Collaborating with Grace, the Gift from Beyond

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It’s interesting to note that Wesley Granberg-Michaelson joins the significant number of “Respectful Conversation” partners reporting having made some sort of journey beyond or at least through evangelicalism as part of embracing their current tradition. I’d count myself among such. Though I was born into the Mennonite church and raised by Anabaptist-Mennonite parents, whether what we believed in was Anabaptism or an evangelicalism tinged with fundamentalism was often unclear.

I resonate, then, with Granberg-Michaelson’s report that he started out evangelical, going back to a conversation in the kitchen with his mother when he was just four. There is indeed appeal in accepting Jesus before going to the dentist to make sure to be saved in case Jesus returns more quickly than young Wesley returns from the dentist.

I made the same move as Wesley except oh, maybe 100 times, and it just never seemed to take. I never seemed to become unqualifiedly saved. I remember when I was maybe 12 overhearing my mom say to my dad something along the lines of “If he doesn’t do it by the time he’s 16 he never will.” To this day I’m not sure if “it” was accepting Jesus, but I think it was. That only added to the pressure and caused maybe another 50 efforts to become saved.

But thoughts and feelings that seemed not to belong to saved people would always return shortly after a few days of the sainthood that would validate that Jesus was now in my heart. For me the solution, if such it was, to the quandary came from choosing in my twenties to try out whatever it meant to follow Jesus. I’d aim to follow Jesus whether or not I always believed there was a Jesus to follow and whether or not I had any confidence that Jesus was in my heart.

In light of that, I feel almost a twinge of envy that Granberg-Michaelson can report that the Reformed tradition “chose me.” There is gift here, the gift of feeling that Someone has chosen you which is moving and affirming in a different way than if it was primarily you who did the choosing. As Granberg-Michaelson summarizes, “Grace comes solely as God’s initiative, as pure gift. Faith is never an achievement or personal accomplishment.”

I mostly concur. And I think we Mennonites influenced by the individualism often linked to evangelical influences can be reminded by Granberg-Michaelson of our tradition’s from-the-start convictions that the walk toward and with Jesus happens as we become members of Christ’s body.

Each of our traditions can also find gifts in the summary of the Reformed tradition as confessional, covenantal, committed to the conviction that the world belongs to God, aware that sin is real indeed yet so is the journey from “guilt to grace to gratitude,” and ecumenical.

Those of us who are grandparents, as am I six times over, may also find blessing in Granberg-Michaelson’s testimony that “When I sit with my two grandchildren on my lap, my Reformed theology gets undone.”

My Mennonite theology gets undone too, though this did send me down a side-trail that may nevertheless deserve a touch of exploration:  wondering how any of us help next generations see gifts in our traditions as religions and denominations and traditions are in so many ways coming undone.

Some of my grandchildren are being raised in ways connected to Christianity, even sometimes Mennonite-flavored. Others less so. In-laws range all over the faith–or lack thereof–map. When we get together, we can’t assume that, say, Mennonite is our common understanding.

Even so, how surprising, and moving it has sometimes been to learn that even grandchildren as young as two pay attention for example to prayer at meals and regardless of their particular background will often propose or even personally initiate prayer. This includes the youngest, whose heart has somehow instructed her to put her two index fingers together and close her eyes as a gesture of prayer.

I suspect at least two factors come into view here. One is that indeed the communal emphases of our traditions hold insight. We are formed together, not simply apart and not entirely by larger cultural influences even as traditions increasingly atomize.

The other is that we do need somehow to take into account Granberg-Michaelson’s testimony to not only chasing grace ourselves but also being chosen and blessed by it whether or not we’re fully capable of understanding it. This takes me back to his thoughts on covenant.

On the one hand, I remain a committed enough Anabaptist-Mennonite that I don’t fully embrace his conviction that covenant includes infant baptism.

When an infant is baptized in a Reformed (or other) congregation, theological critics will complain that he or she has no choice in the matter. But that is precisely the point. Christian faith is carried communally; it’s personal but not individualistic.

I see the power of this understanding and in that sense am drawn to it. Still I’d prefer to look for ways the communal carrying of Christian faith Balmer rightly emphasizes does not preclude reserving baptism for the adult or at least adult-in-training believer consciously committing to the journey with Jesus.

Here I see some analogy with my marriage commitments. I could not have become the married person I am apart from community and “covenantal relationships of love.” And I respect that marriage arrangements vary across cultures in enriching ways. Yet I’m grateful to have had the privilege of intentionally–though certainly not in full understanding of what I was doing!–committing myself to another through sickness and in health until death does us part.

On the other hand, and as I ponder through the prism of my grandchildren, I see much to celebrate in Granberg-Michaelson’s report:

So, I don’t regard my prayer in the kitchen as an autonomous, individual act of free will, but as part of a mysterious movement of grace transmitted imperfectly but certainly through covenantal relationships of love. Believing and belonging are intertwined, and not always sequential.

Amen. Maybe the Mennonite in me can see adult baptism as collaborating with the grace which comes as gift from Beyond. Many thanks, Wesley, for leading us so meaningfully from guilt to grace to gratitude.

Almost Persuaded

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Wes Granberg-Michaelson has presented a compelling, even winsome, case for Reformed (Calvinist) Christianity, a tradition that once shaped my theological perspective. He speaks of the emphasis on community (for infant baptism especially), the importance of confessions, the sovereignty of God, ecumenism, and the Reformed tradition’s reckoning with sin. Mr. Granberg-Michaelson, a distinguished Reformed leader himself, also acknowledges that “defining faith by correct propositions can imprison belief in rationalism and mistake ‘correct’ thoughts for faithful practice,” and he cites his own experience walking the Camino de Santiago, memorably recounted in his lovely book Without Oars: Casting Off into a Life of Pilgrimage. That experience, he writes, altered his approach a bit. He now understands that “while what we think and confess carries importance, in the end we walk our way into faith.”

Having expressed my appreciation, I’d like to take this response in a slightly different direction. As a historian, I’ve been fascinated to watch various groups of evangelicals move away from their own theological heritages to embrace Calvinism in recent decades. Al Mohler, president of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, provides one example. Mohler is a classic “wind-sock” theologian—a friend calls him a soundbite in search of a theology—who once avidly supported the ordination of women, for instance, but finger to the wind, decided to oppose it early in his career just as conservatives were about to take over the SBC. Theologically, he now identifies as a Calvinist, a curiosity (to say the least) in a denomination not historically connected to the Reformed tradition.

Another example, closer to home. I grew up in the Evangelical Free Church, where my father was a highly successful pastor for more than four decades. The Free Church is rooted in the Wesleyan-Holiness tradition (decidedly not Calvinist), and yet over the past half century the entire denomination has shifted into the Reformed camp. Earlier in the twentieth century, for instance, the Free Church ordained women to the ministry (my father had an elderly ordained Free Church woman in his district as superintendent toward the end of his career); now, however, the Free Church is death on women’s ordination. What happened? I’d love to study this in more depth—and if I still had doctoral students, I would support this as a dissertation topic—but in the case of the Free Church the shift (as nearly as I can determine) began with the appointment of Kenneth Kantzer as dean of Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in the early 1960s. Kantzer in turn hired other Calvinist theologians to the faculty, and as seminary graduates fanned out into the churches, they utterly recast the theological orientation of the entire denomination over the course of several decades.

It’s a fascinating historical development, but my question is: Why? What is the attraction of Reformed theology for evangelicals, especially those who come out of the Arminian branch of evangelicalism?

Some of it may be theological confusion, a desire to identify with Calvin himself because he’s seen as intellectually formidable. And I’ll cite one anecdote. When I was producing Crusade: The Life of Billy Graham in the early 1990s, I asked Graham to characterize his theology. When he responded that he considered himself a Calvinist, my jaw dropped. Here is someone who had spent his entire career enjoining audiences to “make a decision for Christ,” decidedly not a Calvinistic appeal! (If Billy Graham is a Calvinist, I’m a Christadelphian.) Please understand, I don’t accuse Graham of dissembling; not at all. I think he simply believed for some reason that he, a self-confessed non-theologian, should identify himself and his ministry with Reformed theology.

So my question once again: What’s the appeal of Calvinism for evangelicals?

If I had to guess, I think it reflects a desire for order and rational consistency and intellectual respectability—as well as an attempt to distance themselves from those “goofy” Pentecostals. When’s the last time you met a Charismatic Calvinist? (I recognize that as soon as I write this someone is going to come up with a colony of Charismatic Calvinists in the distant exurbs of Grand Rapids or a compound in the hills somewhere north of Orange City.)

My guess is that the lure of Calvinism for evangelicals lies in the nature of Calvinism itself. The beauty of Reformed theology is that once you accept Calvinistic presuppositions—common grace, total depravity, and the like—you enter a theological vortex that allows you to explain everything—everything from human compassion to street crime to denominational schisms. It’s an airtight, self-contained universe, but it’s accessible only if you accept Calvinist presuppositions (which is why, of course, Cornelius Van Til’s apologetics were called presuppositionalism).

Evangelical logic choppers love Calvinism for that reason: its explanatory powers. And besides, John Calvin is more intellectually respectable than, say, A. A. Allen or William Marrion Branham or Sarah Lankford or even Charles Grandison Finney.

The unfortunate trade-off for this evangelical embrace of Reformed theology, as Mr. Granberg-Michaelson himself suggests, is a diminution of piety. The danger in Reformed theology, he writes, is that “spiritual experience is suspect, subjugated to right thinking.”

And I would add that one of the symptoms of this is that Calvinist theology itself too often comes off as arid and sterile. Not always, I’m sure, but frequently enough to raise the issue.

I’m not sure if it was indoctrination or absorption (to use Mr. Granberg-Michaelson’s nice distinction), but I too found Calvinism attractive when I was attending the aforementioned Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. And I did so, I suspect, for many of the same reasons I noted above. In addition, Reformed theology at the seminary was braided inextricably with a fixation on biblical inerrancy, which may represent the pinnacle of ratiocinated theology. (Full disclosure: I wrote my M.A. thesis on the Princetonians and inerrancy.) The effect was to render the Bible as a kind of relic, arid and sterile. Karl Barth’s notion that the Bible becomes the word of God was a, well, revelation to me, and my subsequent realization that Jesus is the word of God (John 1) was even more transformative.

So where am I today with Reformed theology? One of the altar call hymns from my childhood, part of a cycle with “Just as I Am” and “Softly and Tenderly, Jesus Is Calling,” was “Almost Persuaded.”

Color me “Almost Persuaded” by Reformed theology.

From Guilt to Grace to Gratitude

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The Reformed Tradition
Wesley Granberg-Michaelson

From Guilt to Grace to Gratitude

I adopted the Reformed tradition and wasn’t raised as a “child of the covenant,” nor baptized as an infant, and never heard of the Heidelberg Catechism as a young person in church. It became my choice, or as some Reformed theologians might say, it chose me.

American, white evangelicalism was the birthplace of my journey to faithfully follow Jesus. It started young, not at the baptismal font, but in the kitchen of our home, through a conversation with my mother when I was 4½ years old. As I asked questions about God and heaven, my attentive mother replied by explaining the way of salvation. I could ask Jesus to come into my heart. Did I want to do that?

We had an appointment to see our dentist, Dr. Cartright. I asked my mother if I could accept Jesus after going to the dentist. She hesitated and explained that Jesus could come again while I was having my teeth examined. So, I didn’t delay and said a prayer accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Savior.

This evangelical subculture was my home, shaping my theology and worldview. My grandfather was a friend of Billy Graham. The bulletin of the church where I was raised had the words “Evangelical, Independent, and Nondenominational” prominently printed on its cover.

Young Life, an evangelical parachurch outreach to high school students, provided an avenue that started to expand my horizons of faith. It was joyful, relational, and relevant. To my parents’ chagrin, my Young Life leader suggested I attend Hope College in Holland, Michigan, rather than Wheaton College. Doing so was probably the only major act of rebellion in my adolescence.

In the classrooms and chapel of Hope, a college of the Reformed Church in America, I first learned and experienced some of the distinctives of the Reformed tradition. It was more absorption, and certainly not indoctrination. Two things, upon reflection, stand out. 1) Grace comes solely as God’s initiative, as pure gift. Faith is never an achievement or personal accomplishment. 2) Following Jesus can’t remain individualized. It’s more than “Jesus and me.” It involves God and the world. That means all aspects of life and culture—science, politics, economics, art, history—are understood wholistically through the framework of faith and the sovereignty of God. This is often termed a Reformed “world and life view.”

It took years more in my journey before being ordained as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Reformed Church in America. But those perspectives about grace, God, and the world, which I believe are central to the Reformed tradition, have remained with me to this day as I continue to try to faithfully follow Jesus.

Beyond the core of the Reformation–grace alone, the Word alone, and faith alone–are further distinctives to being Reformed. These can also become problematic at times, often generating stereotypes about Reformed Christians.

1. The Reformed Tradition is Confessional

Relying on the Word requires clarity about what it means. Confessions do so, written relevant to historical contexts but carrying enduring truths. These words matter, formulating beliefs which become the basis for belonging. Most are from the 16th and 17th centuries. But a striking recent example is the Belhar Confession, written in response to apartheid in South Africa, but with deep truths about reconciliation, justice, and unity which have gained a wider receptivity in parts of the Reformed world.

Yet there are dangers. Focusing on defining faith by correct propositions can imprison belief in rationalism and mistake “correct” thoughts for faithful practice. Faith then becomes detached from the whole person, and spiritual experience is suspect, subjugated to right thinking. In the recent years of my journey, I’ve placed more stress on practices, such as pilgrimage, which were largely rejected by the Reformers. My time on the Camino de Santiago, and other paths unfolding from my contemplative journey, have persuaded me that while what we think and confess carries importance, in the end we walk our way into faith.

2. The Reformed Tradition is Covenantal

When an infant is baptized in a Reformed (or other) congregation, theological critics will complain that he or she has no choice in the matter. But that is precisely the point. Christian faith is carried communally; it’s personal but not individualistic. A Christian community’s covenantal promises can be a vehicle for the initiative of God’s grace. As a counterpoint to the hyper-individualism of modern Western culture, this seems both theologically mature and sociologically honest. So, I don’t regard my prayer in the kitchen as an autonomous, individual act of free will, but as part of a mysterious movement of grace transmitted imperfectly but certainly through covenantal relationships of love. Believing and belonging are intertwined, and not always sequential.

But covenant can breed exclusivity and corporate self-righteousness. It was a temptation faced both by the people of Israel, and by those in Reformed communities through history, to this day. My theological response is that the framework of God’s covenantal grace keeps expanding, relentlessly and inclusively, as seen in Jesus. God’s covenant is extended through God’s unconditional initiative, but its boundaries are permeable, fluid, and unexpected. It’s a centered set, not a bounded set.

3. The Reformed Tradition proclaims that the world belongs to God

The evangelical culture which shaped my early years contended that we were saved from the world, both eternally and through daily measures to resist its contaminating influences. The Reformed tradition stresses that all in the world is intended to be redeemed and brought under God’s sovereignty. In its best expressions, this overcomes the dualism between body and soul, nature and grace, secular and sacred. It’s an invitation to creative engagement between faith and culture, art, politics, science, economics, etc.

Yet, at times the results of Reformed interaction with culture have been disastrous. I recall visiting the Elmina slave castle on coast of Ghana. On the main floor I entered the chapel built by Dutch Reformed Christians engaged in this trade, where they worshipped and sang Psalms, extolling God’s blessings. On the floor directly below, those captured where ruthlessly held in prison dungeons, awaiting transfer to slave ships. Dualism reigned supreme. Throughout history, various Reformed communities have justified slavery, apartheid, white patriarchy, and more. In the current rhetoric of white nationalism, one can hear echoes of similar racist, religious sentiments. Applying faith to all of life must come with a ruthless critique of how we are prone to use faith to justify our preexisting conditions of power and privilege with their oppressive effects.

4. The Reformed Tradition takes sin very seriously

“Total depravity” is often the starting point for classic Reformed theology. Even the Heidelberg Catechism, frequently praised for its more winsome spirit, answers Question Five by stating, “by nature I am prone to hate God and my neighbor.” One can be grateful that the Reformed tradition refuses to see the world through naïve, superficial lens, and confronts the empirical evidence of its harsh realities. Yet, it seems ironic that a thoroughly negative anthropology should be cited as a theological virtue.

In fact, the term “total depravity” appears nowhere in any of the classic Reformed confessions, although its sentiments are found. But both Reformed theology and practice often get stuck in this rut. Guilt weighs heavily and persistently. At its best, the Reformed journey is described as a movement from guilt to grace to gratitude. It’s an inviting pathway. The challenge, however, is that when you begin in so deep a hole, it can take a lifetime to comprehend grace and live out of gratitude, and sometimes that’s not enough. When I sit with my two grandchildren on my lap, my Reformed theology gets undone. The last thing in the world I want them to hear about is total depravity. Rather, I want them to begin knowing how much they are loved, and that in their inner being, they carry the image of God.

5. The Reformed Tradition is ecumenical

It’s not surprising that many global leaders of the modern ecumenical movement, like W. A. Visser ‘t Hooft (the first WCC general secretary), Eugene Carson Blake, Henrick Kraemer, Lesslie Newbigin, and several others came from the Reformed tradition. John Calvin argued that no church was perfect, and in 1560 he proposed “a free and universal council to put an end to the divisions of Christendom.” He would even “cross ten seas….in order to unite widely severed Churches.” Believing that no church can be perfectly pure serves as a vulnerable and open starting point for ecumenism.

Regrettably, for more than four centuries of the Reformed tradition’s history, Calvin’s passion for church unity has been spurned. Reformed and Presbyterian churches are notorious for continual successions and divisions from one another, usually over finer points of doctrine or else various ethical issues (membership in the Freemasons, divorce, same gender relationships, etc.) which can hardly be regarded as foundational to faith in Jesus Christ. Nevertheless, Reformed ecclesiology provides a fruitful opening for addressing the shameful, sinful reality of over 45,000 separate denominations in today’s world.

These major points summarize how much of the global Reformed community, numbering about 80 million Christians, seek to faithfully follow Jesus. Of course, there is wide variety and difference. In the end, this tradition insists that we are held by God’s uncontrollable grace, and that God invites us as disciples of Christ to serve and act out of gratitude for the sake of a world so loved by God.

Response to Anglican/Episcopal Comments

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I’ve often said that a scholar can receive no greater compliment than to have others interact seriously with his ideas. I thank all of you for your thoughtful comments, and although I won’t be able to respond to every point (due to limitations on space and your patience), I shall try to address at least something from each post.

Orthodox: David Ford, I thank you for your observations about the affinities between Anglicanism and Orthodoxy, in part because of a rejection of scholasticism and a mutual suspicion of papal infallibility. Although I have reservations about ecumenism in general, I agree that our two traditions have much in common, something I tried to argue when I was (briefly) a member of the Episcopal Church delegation on ecumenical relations. Yes, I’m sure it’s true that some in the Anglican tradition deny the bodily resurrection of Jesus (a position I find truly regrettable, even heretical), but to foreswear the possibility of intercommunion because of the ordination of women or the acceptance of those with “alternate” sexual identities is, in my view, both short-sighted and not consonant with the teaching and the demeanor of Jesus that we find in the New Testament.

Roman Catholic: Some of my comments in the preceding paragraph apply here as well, and yes, Christina Wassell, I’m very aware that papal infallibility has been invoked sparingly since the doctrine was devised during the First Vatican Council. That does not diminish its hubris. As for being “niggled” by the origins of Anglicanism (because Henry VIII wanted a divorce), sure, I wish I could point to more noble beginnings. But the formation of the Church of England underscores the flawed and very human character of institutions—not unlike Peter himself and the Roman Catholic Church—and all the more reason that those of us who follow Jesus should strike a pose of humility rather than grandiosity when it comes to claims of truth or supremacy. As St. Paul says, “we know in part, and we prophesy in part” (1 Corinthians 13:9). Ms. Wassell raises the issue of politics, particularly surrounding the abortion issue. I have no reason to question the sincerity of many of those who line up in the antiabortion camp—including, I have no doubt, Ms. Wassell herself—but the irrefutable fact remains that the Religious Right mobilized in the 1970s in defense of racial segregation in evangelical institutions, not in response to Roe v. Wade. And it’s not simply a matter of shrugging this off by professing to judge a tree by its fruit. My sense as a historian is that unacknowledged and unrepented racism tends to fester, as we saw in 2016 when the Religious Right finally abandoned the pretense that theirs was a movement concerned with “family values” and 81 percent of white evangelicals supported Donald Trump. (Here is an instance where the tree and its fruits metaphor might actually be instructive, though it leads to a far different conclusion from the one Ms. Wassell favors.) Opposition to abortion may be a worthy crusade. (I believe it is, by the way, although I think it should be addressed as a moral issue, not a legal issue. Put another way, I have no interest in making abortion illegal; I would like to make it unthinkable.) But it is also undeniable that a singular focus on abortion has distorted our approach to other, equally important, matters. As I asked in an earlier posting, in what moral universe do the Catholic bishops consider censuring Joe Biden, a devout Catholic, while heaping praise on Donald Trump?

Lutheran: Mark Ellingsen, I love your invocation of the communion of the saints, one of my favorite phrases from the Nicene Creed. That sense of connectedness both to the past as well as to fellow (contemporary) believers is compelling—and comforting. Mr. Ellingsen’s comments also prompt me to wonder if there is indeed a correlation between a liturgical focus and a (healthy) suspicion of too strong a reliance on reason. And yes—of course!—justification by grace, which entails freedom from the law. Finally, in response to the final question: “But is there a place for the Lutheran emphasis on freedom and spontaneity in Anglican circles (esp. as we celebrate the liturgy together)?” I’d sure like to think so, and it is certainly true that alternate forms and liturgies are used extensively, depending on the parish. At the same time, Episcopalians, “God’s frozen chosen,” are not often known for spontaneity!

Anabaptist: I appreciate Michael King’s “catholic” tastes when it comes to spirituality; Frederick Buechner has long been a favorite of mine (though I think you confused title and subtitle in your posting), along with the inimitable Anne Lamott. And I love the fact that Mr. King, having ranged far afield, has chosen fully to inhabit his own Anabaptist tradition. I think that’s admirable, and I honor it. (I’ve tried to do the same, and I think to some extent I’ve succeeded, but failing to speak out against the execrable politics to which many evangelicals have succumbed would, I believe, constitute moral cowardice.)

Reformed Tradition: My friend (and neighbor) Wes Granberg-Michaelson raises an important point: The Reformers’ break with Roman Catholicism necessitated the formulation of various creeds so that these breakaway movements could “clarify what they believed” and “provide a definitive rational statement of theological convictions.” Having rejected the twin bases of authority that underlay the Roman Catholic Church, scripture and tradition, Reformers had to devise their own formulae based on their reading of the Bible. This led inevitably to the splintering of Protestantism because the Bible, as we know, admits of many interpretations. I’m also heartened to hear that many congregations in the Reformed tradition are paying more attention to the Lord’s Supper. (I was aware of this anecdotally, but Mr. Granberg-Michaelson is an authoritative source.) Could the Book of Common Prayer have overcome apartheid? A fair question, and one that probably cannot be answered definitively. But it is undeniably the case that an Anglican archbishop (and lover of the Book of Common Prayer), the late Desmond Tutu, certainly contributed mightily to that struggle.

Baptist: Another dear and admired friend, David Gushee, has recounted his own flirtation with the Episcopal Church, but he, like Michael King, returned to his Baptist roots. (What is it about you Baptists!) Mr. Gushee wonders “whether there is enough shared substance for the discipleship journey” within the Anglican tradition. He goes on to say that the primacy of liturgy over theology (a point I may have oversold) has not spared Anglicans/Episcopalians from schism. A fair argument, though I’m not sure that doctrinal uniformity would have forestalled that development. Mr. Gushee points out the relative absence of Anglican contributions to his field, Christian Ethics. Yes, I suppose that’s true, and I’m hard-pressed for an explanation. (It’s been a long time since I was Paul Ramsey’s TA in his Christian Ethics classes at Princeton, and I haven’t kept up with the field; the only Anglican reading I can recall was a pamphlet on the issue of divorce and remarriage.) Thank you, finally, for acknowledging the capaciousness of the Anglican tradition, and yes, there is “something biblical about that.”

Pietism: I’m gratified to hear that my essay resonated with Christopher Gehrz, and we have yet another testimonial to the lure of the Anglican tradition—the Choral Eucharist, Evensong, Epiphany Carols, and worship “in the beauty of holiness.” I love Mr. Gehrz’s invocation of the followers of Jesus as a “people of faith and doubt” as well as Pietism’s commitment “to seek a via media around the Reformation’s most destructive dead ends, that Pietists can certainly celebrate in Anglicanism.” And yes, I also believe that diverse pathways of faith lead to similar ends. Amen.

Wesleyan: Thank you, Sarah Lancaster, for reminding us of the close historical ties between Anglicanism and Methodism. The Wesleys’ Methodism, with its emphasis on warm-hearted piety, was part of a broader eighteenth-century reaction against scholasticism, a movement that encompassed Continental Pietism, Quietism among Roman Catholics, and even Hasidism among Jews. And yes, it is probably true that the Methodist-Episcopal divide developed because the latter “felt a greater need for maintaining proper liturgy and sacraments,” although the evangelical in me certainly agrees that personal experience is more important than “tidy theological categories.” You have my sympathy as a denomination for the current contestation over LGBTQ+ issues. I fervently hope before I pass on to my reward to see some denomination threaten to split over how well they are fulfilling Jesus’ injunction to love their neighbors and care for “the least of these.” Now that would be a fight worth waging!

Black Church: Farris Blount heralds the “creative freedom” in a tradition not defined principally by doctrine, but he wonders “to what degree such an openness can be detrimental to those who are new to the Anglican tradition, as there is no orienting theological structure to help them make sense of their faith in and commitment to Jesus.” That may be true (though it wasn’t for me), but I would emphatically contest Mr. Blount’s assertion that the Book of Common Prayer doesn’t contain “the actual words or instructions” of Jesus. To the contrary, the Prayer Book brims with the words and the teachings of Jesus, and one of my revelations when I began attending an Episcopal church was that each service contained a whole lot more reading of Scripture than I heard in evangelical churches. I quite agree that too often Christians, evangelicals especially, have elevated the words of Paul over the words and the example of Jesus. I’ve often said that you can construct a pretty reliable taxonomy of Christian denominations by tracking which portions of the Bible they gravitate to. For evangelicals, it tends to be the Pauline epistles—most likely because Paul is a moralist, and he tells them what to do. But if you believe (as I do) that Jesus is the “word of God” (see John 1), then it seems to me that the Gospels merit greater attention.

Latter-day Saints: First, let’s agree that my friend Robert Millet crafted by far the best title in this round of postings: “From the Sawdust Trail to the Canterbury Trail.” Brilliant! Mr. Millet was kind enough to refer to some of my earlier writings, and to do so with appreciation, even suggesting that they have helped him in his commendable efforts to forge new understandings between evangelicals and Latter-day Saints. At first blush, I find Boyd Packer’s reflections on the importance of doctrine quite compelling: “The study of the doctrines of the gospel will improve behavior quicker than a study of behavior will improve behavior.” But as I reflect further, I’m not certain that I agree that the purpose of doctrine is to regulate behavior. That sounds a bit too much like works-righteousness to me.

Pentecostalism: As someone who is afflicted with the hobgoblin of consistency, I know that I should address my colleague J. Terry Todd with an honorific, “Mr. Todd,” just as I have with others in this thread. But I’m not sure I can do so. Terry and I go way back (longer than either of us cares to tally), and he is one of my favorite people on the planet. So, here goes . . . Terry opens with a poignant and heartrending account of Christopher Ssenyonjo, an Anglican bishop in Uganda who was barred and banished from the Church of Uganda for his advocacy of LGBTQ+ rights. Terry follows this story with a simple, powerful sentence: “Ssenyonjo paid a heavy price for following Jesus.” He proceeds to point out that the worldwide Anglican communion is plagued by divisions and saddled with an imperial and colonialist past. “Of all the traditions we’ve considered so far,” Terry writes, “it’s probably the Anglicans who are most beset by their imperial and colonialist heritage, which has shaped churches of the Anglican Communion in ways difficult to untangle.” I think Roman Catholicism probably merits a shout-out on those grounds as well, but I take the point. Terry recalls fondly, as do I, our visit to Church of the King (later, Christ the King) parish in Valdosta, Georgia. This was an erstwhile Assemblies of God congregation that, through the influence of a young minister, Stan White (sadly, recently deceased), found its way to the Episcopal Church, all the while maintaining its Pentecostal enthusiasm. I was present on Easter Sunday, 1990, when more than two hundred congregants were confirmed into the Episcopal Church by five bishops. “Midway through ‘Sing unto the Lord a New Song,’ ” I wrote at the time, “Church of the King looked more like Tuesday night aerobics class than Easter Sunday in an Episcopal parish.” I loved that place for its receptivity to the Holy Spirit, and even more so when Terry and I returned there to film the Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory documentary. So yes, I certainly feel at home in the evangelical quadrant of Anglican life.

Once again, my thanks to all of you for your thoughtful comments.

When the Canterbury Trail Leads to Kampala

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I once met a retired Ugandan Anglican Bishop by the name of Christopher Ssenyonjo. Bishop Ssenyonjo was (and remains) an outspoken advocate of LGBTQI equality in Ugandan civil society and in the Church of Uganda. He founded Integrity Uganda, an organization that advocates for the full inclusion of LGBTQ Christians in Anglican church life.  Bishop Ssenyonjo also fought tirelessly against the infamous “anti-homosexual act” before the Ugandan Parliament that would have included the death penalty for some LGBTQ persons.  He set up a counseling center in Kampala that welcomed people of all sexual and gender identities, who found in Bishop Ssenyonjo a deep listener, a kind friend, and a fierce advocate.

In the documentary Voices of Witness Africa, Bishop Ssenyonjo said “Jesus left us the most important cardinal rule: ‘Love one another as I have loved you.'” Yet for the Bishop’s love, compassion, and tireless advocacy among queer Ugandans, for his attendance at the consecration of a lesbian bishop in the United States, and for his participation in an “irregular” ordination in the Charismatic Church of Uganda, Ssenyonjo was barred from performing any episcopal or priestly duties and banished from the Church of Uganda.

Ssenyonjo paid a heavy price for following Jesus.

I introduce this remarkable Christian not only to highlight the Bishop’s brave and bold deeds, but also to underscore the complex set of divisions within the Anglican tradition that Randall Balmer writes about with a convert’s heart and evident devotion.  The Anglican Communion is a gathering of churches that recognize a common history, prayerful devotion through various versions of the Book of Common Prayer, and kinship with the Archbishop of Canterbury as first among equal bishops.  Yet it is also a global organization beset with troubles not just between but within national churches, like the Church of Uganda.

Of all the traditions we’ve considered so far, it’s probably the Anglicans who are most beset by their imperial and colonialist heritage, which has shaped churches of the Anglican Communion in ways difficult to untangle.  Yet in a global communion where the number of baptized Anglicans in Nigeria outnumber those in the Church of England, it’s crucial to extend the scope of analysis beyond the Englishness of Anglicans, to see how colonialism has affected the theological and liturgical orientation of Anglicans.

Balmer understates the relationship between liturgy and theology, I believe, because surely the former is intended to express the latter.  It was the genius of Cranmer and his colleagues, in the 1549 Book of Common Prayer, to wrap scripture and reformation theology into the sublime poetry of the book’s prayers and praise.  Like hymnody, poetry invites multiple interpretive possibilities, and opens Anglican tradition to a wide spectrum of theological orientations, including a large evangelical wing. (I wonder if Balmer feels at home in that quadrant of Anglican life?) What happens now as authoritative and alternative Anglican liturgies begin to express rapidly developing theological differences?

Randy admits he favors the Eucharist above the sermon, a claim that would have scandalized many Anglicans from an earlier generation – Anglo-Catholics excluded.  But I get it.  I have witnessed countless Eucharistic celebrations, and it seems like no one does it with the majesty and meaning of Anglicans.

There’s a place in the Eucharistic prayer where my Pentecostal ears prick up – the epiclesis, the celebrant’s invocation of the Holy Spirit upon the elements at the table and on the gathered congregation:

Lord, we pray that in your goodness and mercy, your Holy Spirit may descend upon us, and upon these gifts, sanctifying them and showing them to be holy gifts for your holy people, the bread of life and the cup of salvation . . . (BCP, 1979, Eucharistic Prayer D)

I wonder not only what ancient pneumatology these words express yet also what it would mean for the congregation to experience the Holy Spirit’s descent at this moment.  What would it look like?  Feel like?  I wonder whether participants within the various charismatic movements of global Anglicanism have amplified in their liturgies what otherwise seems such a subtle Holy Ghost moment that most might miss it.

Another month, another response, the same plea:  the approach to the question – what does it mean to follow Jesus in the [fill in the blank] tradition? – requires a deep dive into context, and into the lives of those within the tradition. Balmer perfected this method in his brilliant book, Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory:  A Journey into the Evangelical Subculture in America.  (Full disclosure:  Randy was my dissertation advisor, and I worked with him on the video version of Mine Eyes.)  We traveled to southern Georgia to meet members of a formerly Pentecostal church who had followed their pastor into the Episcopal Church.  We talked with them. And we witnessed their worship.

The visual display was High-Church: a procession with crucifer and torch bearers, a vested choir, and priests in elaborate costumes. Yet in the music, the clapping, and the Pentecostal utterances – yes, probably including the phrase Randy finds so distasteful, Lord we jus’ wanna – the vibe was Holy Ghost. Open to the movement of Spirit, structured yet spontaneous.  It was a sight to behold.

I have no idea what happened to that Georgia church, and how or whether they’ve continued to lean into their Pentecostal Anglicanism.  Yet I see, at least in the U.S. Episcopal Church under Presiding Bishop Michael Curry, an evangelical movement of the Spirit that is focused on calling to life a church that jokingly has been titled God’s frozen chosen. Bishop Curry’s revivals are a fusion of the singing and preaching style of black church revivalism, Episcopal prayers traditions, and most important, an altar call to follow Jesus in compassionate love and service to others.

With the attention that Balmer places upon the language of the Book of Common Prayer, perhaps it’s fitting to close with words from a Christmas rite within the Episcopal Church’s Book of Occasional Services (2018).  This Cranmerian (is that a term?) prayer is intended to transport us into a world where we think theologically and pray sonorously so that we can then have the strength and courage to follow Jesus. The prayer’s sentiments of Christian unity in the communion of saints are aspirational at a time when deep and perhaps irreconcilable divisions are the reality among Anglicans as among many other Christians:

And because this of all things would rejoice [Jesus’] heart, let us at this time remember in his name the poor and the helpless, the hungry and the oppressed; the sick and those who mourn; the lonely and the unloved; the aged and the little children; and all who know not the Lord Jesus, or who love him not, or by sin have grieved his heart of love.  Lastly let us remember before God his pure and lovely Mother, and all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light, that multitude which no one can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh, and with whom, in this Lord Jesus, we forever more are one.

I wonder:  how differently do such words land, and what do they evoke, among Anglicans in Kampala or in Nantucket, in Lagos and in Los Angeles, in Hong Kong or in Highbridge and points in between?

Mystical Communion with the Lord in his Energies

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Dear Randall,

Thanks for your posting.

I was intrigued to learn about your spiritual journey.  It made me think of how our Orthodox professor at Oral Roberts University guided us through Robert Webber’s landmark book, Common Roots: A Call to Evangelical Maturity, in 1978, the very year that book was published.  Webber’s summons to Evangelicals to enrich and deepen their faith through hearkening back to the ways of belief and worship of the Early Church resonated with many of us in the class, who were on a similar journey towards historic Christianity with its sacramental world-view undergirding the liturgical and sacramental richness of the worship and spirituality of the Early Church.

And as that professor continued to lead us in our studies of Christian history through the centuries, up to the present, it became crystal-clear that only the Holy Orthodox Church had retained the spirituality, the liturgical richness centered in the sacraments, the doctrines, the devotional practices, and the hierarchical/conciliar structure of the Church of the early centuries—especially the Church of the fourth century, when the Church was able to flourish in the open, in this era after the end of the persecutions of the first three centuries.  We saw that this was the case mainly because in the history of the Orthodox Church there never was an era of Scholasticism or a subsequent Reformation in reaction against that Scholasticism, as there was in Western Christianity.

Later in our studies, we learned that the possibility of reconciliation between the Anglican Church and the Orthodox Church in some ways looked very promising during the 19th and into the 20th century.  After all, regarding Roman Catholicism, there was full agreement between Anglicanism and Orthodoxy on the rejection of Papal infallibility, and the rejection of Papal claims to universal jurisdiction over all of Christendom, and of mandatory clerical celibacy, and of only offering the Eucharist in one kind to the laity, and of allowing worship to only be in the Latin language rather than in the vernacular of the people.  And unlike most of the rest of Protestantism, there was between Anglicanism and Orthodoxy a strong common affirmation of liturgical/sacramental worship; of the great importance of beauty in religious art, architecture, and music; and of veneration of the Saints.  But now, so sadly, it seems that such reconciliation has been made impossible by the general allowance within the Anglican Church of widely disparate beliefs, including sometimes even a denial of Jesus’s real resurrection from the dead, and a questioning of God’s revelation of Himself as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; and the welcoming of radical, non-traditional innovations in Church life, such as the promotion of women as priests and bishops, and embracing various forms of sexual expression outside of heterosexual marriage as being compatible with authentic Christian living.

I was delighted to read of your appreciation for the “mysteries” of the Faith as over against the Enlightenment/Rationalist—and I would add, with more emphasis, the medieval Scholastic—efforts to reduce the mysteries of the Faith to the level of rational understanding.  Orthodox Christians are surprised at such efforts, which to us indicate a quite astounding hubris—as if men and women, no matter how intelligent, with their still very limited created intellects, could ever understand the utterly incomprehensible Essence of God, the Uncreated One, even while in His infinite compassion for us, and in His fervent desire to be in living communion with us, He grants us to comprehend various ways by which He chooses to reveal Himself to us in His Energies.

It’s this key distinction between God’s Essence and His Energies that allows us to understand how in mystical experience (which we believe every Christian—not just a few monastics—is invited by our Lord to enjoy; Rev. 3:20) we can become truly united with God, becoming “one spirit” with the Lord (1 Cor. 6:17 and 19), becoming “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4), yet without being absorbed into His Essence, which remains utterly beyond our participation or understanding.  St. Basil the Great, in the 4th century, said that “we know our God from His Energies, but we do not claim that we can draw near to His Essence.  For His Energies come down to us, but His Essence remains unapproachable” (Letter 234).

Surely there is mystery—and paradox—here!  Almost a thousand years later, St. Gregory Palamas (1296-1359), the Orthodox Church Father who wrote the most about the Essence and Energies of God, indicated the traditional Orthodox humble acceptance of, and reverence for, the mysteries of the Faith very succinctly in this way: “The antinomy (or paradox) is the touchstone of Orthodoxy.”

Thank you again for your interesting and helpful posting.

Yours, in Christ,

David Ford

On History, St. Peter, and Deals with the Devil

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Randall Balmer and I share much in the motives of our wanderings toward Anglicanism from a more Evangelical past, including the desire for connectedness to the old, an awe and appreciation for beautiful sacred spaces, and a love for the Book of Common Prayer, which renders the liturgy and the faith in some of the most lovely English known to man.  I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t sometimes miss that book, and some of those prayers.  We also agree that the ‘main event’ of Christian liturgy is the Holy Eucharist, which is a pretty serious fundamental to agree upon, even if the real presence in that Eucharist may shape up a bit differently in our respective traditions.  I could also be accused, like Balmer, of being an Anglophile, and there is something cozy about the ‘Englishness’ of the Canterbury Trail, which Balmer brings to life in his essay.

Reading through Balmer’s posting also brought up for me an oddity that I remember about my time in the Anglican Church, which had to do with the question of which church I was a part of anyway––the Anglican or the Episcopal?  In reality, my bishop was Episcopalian, and so in the proper sense I worshipped alongside Episcopalians.  But, part of what I longed for and identified with was a bigger, deeper, historic entity, and so it ‘felt better’ to say I was in the Anglican Church.  I used the terms fairly interchangeably (as does Balmer), and while there was a freedom to use the term that suited me in a given moment, there was also something unsettling about that. It is all ‘the Anglican Communion,’ to be fair, but eventually, the real terms became more important as the congregation I belonged to split when Gene Robinson was ordained the first openly gay Bishop in the Episcopal Church.  At that moment, we could have become ‘really Anglican’ as a significant part of our congregation realigned under an African Anglican bishop opposed to gay marriage and ordination, but, at that point we were already up to our ankles in the Tiber from a theological perspective, and it was time to swim.  (Is it this issue of publicly homosexual clergy and bishops, Mr. Balmer, that you suspected was the “something else” at the root of my move away from the Anglican Church?)

Balmer is more comfortable than I was with some of the uncertainty that is just a part of being Anglican.  While I surely appreciate the mystery of faith, the degree of diversity around what a priest or a member of the church might believe on a given topic felt too roomy. I can see that for some this would be a winning quality.  Balmer brushes this off succinctly when he says,  “I’m a historian, not a theologian. But the larger reason is that, although Anglicanism has its share of good theologians as well as the Thirty-nine Articles, doctrine does not lie at the core of Anglican or Episcopal identity.”  The Catechism of the Catholic Church is a behemoth, to be sure, but met a longing I had to see the faith laid down in clear articulations.  

Balmer as historian is apparently also untroubled by the Anglican church’s beginning.  Now, the ecclesiastical history of the English people is another matter.  Give me Augustine of Canterbury!  Give me Bede!  We named our seventh son Wilfred, after that great English saint.  But of course, at this point the Church was still universal.  When Henry VIII needs his divorce and decides to break the Church over it, the history gets dicey.  I’m not a historian in the way Balmer is, but I love history, and when we worshipped in the Anglican tradition this unfortunate beginning did…niggle.

When Mr. Balmer, at the end of his posting, describes the Roman Catholic Church as ‘a bridge too far,’ he points to Petrine primacy and papal infallibility as primary stumbling points.  I can appreciate these issues as final hurdles or even obstacles for swimming the Tiber.  These are two very separate issues, and deserve separate responses.  I feel a quick clarification on papal infallibility, since it is often grossly misunderstood, might be helpful, especially for our conversation partners further removed from the Roman Church than Mr. Balmer.  The pope is only considered ‘infallible’ when speaking ex cathedra (Latin for from the chair).  This is reserved only for speaking on issues of faith and morals, and it occurs extremely rarely.  Since papal infallibility was formally defined by the First Vatican Council (1869-70), it has only been invoked *once*: in 1950 to declare Mary’s Assumption into heaven.  Some argue that the statement on Mary’s Immaculate Conception, (which took place 16 years before this official definition of papal infallibility), also has the character of an ex cathedra statement.  These ex cathedra statements are only used to define and defend long held dogma when it is under attack, and where clarification for the universal church is needed.  It is not ever used to invent new theology, but rather to put language around what the Church has taught and believed through the ages.  It in no way means that everything a sitting pope teaches, preaches or implies is infallible.  It has absolutely nothing to do with how full of virtue or vice a particular pope may be.  It is merely the belief that God would protect Holy Mother Church from error in the most formal statements she makes on faith and morals.  Protestants of all stripes confess that Holy Scripture was, in a mysterious way, protected from error by God, even though many fallible humans partnered with God along the way to bring it into being.  Why is it such a stretch that God would also protect his Church from error through the living voice of a pope when he speaks in his most formal capacity?

Balmer also raises the question of Peter as first among equals, that is, as the ‘head’ of the Apostles as the body of the Church took shape after Christ’s passion.  Interestingly, the scripture Mr. Balmer cites regarding St. Peter (Matthew 16) seems to ignore other important pieces of the Petrine puzzle.  Balmer writes: “Peter, as we know, was anything but solid. He was dithering and spineless, insisting that he would never disavow Jesus but caving to pressure from a young girl. And when Peter tried to walk on the Sea of Galilee, he took his eyes off Jesus and sank beneath the waves—like a rock.”  I can certainly appreciate the humor Balmer sees here, and don’t doubt it’s there.  But what about the next verse, when Christ follows Simon’s name-change to Peter (name-changes in the Bible usually mean something big, no?) with “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 16:20).  I find it difficult to see this verse as anything but an appointing of St. Peter to an office with real responsibility, and paired with “on this rock I shall build my church” only a verse before, it surely reads as more than only a joke. 

Finally, while Balmer points to St. Peter’s denial of our Lord to the young girl pestering him after Christ’s arrest, how can we leave off our study of this apostle without a look at the very end of the Gospel of John?  Here, St. Peter’s threefold denial is countered by Christ inviting a threefold assurance that St. Peter loves Jesus, on the shores of that very same sea he had sunk like a rock in.  Each of the three statements ‘Yes, Lord, you know I love you’ is then followed by a command from Christ to feed and look after his sheep.  Why single St. Peter out in this way?  Why this effort to undo his triple denial with a triple confession of love, coupled with a triply emphasized statement of his role to care for the flock?  My understanding is that anything showing up in threes is not to be ignored.  This majestic Gospel ends with Christ telling St. Peter about the martyrdom he will face.  In the context of all the Gospels, St. Peter is singled out by our Lord more than once, and it is undeniable that some extra measure of responsibility is laid on him.  Perhaps the choice of St. Peter looks like folly from our human perspective, but God’s choices often elude our human sensibilities and vantage points.  While I can see room for humor in the mix, the Petrine office cannot be reduced to a pun.

I was only a wee lass when the ”Faustian bargain [Evangelicals] made with the far-right reaches of the Republican Party” occurred, as Mr. Balmer describes it.  I’ve been interested since Mr. Balmer’s first postings, including his response to my own on Roman Catholicism, about his penchant for including the political realm in his contributions here.  Surely the nature of his work as a historian invites this, and indeed I do believe faith must inform our participation in the public square.  Mr. Balmer reduced my migration to Catholicism and to the Latin Mass as one based on “reactionary politics.”  I sincerely ask, is having a political stance on a given issue that is rooted in the theology that informs your life reactionary?  Perhaps contrary to Mr. Balmer’s suspicions, as a Christian, I’m happy to be registered as an undeclared voter, as my allegiance is to Christ and not to political parties.  I certainly treasure and exercise my right to vote, and I do my best to vote with the conscience God gave me.  It is a conscience at this point which is most certainly formed by the theology anyone can read about in the Catechism of the Catholic Church.  

I incorrectly assumed at first, Mr. Balmer, that the Faustian bargain you refer to had something to do with Evangelicals aligning themselves with the Pro-Life movement, and eventually the Republican Party.  In researching your work a bit to make sure, I now understand your interest is more complex, as you aim to point out that the rise of the ‘Religious Right’ which glommed onto the Pro-Life issue in about 1980, had its origins in a much less laudable motive: that of keeping schools segregated.   I certainly find this an interesting bit of history, though I think minimal digging will reveal problematic beliefs and practices regarding race from all sides of the political aisle.  I find the discovery you assert unfortunate, that when Evangelicals joined Catholics in caring about Pro-Life issues it may have been with impure motives, but I will judge this tree by its fruit.  

I ask for clarification only because my own faith journey brought me through the Anglican Church, and at that stopping place (and surrounded by those thinkers), I can actually recall feeling a sense of disdain for the ‘simplistic arguments’ on abortion that I had ascribed to in my Evangelical days.  The Anglicans seemed so much more interested in nuance, and the complexity that each woman faces when the question of abortion becomes a reality for her.  I am pleased to say, that having washed in the Tiber, I can now repent of those feelings, and that one of the places I feel most delighted to stand with my orthodox Evangelical brothers and sisters is in the Pro-Life cause.  I can now unequivocally see that every child conceived (even in incest, even in rape, even in grave circumstances) has the right to life, and that no government worth its salt should fail to protect these most vulnerable in society.  Every ‘bundle of cells’ formed in conception is also an eternal soul created in God’s image. While Pro-Choice advocates began their work by asking ‘to make abortion safe, legal and rare,’ we have witnessed a genocide of 62 million babies in this country.  Women who ‘shout their abortions’ and take abortion pills on the sidewalk in public protest of movements toward Pro-Life policies are labeled by some as heroic.  Faust trades his soul to the devil for unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures. To use the term ‘Faustian bargain’ anywhere near the topic of abortion seems unwise if it doesn’t refer directly to the literal blood sacrifice that has been offered in exchange for ‘consequence free’ copulation.  

Mr. Balmer may consider that opinion ‘reactionary politics,’ but I see it as following Jesus in my tradition.  While Mr. Balmer asserts that my journey of faith was informed by my politics, I would argue conversely that as my understanding of theology solidified and clarified, my politics followed suit.

The notable Anglican convert to Catholicism, St. John Henry Newman, famously said, “To be deep in history is to cease to be  Protestant.”  He was speaking here about the early Church Fathers, and how there is simply not a case for the tenets of Protestantism in these early writings.  History at its best should teach a kind of humility, whereby we can see any human progress we’ve made in light of the wisdom held in the past.  As Christians, those generations who followed Christ’s life on earth most nearly may have much to teach on some of the issues Mr.  Balmer raises from the Canterbury Trail.  

 

Thinking Through Theological Freedom in the Anglican Tradition

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When reading Dr. Balmer’s reflection on following Jesus from the Anglican tradition, I was struck by his point that “doctrine does not lie at the core of the Anglican or Episcopal identity.” On the one hand, I appreciate the opportunities for theological diversity and inquiry such a position provides; if there is no central doctrine that outlines what it means for Anglicans to follow Jesus, there is an increased possibility that those who identify as Anglican (or Episcopalian) will have the creative freedom to define what it means to follow Jesus based on their experiences with Him. This perspective stands in stark contrast to much of the Black Church tradition, which I believe can benefit somewhat from what Dr. Ballmer calls a “deemphasis of theology.” On the other hand, I wonder to what degree such an openness can be detrimental to those who are new to the Anglican tradition, as there is no orienting theological structure to help them make sense of their faith in and commitment to Jesus. And even though the Book of Common Prayer seems to be a valuable resource in one’s faith development, I am curious how Episcopalians process a book that does not appear to maintain the actual words or instructions of the one Christians declare to follow: Jesus.

The Anglican tendency to deemphasize theology and de-center theological absolutes can be helpful when following Jesus. People experience Jesus in a multitude of ways. In the New Testament, very rarely did people encounter Jesus in a similar manner than those before or after them. I am convinced that if we were to speak to all the individuals who sat at Jesus’ feet, received a miracle from Him, or watched Him teach, we would hear a unique perspective from each person. Jesus shows up for and works through us differently. Therefore, it is difficult to articulate a singular theological framework on how to follow Jesus or what following Jesus looks like in the world. This apparent freedom in the Episcopalian tradition is beneficial, as it allows Anglicans and Episcopalians to take seriously how they experience Jesus in the world as authoritative for how they represent Him in their families, communities and beyond.

Such a freedom is also helpful when we consider the real harm caused by certain established doctrines about Jesus. For many Christian communities, including those in the Black Church tradition, the teachings of Jesus have either been (mis)interpreted or deemphasized in comparison to those of Paul to exclude and devalue women, for instance. Doctrines have been developed and then reified to ensure that women do touch a pulpit nor assume congregational leadership positions. At their worse, these theologies have led women to question their very humanity and relationship with God. Beyond the fact that such doctrines are harmful, if not outright violent, they also ignore the fact that every believer and follower of Jesus can hear and receive a word from God! How many women have insightful perspectives on what it means to be a follower of Jesus but have been silenced because of their gender? Our doctrines, if we are not careful, have the power to counteract the very message of freedom and liberation that Jesus came to preach.

Again, I recognize such exclusionary practices are not unique to those in the Black Church tradition. Christian communities across the world, including some Anglican ones, still rely on doctrinal statements to restrict the full participation of women in congregational life. There is much work to do in the global Christian church to create space for women to contribute to the conversation about what it means to follow Jesus. But I believe the theological openness Dr. Balmer notes as integral to the Anglican tradition can help chart a way forward for Christian churches and spaces to be inclusive of all people.

However, as noted in the introduction, I am concerned how this openness might be detrimental to those who are coming to faith in the Anglican tradition. I am sure there are some orienting beliefs that guide Episcopalians; Dr Balmer himself writes that “the focus of Anglican identity is worship and sacraments and liturgy, especially encoded in the Book of Common Prayer.” The Book contains some directives and insights that guide Anglicans on how to live a life emblematic of the Christian faith. But from Dr. Balmer’s reflection, it seems like there is no central theological framework that can help orient a new believer in the Episcopalian tradition. There does not appear to be a primary Anglican doctrine that provides a foundational understanding of being a follower of Jesus. How then is a recent Anglican convert or believer that desires to go deeper supposed to muddle through and discern between multiple theologies when there is not a main one guiding the Episcopal Church? I could be wrong, but I imagine that while such theological freedom could be helpful to someone who is advanced in their theological formation, it could be confusing for others who are starting out in the faith.

Furthermore, I would be curious as to how Anglicans consider the words of Jesus considering Dr. Balmer’s claim that there is no central doctrine at the core of Anglican identity. For many in the Black Church tradition, what Jesus says and does, as outlined in the New Testament, is authoritative. Countless Black churches look to Jesus’ words to form the doctrine that will guide the structure, work, and ministry of their congregations. There are, of course, multiple interpretations of Jesus’ words throughout time, but most Black congregations emphasize Jesus’ liberating ethos in their theological formation. Black preaching and teaching in the Black church tradition centers on the theological claim that Jesus came to free those who were oppressed and help them live in abundance (not primarily financial abundance, but an abundance of joy, peace, and love). In other words, there is a doctrine that guides the discipleship efforts of many in the Black Church tradition.

How then does such a perspective translate in the Anglican tradition when it seems as if there is no central doctrine? I have not read the Book of Common Prayer from cover to cover, but from Dr. Balmer’s reflection, I gather that it does not fully contain the words of Jesus as contained in the New Testament (I say “fully” because some of the writings in the Book may be inspired from Jesus’ teachings). I realize that the Bible may still be an authoritative source for many Episcopalians; again, Dr. Balmer’s work is just one perspective among many of what it means to follow Jesus. I also realize that the Bible is not the only way to form one’s theological perspective. But I do wonder how many Episcopalians consider and process the Bible’s account of Jesus without a coherent theological foundation to ground their interpretation and engagement with His words and work.

 

Drawn with Balmer and Episcopalianism Toward That Enchanted Universe

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Reading Randall Balmer’s post on why he left evangelicalism to become Episcopalian reminded me that way back when, as a young Christian committed to my Anabaptist-Mennonite tradition, I was also experiencing a hunger for spiritual resources I wasn’t fully finding (perhaps partly due to my own blindnesses) in my own communities of faith and worship. Though I wouldn’t today support everything I encountered back then, it was a gift to experience a number of “Aha, there is more!” explosions caused by such resources as these:

My late and beloved professor of pastoral care at Eastern Baptist (now Palmer) Theological Seminary, Vince DeGregoris, introduced me to Carl Jung through Jung-inspired courses on “The Psychodynamics of the Gospels” and “Psychodynamics of the Old Testament” also shaped by such texts as Walter Wink’s The Bible in Human Transformation: Towards a New Paradigm for Biblical Study (Augsburg Fortress, 1980) and Transforming Bible Study: A Leader’s Guide (Abingdon, 1980). Though I didn’t entirely embrace her Gnostic-trending view of Christianity, this also took me to June Singer and her Boundaries of the Soul: The Practice of Jung’s Psychology (Knopf, 1972).

Frederick Buechner showed me in The Magnificent Defeat (Seabury, 1966), Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale (Harper & Row, 1977), and many other books that there are ways to preach the heights and depths and poetry of the Bible in ways not dreamed of–at least as of my experience back then–in my tradition. Lord, Teach Us to Pray: Christian Zen and the Inner Eye of Love (HarperCollins, 1991), by William Johnston, offered fresh visions of prayer.

Amid the swirl of such influences, I found a book by Morton Kelsey, The Other Side of Silence: A Guide to Christian Meditation (Paulist, 1976). Although to my knowledge only Kelsey, an Episcopalian priest, belonged to Randall Balmer’s current tradition, Kelsey symbolizes for me the fact that such resources powerfully complemented ways I had, if only due to my own limits, experienced absences in my tradition. A form of Christianity based on if Jesus said it, then do it, can be drawn toward primarily literal, practical, ethics-focused expressions of faith.

There is considerable power in such expressions which continues to inform and inspire me. Yet humans are complicated indeed. I longed for ways better to understand my inner dynamics and the depths of the human condition, to make sense of clashes between the practicalities and disciplines my communities of faith called for and and my own lived realities.

Through the resources from traditions more oriented toward this, including those leaning “high church” and not least Episcopalian, I found some of my longings met. Rather than leaving Mennonites behind, such materials allowed me to embrace what seemed to me to work while drawing on complementary voices from beyond.

My early years were also shaped nearly as much by evangelicalism and fundamentalism as they were by my own tradition. In that sense some of the factors that led Balmer to leave evangelicalism contributed to my aches for something more than my heritage was giving me.

So my story is a variant on what Balmer reports, as he tells us of formally departing his “evangelical subculture” within which his own father had long been a pastor to become an Episcopalian and to feel “as though I had come home.” Amid differences in our journeying, I do see much to appreciate here. And I experience Balmer as yet one more voice articulating some of my own hungers as he speaks of finding at Trinity Church something he wasn’t sure of, but it “seemed sacred to me and very much unlike the cavernous and (yes, I’ll say it) soulless spaces all too typical of evangelicalism.”

And so, reports Balmer, even as he honors his father’s ministry and memory and is “on the whole . . . grateful for my upbringing,” he’s come to

love the cadences of the Book of Common Prayer, the reverence of the liturgy, the soaring descants of the Anglican musical tradition and prayers that typically do not include the phrase, “Lord, we jus’ wanna.” I’ve come to regard the Episcopal Church, along with museums, symphonies and the natural world, as one of the few remaining repositories of beauty in this life.

I remain enough of an Anabaptist-Mennonite shaped by an emphasis on signs pointing beyond themselves, but not quite to the point of sacraments that might be seen as including the beyond within themselves, that I don’t feel as strong a pull toward Balmer’s sacramental view. Yet I’ve glimpsed its power in settings like his and value his descriptions of it.

Balmer’s references to the mysteries of faith intertwine with treasures I gleaned from the writers I mentioned at the outset. There is quite the appeal to his decision that “I elect to live in an enchanted universe where there are forces at play that I cannot begin to understand, much less explain—not least of which is the mystery of the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist.”

Perhaps also due partly to my Mennonite formation with its view of the church as the community of believers rather than a reality founded on, say, Peter the Rock, I confess to smiling along with Balmer’s take that Matthew 16, with its report of a Jesus founding a church on a particularly frail human, is a rare New Testament attempt at humor or at least irony. Yet I also share with Balmer the concern to respect those, such as Roman Catholics, who might view matters quite differently.

Thank you, Randall Balmer, for helping us experience with you the pull of following “Jesus along the Canterbury Trail.”

Between Geneva and Canterbury

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Response to Randall Balmer, Anglican Tradition
Wesley Granberg-Michaelson, Reformed Tradition

Between Geneva and Canterbury

Frank Griswold served as Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church from 1998-2006. During that time, I was General Secretary of the Reformed Church in America. About a dozen of us who held similar positions of leadership in U.S. denominations would gather at the end of each year for a retreat. We’d share what the year had been like confronting the problems facing our churches, spend a day in silence and prayer, and then worship together. It was the perfect way to end the year, and nurtured deep unity among us.

All of us faced the challenge of preserving unity within our denominations in the face of debilitating divisions. We’d share what was working, and what wasn’t. I remember so well Bishop Griswold saying that the deepest source of unity in the Episcopal Church wasn’t found in doctrine or confessions, but rather in the practice of using the Book of Common Prayer. When Randall Balmer repeated this explanation, it resonated deeply. In my ecumenical experience, I’ve been captivated by the question of whether a major, mainline denomination could be held together as followers of Jesus by the practices of how they worship and pray together, rather than through rational convictions around doctrinal standards.

It’s an open question, of course. But I’m grateful for how Balmer has presented it. The Reformed tradition starts at the opposite end of this spectrum. Rejecting various dogmas of the established church, the Reformers were compelled to clarify what they believed. This came in the form of “Confessions,” intended to provide a definitive rational statement of theological convictions. Unity would have its foundation around agreement and adherence to those propositions.

Balmer is right to call out the danger which emerged— “the cult of Enlightenment Rationalism, especially the logic choppers who slice and dice and reduce faith into tidy theological categories.” The truthful irony is that between 1520 and 1650, around 40 to 50 such Confessions were written revealing various disagreements, leading to the endless splintering of Protestantism into a variety of competing traditions, continuing to this day. It was hardly a formula for unity. The counter point of Anglicanism elucidated by Balmer has an appeal: “I elect to live in an enchanted universe where there are forces at play that I cannot begin to understand, much less explain…” This challenges the Reformed tradition. Is there a way forward to follow Jesus that is less reliant on rational adherence to confessional propositions?

Reformed voices would be quick argue that there is no simplistic dichotomy here. We’re told to love God with all our mind, as well as our heart and soul. Yet, within Reformed circles in the last two to three decades there’s been renewed interest in the vitality of worship and liturgy, going beyond an almost singular focus on the pulpit. The Eucharist—what we call the Lord’s Supper—is being celebrated somewhat more frequently, and worship styles—whether traditional or contemporary—are becoming more textured, evoking deeper feelings as well as thoughts.

When we lived in Grand Rapids for a decade, my wife and I were part of Church of the Servant. It’s a unique, large congregation and part of the Christian Reformed Church, a sister denomination. Communion is celebrated every Sunday, a rarity among Reformed congregations, and is the more like the climax of the service. Participants form successive circles around the altar (prior to COVID) and the consecrated bread and wine are shared from one to another while congregational singing envelops the community. Great care is taken with the liturgy, utilizing historic and creative elements as well as incorporating sacred dance.

Congregational members include college and seminary faculty, executives from Grand Rapids’ several Christian publishing houses, and people from the business and non-profit world, as well as several refugee families. Mostly, those at Church of the Servant are well-read, intelligent folks raised in the Reformed tradition. But they are drawn to the richness of its worship life. Preaching, of course, remains a central element with highly gifted pastors who do their homework. But as a member once said to me, “If the sermon doesn’t do anything for you, don’t worry. You’ll be enriched by communion.” Church of the Servant has been described as “the Episcopal branch of the Christian Reformed Church.” It’s an example of how the Reformed tradition can stretch and be enriched by the gifts of Anglicanism.

But there are limits. In 2005 the RCA published Worship the Lord: The Liturgy of the Reformed Church in America. Its 250 pages contain a marvelous collection of the liturgies and prayers that can enrich our worship life. However, in the denomination’s divisive struggle over same gender relationships, no one ever suggested we could find a deeper unity through shared practices and prayers found in Worship the Lord. Many congregations, in fact, hardly ever use it. Our Confessions serve as our “standards of unity,” even while failing to keep us unified.

The Reformed tradition believes that process of confessing our faith is ongoing, rooted in foundational truths but responsive to changing historical contexts. In 2010 the Reformed Church in America adopted the Belhar Confession as an additional standard of unity. It was historic and remarkable. Our three other Confessions had roots from the 17th century, and we had never added to them. The Belhar Confession was drafted in 1982 as part of the struggle against apartheid in South Africa. It confronted theologically the sin of racism and became a vehicle for reconciliation among reformed churches there and contributed to the nation’s transformation in overturning apartheid.

The Belhar’s emphasis on the theological sin of racism and unity of all people, its call for reconciliation, and its focus on God’s justice speaks far beyond its historical roots and is deeply relevant to the church’s witness in our own time and place. By making this a confession, the church declared this is central to how faith is understood and practiced, and a means for defining our unity. It provides clear pathways for faithfully following Jesus.

At its best, the Reformed tradition asserts that putting our faith into words, responsive to the Word and to the world, guides us into witness and action proclaiming the reign of God. Our tradition contends that the shared practices of liturgy, sacraments, prayer, and the Eucharist are essential to ground our faith in Jesus Christ, but they don’t complete our witness. Confessions can curate the words of faith so they can shape lives of disciples and renew the world. We might ask, could the Book of Common Prayer have overcome apartheid?

Yet, I’m drawn to Balmer’s pilgrimage to Canterbury, recognizing the rich gifts it offers to the Reformed tradition. In similar fashion, I’ve been changed by my own pilgrimage 0n the Camino de Santiago in Spain. I learned that in the end, we don’t think our way into faith. Its mysteries and power can’t be fully contained in neat confessional boxes. Rather, we walk our way into faith, through embodied practices that rewire our hearts. Balmer shows us how the Anglican tradition offers this pathway. He leaves me wondering how long it is from Geneva to Canterbury.