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respective dioceses goes with you to Indianpolis, and shall not be withdrawn regardless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.
