pontifications of every sort appear at every moment, insisting ever more loudly and stridently, “I’m right; you’re wrong; I win-you-lose-ha-ha”, do we think these are the only options?

Do we imagine that the work of legislation, voting issues “up” or “down” reduces us to gloating winners and resentful losers?  Have we mistaken the legislative process for the totality of our life together as the plebs sancta Dei? 

One final overheard conversation, and then no more.

One many-times General Convention delegate to another:  “Nothing ever got done talking around a table.  It always came through legislation and voting.”

With this bald statement I take exception.  To say such a thing discounts the conversion of hearts, minds, and manners that does happen in table conversations—and we as a eucharistic people know that very well. 

What the speaker meant (I believe) is that table conversation is not a substitute for legislation and governance.  True.

But legislation and governance is not a substitute for table conversation and relationships.  Both are needful at all levels of our common life.  Without the table, legislation can degenerate into winner-takes-all, “I-win-you-lose-ha-ha.”  Without legislation and governance, the table can become no more than holding hands in the kitchen, “warm-fuzzy-feel-good-nothing-ever-changes.” 

Typical Anglicans.  Here we are again, insisting that the truth requires Both-And, refusing to settle down and choose Either-Or.  Always that doggone Via Media…

 
Blessings and godspeed, friends.