Along with my first-ever set of gaming dice I recently ordered and received The Study of Anglicanism (1988), an anthology, edited by Stephen Sykes and John Booty, of articles on Anglicanism. Three or so years ago my then-priest recommended it along with A Passionate Balance as a way of getting to know the tradition better. Now that I have begun to read it, I thought I would write brief responses to its articles.
As I mention in my posts on his A Passionate Balance: The Anglican Tradition, Alan Bartlett leans heavily on the common idea that Anglicanism has three streams. In Bartlett’s understanding these are the Catholic, evangelical, and liberal streams. Each emphasizes, without monopolizing, one of the legs of the Anglican tripod or stool (another common metaphor): tradition, Scripture, and reason, respectively. Looking around a little online, I saw other people mention these three streams or strands of Anglicanism, especially when referring to the Church of England.
But more often than this configuration, I saw American Episcopalians discuss a different three streams: the Catholic, the evangelical, and the charismatic. (Here is one example.)
Why replace the liberal stream with the charismatic stream? Continue reading
W. Paul Jones seems to have two uses in mind for his Theological Worlds construct: self-diagnosis and pastoral planning. First, the Theological Worlds can help individuals understand themselves. Second, the Theological Worlds can help churches organize their congregation into sub-congregations according to Theological World so that the congregants are engaging with people who fundamentally understand them. If the Inventory is mostly useless to you because, as I discussed previously, the questions make no sense to you, the first use does not apply to you. If you aren’t part of a congregation or other group that might reasonably organize itself in the way Jones imagines, the second use also does not apply to you.
These aren’t the only uses, though. My first exposure to Jones was through Richard Beck, and one of his insights was that if people don’t understand that everyone has their own Theological World, standard attempts of proselytization will fall flat:
Now, it’s a big shocker for some Christians to find out that many of their brothers and sisters don’t live within this theological world. Sin isn’t their obsessio. Not that they deny the existence and problem of sin, just that sin isn’t the defining quandary of their spiritual lives.
I am an example of a Christian of this stripe. Sin and guilt isn’t my obsessio. If you tell me that I’m going to hell I’ll just blink at you blandly and yawn. I’m emotionally unmoved. To be clear, it’s not that I don’t want to go to heaven. I do. I just don’t spend my life trying to save my own skin.
I went into Michael L. Birkel’s Silence and Witness: The Quaker Tradition with very little knowledge about Quakerism beyond half-remembered depictions in the Underground Railroad historical fiction I read in school as a kid1 and the odd tidbit I came across in comments sections.2 I knew they were pacifists and had been abolitionists and I knew a Quaker founded Pennsylvania as an experiment in committed religious freedom. And yet, even though I had very few expectations about the tradition, I found myself not just charmed but surprised throughout my reading of the book.
One of the things that I did not expect was how much Quakerism resembled certain non-Christian religions. Especially early on in the book, Birkel’s description of Friends’3 spiritual experiences often used the word “the Light,” referring either to God or to God’s activity in the soul; nerd that I am, this reminded me of Warcraft’s Church of the Holy Light and the various non-theistic religious traditions it suggests. And Birkel himself notes the resemblance the Quaker practice of silent sitting (some groups of Friends sit in silence, or near-silence, during their worship services) has to Buddhist meditation: in both cases the ones sitting try to get past their egos and thoughts to something truer. In the end notes, however, he is careful to note that Buddhists meditating in groups are still in an important way meditating alone (one sitter achieving enlightenment does not improve the meditation of the others) while Quakers understand that they sit in silence together (when one Friend is especially able to reach the Light Within, a sense of peace and holiness pervades the whole assembly). Now that I’ve read the book it makes sense that not all Friends have been Christians, but that was another surprise for me.
Having read his book, I had expectations about which theological world(s) W. Paul Jones’s Theological Worlds Inventory would place me in. World 3—that of T. S. Eliot’s “hollow men,” of people who feel like they might be wearing a mask over a personal emptiness—had most appealed to me in the book. Immediately on reading about it I felt an overwhelming recognition that I felt when reading about neither World 1 or World 2. (This was itself a bit of a surprise: based on the book’s introduction, World 3 did not look promising.) I had expected World 2 (animated by a conflict between violent chaos and small bastions of peace) to follow it fairly closely, and then World 4 (concerned with personal sin and forgiveness) a bit after. I did not expect to have much in common with World 1 (haunted by the universe’s apparent meaninglessness) or World 5 (characterized by unremitting suffering and endurance).
So while I was not surprised that the Inventory placed me high in World 3, I was surprised that it placed me just as high in World 5. (World 2 followed close, and Worlds 1 and 4 were equally and very far behind.) Indeed, the results are a bit flat and I think there might be problems with the Inventory itself, but on reading the descriptions in the Inventory I’m inclined to agree that I’m just as much an inhabitant of World 5 as World 3. I’ll discuss this in detail toward the end of the post; first, I want to look at the Inventory itself and the reasons I think it has problems.
One of the lenses through which I look at ideas and the people who hold them is W Paul Jones’s theological worlds concept. I wrote about Jones’s theological worlds before here, having learned about them in his book of the same name; they are personality types of a sort, though they pertain more to a person’s root cosmology than to whether or not a person enjoys going to parties.
I want to talk a bit more about the theological worlds now that I’ve taken Jones’s “Theological World Inventory” and gotten somewhat surprising results. As such rather a lot of this discussion will be navel-gazing, but I think even so that will throw off some useful material nonetheless. In this first post I’ll re-introduce the concept; in the second I’ll discuss the Inventory and my results; in the third I want to think a bit about the typology’s usefulness (including to whom the typology is useful).
Each theological world represents the fundamental dynamic, or perhaps dialectic, underlying a person’s engagement with the world. Jones’s own words from the introduction to his inventory will work as an introduction to the idea:
A World results from the interaction between two poles. The first is one’s obsessio, that lived question, need, ache, or dilemma which has its teeth into us at the deepest level. Other concerns are variations on that basic theme, standing in line behind its importance. The second pole is one’s epiphania, that which through one or more events, moments, and/or persons brings sufficient illumination, satisfaction, or healing to provide a lived answer worth wagering one’s life upon. One’s epiphania is what touches promisingly one’s obsession as fact or as hope.1
Susan J. White’s The Spirit of Worship: The Liturgical Tradition (1999) is the second book I have read from Philip Sheldrake’s Traditions of Christian Spirituality Series, and the second that I will review.
Mr. Hindley, my Grade 12 English teacher, told us that writing an essay is in some ways like Olympic diving. There are more and less difficult dives; a diver who performs a difficult dive well usually scores better than a diver who performs a simpler dive perfectly. Of course, a diver who performs a difficult dive disastrously scores lower than either of the first. Writing is much the same. An ambitious attempt performed well enough will get higher marks than an unambitious attempt performed perfectly. A mishandled essay will receive low marks no matter the attempt’s ambition—though an ambitious attempt may still fare somewhat better than an unambitious one. Bearing this in mind, I probably ought to appreciate Spirit of Worship more than I do.
White’s attempt is ambitious. In “the liturgical tradition,” she has chosen a rather nebulous subject for her volume, one which is quite difficult to define: “There is no single founder or founding document; there is not even an identifiable point in time at which we can confidently say the tradition was established” (14). Moreover, no one identifies as a member. Instead, White says, they are embedded within other traditions: “they are Cistercians and Benedictines, Dominicans and Franciscans; they are Presbyterians, Anglicans, Lutherans and Quakers” (14-15). Instead, she has defined her tradition thus:
But they all have one thing in common: the liturgical tradition of Christian spirituality is constituted by those who say, clearly and consistently, that the primary source for the nourishment of the Christian spiritual life is to be found in the Church’s public worship. […] ‘We have given the name of “liturgical”,’ a contemporary representative of the tradition says, to that spirituality which … frankly adopts as its own the methods used by the Church when she celebrates the liturgy.’
The tradition White has identified is thus vast and varied. While many Christians these days do not attend church, and thus are likely not part of her tradition, it does not seem like many Christian traditions (that is, Cistercian, Benedictine; Lutheran, Quaker) are excluded.
If in reading that you were worried that theological and attitudinal differences between, for instance, Methodists and Roman Catholics would make such a tradition hard to describe with anything like consistency, White notes that theology is not particularly her concern:
Despite this rather ‘functional’ approach to the spiritual resources of the liturgy, the liturgical tradition is not preoccupied with how the liturgy ‘works’ or ‘what it means’, but rather how it nourishes, sustains, influences, enriches and enlivens the relationship between the Christian believer and God (29).
And this could be a very interesting topic: what precisely are the effects of corporate worship on its participants? White, alas, does not deliver. Despite her early warning, her work is plagued by a madcap patchwork theology, making strange bold claims which most readers, I think, would find hard to swallow; at the same time, she repeatedly asserts that liturgy has particular effects on its participants without giving any reason that anyone should believe her. Here’s a random example:
[The author of the Ancrene Wisse]’s argument is that in the sacrament Christ comes to dwell within the believer, and that Christ and the Devil cannot occupy the same dwelling. […] Or, as the fifth/sixth-century visionary Pseudo-Dionysius says (in a less anthropomorphic view of evil): ‘One cannot participate in contradictory realities at one and the same time, and whoever enters into communion with the One cannot proceed to live a divided life. He must be firmly opposed to whatever may sunder this communion.
Lacking any empirical backing for this claim (or even prima facie plausibility), White would have been far better off explaining “how the liturgy ‘works’ or ‘what it means.’” I did let Bartlett’s A Passionate Balance off the hook for this (he has a whole chapter entitled ‘It Works, Just Don’t Ask Me How’), but I at least had some sense that I could test Bartlett’s claims; most of the book was engaged elsewhere and he was talking about a tradition I could investigate myself. White’s tradition is too slippery for me to look into and she offers absolutely nothing else.
In fact, the whole book is made up of the following sort of argument, repeated over and over in different permutations: a) White describes in brief an aspect of liturgy—its relationship to time, or place, or community; b) she tells us that that liturgy invites us to change our lives in some way; c) she quotes a well-known dead theologian or an unnamed “contemporary representative of the tradition” affirming her claim; d) she moves on. Causal relationships are never clear. In fact, she sometimes muddies the waters by noting that the liturgy alone isn’t enough to effect the change, but rather the person must really live out some virtue (often charity and equality) before the liturgy works. But even if she doesn’t introduce this sort of confusion, I’m left wondering what the relationship between liturgy and the renewed attitude is. Does she think all people who participate in liturgy benefit in this way? That seems implausible. What does she think is happening when people participate in liturgy but don’t see these benefits she claims that liturgy offers? Are they doing it wrong? Only once or twice does she acknowledge this possibility, and she never indicates what causes the disconnect.
I am starting to wonder if White’s claims aren’t really claims at all. Although the sentences White writes are declarative and are therefore on a grammatical level assertions, perhaps it is better to imagine them as a different sort of utterance. At first I was wondering if these were promises more than assertions, but on reflection I do not know if there is much difference between the two. White uses the word “invites” so often, however, that I wonder if that’s what she’s writing: a book-length invitation. If so, I do not find it either an attractive or clear invitation. Without some denominational stakes, I do not know to what she’s inviting us; without some concrete reason to believe her descriptions of liturgy’s riches, I do not find her invitation at all compelling.
There are two ways White might improve her book.
White could be much more personal and rely much more heavily on anecdote. How has the liturgical tradition affected her life? How has it affected the lives she’s known? This sort of writing would necessitate an attention to detail that could only help the book: she would have to look at particular rites and practices in their specificity. The book’s best parts already do this; I especially enjoyed the section on East Orthodox wedding ceremonies.
Alternately, White could have been much more psychological and sociological. She could have investigated what is going on at such a level when people engage in corporate worship. She writes, for instance, that liturgy forms a spirituality which enables the creation of true community “by setting out images which shape a holy imagination, an imagination that can envision a joyful and humane future under God” (74); if she drilled down to explain why and how this is so, I’d be more convinced. If she focused on far fewer benefits of liturgy, but developed them more thoroughly, I’d be more excited about. Her ambition makes her scope impossible, and the whole project suffers.
Those two hypothetical improved versions of the book come very close to Rachel Held Evans’s Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church and Richard Beck’s Reviving Old Scratch: Demons and the Devil for Doubters and the Disenchanted, respectively. Evans recommends that disengaged, doubting Christians return to church and corporate worship, drawing on her own experiences, and those of people she has met, with a wide variety of Christian traditions (including Anglicans, Quakers, and Benedictines); her careful descriptions of different ways the sacraments are performed, including the East Orthodox wedding ceremony, are both beautiful and compelling. Beck, meanwhile, recommends that disengaged, doubting Christians return to church and corporate worship in order to strengthen their commitment to the Jesus-led social justice that attracted them in the first place. Beck makes a strong case that church, worship, and spiritual warfare are necessary to the development of virtue and the advancement of social justice and other forms of the progressive vision. He looks in particular at how these strengthen our relationships with other people and strengthen our allegiance with Christ.
I recommend that you read Searching for Sunday and Reviving Old Scratch instead.
That said: if you have read or want to read The Spirit of Worship and make a case for it, let me know and you can guest post.
According to Bartlett, beauty is not a luxury.
In the sixth chapter of A Passionate Balance, “The ‘Beauty of Holiness’: Worship as the Heart of Anglicanism,” Alan Bartlett makes this announcement:
In this chapter, we have reached the heart of Anglicanism, which is worship; the purpose of Anglicanism, which is to foster Christlike holiness, individually and socially; and the essence of Anglicanism, which is that the two cannot be separated (170).
To be frank, this seems more like Anglicanism to me than all that talk of orthodoxy, ecclesiology, and reason. “It is rightly said,” Bartlett continues, “that if you want to know what makes an Anglican tick, don’t ask her about her doctrine, worship with her” (ibid). Maybe I am being overly autobiographical in my assessment, but it was liturgy that attracted me to the Anglican Church of Canada in the first place (though moral and practical matters are keeping me here). Elsewhere Bartlett notes that Cranmer’s gift as a liturgist, not as a theologian, means that “Anglicans do not define themselves in relationship to a particular body of theological writing but in relationship to the living use of liturgical texts” (171). There’s a reason I chose an image of the Book of Common Prayer to accompany my post on Anglican orthodoxy.
If you’ve read the blurb associated with Bartlett’s A Passionate Balance: The Anglican Tradition, you might have noticed something that I’ve so far neglected to mention, something that is entirely out of character for me to neglect:
Highlighting their complexity, fallibility, humility but also passion Bartlett suggests that Anglican spirituality and theology are not only resilient enough to survive the present malaise but have the potential to be a most effective ‘post-modern’ expression of the Christian faith (emphasis mine).
Part of the reason I haven’t yet mentioned it is that explicit discussions of postmodernism are rarer in the book than the blurb suggests. The most detailed and extended discussion, however, comes at the beginning of “‘God-Given Reason’,” the book’s fifth chapter, concerning the Anglican cord’s third strand. Here Bartlett gives a history of reason in the Western tradition, from Elizabethan theologian Richard Hooker’s Thomist Christianity (“Reason is received as a gift from God within a God-shaped universe”) through Locke’s Enlightenment thinking (in which “what was believable was what was reasonable”) and modernist reason’s specialized disciplines, up to the postmodern moment:
But now, in the postmodern West, where society is emerging from the modernist world view, belief in the objectivity of the human mind has been severely criticised and confidence in science has been battered. We can add to this the swamping of human minds by a tidal wave of information and complexity, and also a recovery of the sense of people as whole beings, shaped by body and emotion and psyche as well as ‘pure’ thought. (146-148)
In a bit of characteristic understatement, Bartlett concludes, “In this context, the meaning and status of Reason is much more slippery” (148).
My mother always said you don’t have to believe much to be an Episcopalian.
—Rachel Held Evans, Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church
I should admit from the outset that the very idea of orthodoxy makes me squirm. I do not think this is an unusual response these days. At any rate, Paul Tillich’s idea of the Protestant Principle—that all symbols for God, including doctrines, must be subject to replacement—is very attractive to me. I worry that any commitment to specific doctrinal content (that is to say, orthodoxy) is in fact a form of error: in intellectual terms, immature epistemology; in relational terms, unfair expectations; in spiritual terms, idolatry. At the same time, however, a church does need to be organized around something. I am beginning to see how practical it is to make that centre a set of doctrines; indeed, perhaps all organizations, religious or not, need some common convictions to function.
According to Bartlett, L. William Countryman, another author in the Traditions of Christian Spirituality series, argues that Anglicanism is defined by its historical community, not by its doctrine. In A Passionate Balance, Bartlett disagrees but, perhaps anticipating people like me, he also tries to show how Anglicanism can make orthodoxy a liberating, life-giving thing, not a stifling and idolatrous one.