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The House of Mirrors
Relativity and Anglican Comprehensiveness
Dwight Longenecker
It was 1990 and the Anglican Deanery Clergy Fraternal had gathered in my parish hall for a discussion on the Decade of Evangelism. Each of the parish clergy was asked to say briefly what they thought should be done about evangelism in their parish.
The Anglo-Catholic all in black piped up, ‘It’s about getting people back to Mass. Bottoms on pews.’
‘Haven’t we got to make the liturgy attractive enough for them to want to come?’ questioned the young Anglo-Catholic in his black jeans and leather jacket, ‘If the parish isn’t attractive why should they come to Mass?’
‘Ahh,’ the sound Evangelical smiled, ‘Surely it’s not so much about church services, but about sharing the Good News of the Gospel with those who are still unsaved.’ Brown clerical shirt; tweed jacket.
The liberal Anglo-Catholic was more modest. ‘I think I would want to say that the thrust of evangelism in our day is showing the world a church that cares for them where they are. I may be wrong but ...’ Clericals, scruffy jumper. Brown boots.
‘We just want to lead people into a new experience of the Holy Spirit in their lives ...’ said the evangelical Charismatic wearing an open necked shirt and jazzy jumper.
The tall middle-of-the-road Liberal from the next parish looked perturbed at the extremism from his colleagues, ‘I wouldn’t presume to tell anyone in my parish what might be right for them spiritually,’ he drawled in a languid and superior way.
‘That’s right ...’ piped up the plump rural dean, ‘...because there is no such thing as an objective theology.’
I had come to be a country vicar in England as a result of the American Dream. The American Dream, of course, is that you can do anything and be anyone if you just put your mind to it. My particular version of the American Dream was, admittedly, an eccentric one. I didn’t want to make a world record by scoring a huge number of home runs. I didn’t want to be president or even end up as a hugely rich businessman. By the time I had graduated from the fundamentalist Bob Jones University I had got a severe case of Anglophilia. I had visited Britain a few times and after studying English literature had decided that I wanted to follow in the footsteps of George Herbert and be an English country parson.
Bob Jones University was founded after the second World War deep within the Southern Bible Belt by Bob Jones, an old-fashioned, hell-fire evangelist from Alabama. Billy Graham got started there, but moved on and ‘became a Liberal’ according to Dr Bob. It was there, ironically, that I was introduced to the Anglican church through a little Episcopalian schism called Holy Trinity Anglican Orthodox Church. There in a little stone chapel in the bad part of town we liturgically starved young Baptists discovered the Prayer Book, candles, Anglican chant and the religion of C. S. Lewis, Oxford, and England.
So when the chance came to study theology at Wycliffe Hall in Oxford I jumped at it. After completing the course, through a mixture of eccentric individuals and Divine Providence, I was put forward for Anglican ordination. After serving as a curate and a school chaplain in Cambridge I accepted the living of two country parishes on the Isle of Wight. After nine years my American Dream had come true. I was extremely happy and planned to stay there for a long time and enjoy the rural idyll of being an Anglican country parson.
During my training at Oxford I had found my taste in worship moving away from the evangelical low church style. I went to Pusey House where fine liturgy mixed with good music and excellent preaching. Although I was attracted to things Catholic I was never part of the Anglo-Catholic club. Nevertheless, as I moved through college to a curacy and eventually to my own parish my understanding of the Church and my orders became more and more Catholic. I understood that I was ordained not so much into the Anglican church, but into the Church of God. My orders were Catholic in the widest sense. My appreciation of the Church of England deepened as well. The romantic notion of a Herbertian idyll matured into a more profound desire to be a part of the ancient church in England, the church whose roots were in the faith of the apostles.
I realized that my run away from fragmented and harsh American Evangelicalism was not just an escape to a fairy- tale England. It was a search for a faith that was historically rooted: a faith which was unified and universal. Furthermore, I wanted a faith which was comprehensive. I had been taken by a quote of F. D. Maurice’s that, ‘A man is most often right in what he affirms and wrong in what he denies.’ The fundamentalist religion of Bob Jones was fissiparous, negative and narrow, so Maurice’s dictum seemed eminently sane. As a result I wanted to affirm the good things about Evangelicalism, Catholicism, Liberalism and the Charismatic movement. I described my churchmanship as ‘Evangelical–Charismatic–Catholic’ and tried to weave together the different strands of theology and practice, genuinely believing they all had something to offer while none of them was completely right.
What disturbed me was that I didn’t seem to meet many others who wanted to hold together the Evangelical’s high view of Scripture, the Catholic’s sacramental theology and the Liberal’s social conscience – all enlivened by the Renewal Movement’s Holy Spirit. Everyone else preferred either a bland Anglicanism or one of the party lines. Where were the other Christians who affirmed a similarly holistic vision of the church?
I thought this comprehensive sort of church existed in the Church of England, but by the time I went to my parishes on the Isle of Wight I had become increasingly disenchanted with Anglicanism, but didn’t bother to figure out why. Ever since my time at Wycliffe Hall I had visited Catholic Benedictine monasteries on annual retreat. After my curacy I had spent three months hitch- hiking to Jerusalem, staying in monasteries on the way. During this time I had met many Catholics with whom I seemed to ‘connect’ in ways that I didn’t with my fellow Anglicans. There was a reality about their faith which made Anglo-Catholicism seem like pretending. When I went to the Isle of Wight I established close links with the monks at Quarr Abbey and my friendships with Catholics continued to be close while my connections with fellow Anglican clergy were increasingly few and marked by a bewildering fragmentation and alienation.
That deanery meeting in 1990 was the chink in the wall. It was the rural dean’s comment which brought me up short. He who thought there was no truth had spoken the truth. My dissatisfaction with Anglicanism was that many of my fellow clergy and a good proportion of the bishops openly agreed with the rural dean about there not being any objective theology. Furthermore, they saw this as a strength. As Pope John Paul II said in his 1998 letter to the bishops at Lambeth, they had turned theological relativity into a kind of ‘post-modern beatitude.’
In the weeks afterward I struggled with the real identity of the Church of England. It wasn’t easy. Living in the Church of England is a bit like living in a ‘House of Mirrors’ at a fun fair. There is a maze of images all looking the same, and yet all slightly distorted. The different Anglican opinions are like the different mirrors. None of them is the truth. They are all distorted reflections of the truth. The ‘comprehensiveness’ of Anglicanism looked appealing when contrasted to sectarian Protestantism, but I had mistaken a confederation of contradictions for unity. The Anglican church with her various parties, clubs, confraternities, associations and societies is more like a Council of Churches than a Church. My own deanery clergy meeting was a microcosm of the whole uneasy alliance.
The rural dean’s statement that ‘there is no objective theology’ was not just a theoretical statement. The belief that there was no objective theology meant that ordinary pastoral choices had to be made not on theological, but utilitarian grounds. Everything from choice of liturgy to the most crucial questions of sacramental practice and moral theology were made on relativistic principles. In other words, the decisions were made not primarily according to what might be true, but what worked – what people ‘found useful’ and what the congregation wanted. Of course some clergy turned to Scripture for answers, but they were left to their own Biblical interpretation to come up with an answer. And if a minister did decide according to Scripture, his interpretation was likely to be contradicted not only by the priest in the next parish, but by his bishop as well. In such a relativistic climate it was often safer to choose a course of action by what was useful instead of what was true.
In Fides et Ratio, John Paul II identifies four strands of relativistic thinking which infect our society and the church. One strand is eclecticism. So ‘ideas are drawn from widely different theologies and philosophies without concern for their internal coherence or their place within a historical context.’ (par. 86) This pick ’n’ mix mentality was obvious in Anglican church life where old Protestant denominational boundaries had become fluid. Furthermore, a whole range of ‘spiritualities’ ranging from Christianity through to Buddhism and native American religions were drawn on. So Feminist and New Age theologians seemed quite happy to drink from the chalice of witchcraft or pagan religions – never seeing any conflict with their Christian profession.
Historicism is another strand within this relativistic mindset which John Paul II picks out. He defines it thus:
The fundamental claim of historicism however, is that the truth of a philosophy is determined on the basis of its appropriateness to a certain period and a certain historical purpose. At least implicitly therefore, the enduring validity of truth is denied. What was true in one period, historicists claim, may not be true in another. (par. 87)
Again, this cast of mind is the prevailing one within much of modern Anglicanism. So in the argument over the ordination of women it was claimed that St Paul’s command, ‘I do not permit a woman to hold authority over a man in church’ was historically and culturally conditioned. In other words it may have been true then, it isn’t now. Evangelicals like the Archbishop of Canterbury were then hoisted on their own petard because a few years later the militant homosexuals used the same historicist argument to support their own cause for ordination. ‘When St Paul condemned homosexuality,’ they claimed, ‘he was expressing an understanding of sexuality which we now know is out of date.’
Scientism is another strand of relativism which the Pope exposes in Fides et Ratio. Scientism
is the philosophical notion which refuses to admit the validity of forms of knowledge other than those of the positive sciences; and it relegates religious, theological, ethical and aesthetic knowledge to the realm of mere fantasy. (par. 88)
Once again, this form of relativism is part of everyday parish life in the Anglican world. Any notion of miracles or the supernatural either in the Scriptures or contemporary life is often dismissed as impossible. So Anglican bishops would publicly deny the physical resurrection simply because their scientific pre-suppositions did not allow miracles to occur. The same scientism was evident in the attitude to the Sacraments and functions of the priest. As a result the priest was often relegated to the role of teacher or social worker. The idea that he or the Sacraments had any ‘power’ given by God was pooh-poohed.
Finally the Pope discusses pragmatism. This is a frame of mind which makes decisions without any foundation in underlying principles of truth (par. 89). On the one hand decisions are taken for merely useful purposes. So ‘if you find it useful’ a particular thing must be true. This pragmatic approach is more popularly expressed as, ‘Easiest is best’. Another way pragmatism shows itself is in institutional decision making. So democratic decisions are taken and considered to be right simply because a majority says so, quite apart from any deeper or more wide ranging questions.
This was nowhere more evident in the Church of England than in the vote to ordain women as priests. In that debate the pragmatic approach was paramount. Firstly the arguments in favour were mostly utilitarian and sentimental: ‘Suzy would make a good priest – she’s such a good listener!’ or, ‘The priesthood would be so fulfilled if women were to be ordained too. ’ But the decision was also pragmatic in the way it was made. In putting such an important decision to a majority vote, the Church of England chose a relativistic and pragmatic way of making a decision of monumental importance. The majority was all that mattered and the unseemly political manoevres to win were the main concern. The General Synod took the decision in a pragmatic mindset with scant regard for the wider theological, ecumenical, historical and anthropological issues at stake.
When I got down to analysing it, it seemed that relativism in the Church of England was especially acute in our day – as it is in the rest of our society. I thought it might simply be that the Church was infected with a symptom of the age. But the more I thought about the history of the Church of England, it seemed that the relativity was written into its genes from its first conception. From the beginning there has been no doctrinal agreement in the Church of England. From the time of Elizabeth I the agreed doctrine was that there was no agreed doctrine. Theological postitions were embraced or abandoned as a matter of political expediency. Could it be that our society caught the relativist infection from the Church rather than the other way around?
The roots of our post-modern relativism can indeed be traced back to the theological upheavals of the sixteenth century. But they can also be traced to the philosophical revolution of the ‘enlightenment’ and her intellectual offspring. It is also linked in with social upheavals, especially in this century. But what interested me most was that the roots of modern Anglican relativism are there at the core of Anglicanism itself. It shows most clearly in the contrast between Anglo-Catholics and Anglican Evangelicals. How is it that they can exist in a church together when they are diametrically opposed on almost all the major issues?
It can only be because both the Anglo-Catholic and Anglican Evangelical have relativism at the very foundation of their theological method. For both camps theological language can only be metaphorical – so theological and liturgical language is a poem, but never more than a poem. The Anglo-Catholic and the Evangelical Anglican live together not because they agree to differ but because they do not differ at all. They both agree that their language is ‘simply a way of speaking about the mystery which is beyond words.’ As a result the Evangelical Anglican is happy to tolerate the Anglo-Catholic as he reserves the Blessed Sacrament, marches in a Corpus Christi procession and kneels at Solemn Benediction. It might not be to the Evangelical’s taste, but he is happy to tolerate it beause all of it is simply ‘the sort of thing which helps Anglo-Catholics’.
Likewise the Anglo-Catholic might tut-tut, but he doesn’t really mind when the Evangelical sweeps up the crumbs of consecrated bread and flushes them down the vestry lavatory with the consecrated wine because ‘that is his churchmanship.’ In other words, what the Evangelical does is only his particular ‘way of talking about the Holy Mysteries’. Likewise the Anglo-Catholic and the Anglican Evangelical recognize one another’s orders even though their views of ordination are in actual contradiction. Why is that? Because for both of them, at the end of the day, their orders are ‘just a way of talking about ministry.’ The rural dean was right about Anglicans at least, because for them there is no objective theology.
Pope John Paul II astutely analyses this illness of the mind and heart. He says the positions of relativism lead to a more general rejection of any meaning whatsover, and this leads down the slippery slope to the denial and degradation of humanity itself ... So he says:
the nihilist interpretation is at once the denial of all foundations and the negation of all objective truth. Quite apart from the fact that it conflicts with the demand and the content of the word of God, nihilism is a denial of the humanity and of the very identity of the human being. It should never be forgotten that the neglect of being inevitably leads to losing touch with objective truth and therefore with the very ground of human dignity. This in turn makes it possible to erase from the countenance of man and woman the marks of their likeness to God, and thus to lead them little by little either to a destructive will to power or to a solitude without hope. Once the truth is denied to human beings, it is pure illusion to try to set them free. Truth and freedom either go hand in hand or together they perish in misery. (par. 90)
Although I was attracted to Anglican comprehensiveness, the lack of any objective theology which was part of the bargain made my private prayer and public ministry seem like a daily attempt to dance on quicksand. But what were the alternatives? John Paul II also points out in Fides et Ratio two other errors that are themselves reactions against relativism. One is rationalism – in which the theologian assumes certain intellectual propositions to be true and bases his critique of religion on his erroneous philosophical conclusions (par. 55). This position clings to the sort of truth which can be discovered by human reason alone. But because rationalism relies solely on human reason it often arrives at the wrong conclusions. I had heard that the Anglican theological position was a ‘three-legged stool’ of Scripture, Tradition and Reason. But those who said this usually placed human reason as the ultimate authority because time and again their rationalism found reasons to dismiss uncomfortable or unfashionable segments of the Scripture and Tradition. What they really promoted was not a three-legged stool, but a theological pogo stick.
The Pope points out that the other alternative to nihilistic relativity is fideism. If rationalism promotes human reason as the sole authority, then fideism does just the opposite. It doesn’t trust human reason at all, and places one’s whole trust in ‘faith’. This faith is focused blindly in one particular interpretation of Christianity or one particular teacher’s views to the exclusion of both reason and all other religious viewpoints. Another form of fideism is biblicism, which treats the Bible as the sole criterion for truth. Biblicism not only identifies the Word of God with the Bible (rather than Christ the incarnate Word) but it also follows one line of Biblical interpretation to the exclusion of all others (par. 55). Fideism seeks a refuge from relativity in faith without reason. Rationalism seeks a refuge in reason without faith.
But in Fides et Ratio Pope John Paul doesn’t simply point out the various modernist errors. He affirms that objective truth can be known. So he writes:
Faith clearly presupposes that human language is capable of expressing divine and transcendent reality in a universal way – analogically, it is true, but no less meaningful for that. Were this not so, the word of God, which is always a divine word in human language, would not be capable of saying anything about God. The interpretation of this word cannot merely keep referring us to one interpretation after another, without ever leading us to a statement which is simply true; otherwise there would be no revelation of God, but only the expression of human notions about God and about what God presumably thinks of us. (par. 84)
The discovery and proclamation of objective truth is the work of philosophy and theology. The Pope pleads for a proper dynamic relationship between faith and reason in order to explicate this objective truth. He doesn’t require slavish and unquestioning obedience to a theological position. That would be to fall into fideism. Neither does he allow a rational questioning which is instinctively destructive of the truths of revelation. So he makes a
strong and insistent appeal – that faith and philosophy recover the profound unity which allows them to stand in harmony with their nature without compromising their mutual autonomy. (par. 48)
He urges that Faith and Reason be used together to understand and proclaim objective truth, but he goes on to add a third factor. Faith and Reason may well enlighten and critique each other in the quest for truth, but they are not necessarily free from the same relativity which dogs any intellectual enterprise. A third element which is bigger than both of them is necessary. This element is an authority which is able to validate and critique the findings of theology and philosophy’s search for Truth.
But what kind of authority exists which can stand as judge over philosophy and theology? How might we draw up a job description for such an awesome authority? I would say this agreed authority needs seven characteristics to work effectively. First, it should be historical – in other words it should be both rooted in history and have a long-term perspective which enables it to consider the whole historical development of thought. In addition, if this authority is historical it cannot be temporary. It must have stood the test of time.
Second, this authority should be objective. It should itself be separate from any one philosophical viewpoint and be able to judge philosophical matters above the concerns of self-interest. It should also be able to give objective explanations for doing so.
Third, this authority should be universal. It cannot be the authority of just one person, or nationality. Neither can it be the voice of one historical or theological grouping. It should be corporate in such a way that it transcends national, cultural and individualistic boundaries.
But if it is universal it must also be particular. This fourth trait means it must be specifically identifiable. It cannot be a vague ‘body of teaching.’ In other words it must speak with a clear and particular voice.
Fifth, this authority should be intellectually satisfying. In other words it must not only be intellecually coherent within itself, but it must also be able to contend on the highest intellectual level with philosophers and theologians.
Sixth, this authority needs to be scriptural. Since Scripture is a primary witness to the revelation, this authority should be both rooted in Scripture, and founded by Scripture. Finally, this authority should claim to be divinely given. If it fulfills the other six traits, then these are a good confirmation that the authority is not ephemeral and human in constitution, but is in fact of divine origin itself.
The Catholic Church is precisely this authority. No other authority could make equivalent claims. Some authorities could claim some of the seven marks of authenticity, but none but the Catholic Church can claim all seven. The Magisterium of the Church is a dynamic source which stretches across cultures and down through time. It is a communal voice which is rooted in Scripture; and because it is a living link with the past it speaks with a continuous and developing understanding of both theology and philosophy. The universal authority of the Catholic Church thus provides an external, intellectually satisfying and divinely given check to the conclusions of individual philosophical and theological enquiry. So John Paul II quotes Vatican I and says:
In the light of faith, the Church’s Magisterium can and must authoritatively exercise a critical discernment of opinions and philosophies which contradict Christian doctrine. (Fides et Ratio, par. 50)
If Peter and his successors were the Rock, then I was really between a rock and a hard place. The Pope’s encyclical Fides et Ratio came out a few years after I became a Catholic, but the issues it discusses were with me not only in the daily routine of parish life, but more crucially in the gaps when there was time for thought, analysis and prayer.
My critique of Anglicanism may sound scathing. In fact I was loathe to leave the Anglican church. I was not only reluctant to leave my beautiful country vicarge and two ancient parish churches, but more importantly I hated the idea of leaving my ministry. I was supported in both parishes by good, sensible, prayerful and believing Christian folk. For all its faults I was fond of Anglicanism’s gentlemanly way of ‘muddling through.’ I actually liked most of the clergy I disagreed with. I could see that they were personable, sincere and devoted pastors. I loved the preaching and pastoral work, I relished the moments of peaceful prayer, cherished the forms of worship and times of real Christian fellowship. Furthermore, after two years in the parish I got married and we soon had a couple of children. Country vicarage life was pleasant and good. It seemed an ideal place to settle and bring up a family. In addition I didn’t really like what I saw of the Catholic Church. If it was simply a matter of choosing a church I liked I’d still be an Anglican.
But when the General Synod of the Church of England voted to ordain women as priests all the doubts and disenchantment which had remained vague started to crystallize. How could the Anglican church, which claimed to be part of the Catholic and Apostolic church, take such a decision unilaterally? The desperate and well-meaning attempts to keep Anglo-Catholics on board that followed looked like the principle of Anglican ‘comprehensiveness’ was really the only thing that mattered. The bishops had maintained a formal unity, but without doctrinal unity what kind of foundation was the house built on? In contrast, the other Protestant groups seemed to have doctrinal agreement, but had split up into sectarian denominations and had so lost the structural unity which the Anglicans retained. Why couldn’t a church maintain unity in both form and doctrine?
It was then that I read Newman’s Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine and something he said hit me between the eyes. Newman wrote:
If Christianity is both social and dogmatic, and intended for all ages, it must, humanly speaking, have an infallible expounder, else you will secure unity of form at the loss of unity of doctrine, or unity of doctrine at the loss of unity of form; you will have to choose between a comprehension of opinions and a resolution into parties; between latitudinarian and sectarian error ... You must accept the whole or reject the whole ... it is trifling to receive all but something which is as integral as any other portion. Thus it would be trifling indeed to accept everything Catholic except the head of the body of Christ on earth.
There wasn’t any way around it. In Newman’s terms Anglicanism was social. It was latitudinarian. It was comprehensive of opinion. But to retain these strengths it had to sacrifice unity of doctrine. On the other hand the other Protestant groups were dogmatic. They were sectarian, they had resolved into parties. They had kept doctrinal agreement but sacrificed structural unity. The only way to retain unity of form and unity of doctrine was to have an agreed, visible, infallible authority. Such an authority would faithfully interpret the Scriptures to ensure unity of doctrine while providing the structure which would ensure unity of form.
The pressure was mounting. Could I take the step to Rome? I hadn’t trained for any other career or profession. I had a wife and young family to support. At the same time I was reading Eammon Duffy’s monumental work, The Stripping of the Altars. All the Protestant propaganda about the corrupt and moribund pre-Reformation church began to fall away in the face of Duffy’s relentless accumulation of facts and documentation. To make matters worse I began to read the apostolic fathers – works that I had never been encouraged to read in my Evangelical training. I was astounded to find them Catholic through and through. As Newman had discovered, any trace of Anglican or distinctively Evangelical thought was completely absent.
By now I was a regular at Quarr Abbey. If I was quick I could slip away on Sunday afternoons for Vespers and Solemn Benediction and still get back to my parish to take Evensong. So one Sunday afternoon as the monks’ plainchant ascended with the incense things came to a climax. I told God just how I felt. I resented the move I was being asked to make. I was just getting settled in my marriage, my career, my parish, my dream. Now it was being pulled out from under my feet. ‘Lord,’ I cried silently, ‘I only wanted to be part of the ancient church in England!’ Then, as the monks resumed their chant, and the incense filled the sanctuary, the still small voice replied, ‘But THIS is the ancient church in England.’
Three months later on a cold night in February with my wife and two small children and a handful of friends we went into the crypt of the Abbey church at Quarr and were received into full communion with the Catholic Church. If living within Anglicanism was like being in a hall of mirrors, then being united with the Catholic Church was like being in a hall flanked with tall windows. Within Anglicanism I had looked for a church which held a high view of Scripture and the Sacraments, and reached out with a social conscience enlivened by the Holy Spirit. What I had tried to construct on my own I found waiting for me within the Catholic Church. Within Anglicanism I found a sense of history and continuity, but within Catholicism I found a history and continuity which went back not five hundred years, but two thousand. I had wanted to affirm all things, and in the Catholic Church I can say that my whole Evangelical and Anglican experiences have not been denied, but fulfilled. I can still affirm all that my non-Catholic friends and family affirm. I simply cannot deny what some of them deny.
Most importantly I came to realize that much of the problem of relativity was linked with my own instability of life. So that night in the crypt of Quarr Abbey I ceased chasing my own dream of a church, and submitted to Christ’s One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church. There, with a sense of both loss and relief, we entered a house built not on shifting sands, but on the Rock.
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