What is to be done?

One of my friends commented recently, in a characteristically lapidary phrase: ‘the church [is] an institution with voracious direct sacramental needs’. This is perhaps more of an issue in a relatively ‘high’ branch of the Anglican Communion such as the Scottish Episcopal Church. As part of  my own ministry, I have from time to time spent a fair bit of time away from my own charge, covering in others where there are vacancies. To be sure, many of these congregations where there are long-term interregna (compounded by a chronic shortage of clergy) have, to their credit, kept themselves going with lay Worship Leaders and the like, and this has produced significant gains in the discernment and deepening of individual and congregational gifts. But there is still huge hunger for regular and frequent Eucharist, to the neglect of the potential spiritual enrichment offered by the offices of Morning and Evening Prayer.

This has two effects. It tends to make people like me feel sometimes like a ‘Mass priest’, being parachuted in to do the special bits that others are not authorised to do. More seriously, however, it has led to a generalised practice of Communion from the Reserved Sacrament, administered by a Reader, Eucharistic Minister or Worship Leader. I’m increasingly unhappy with this, because it commodifies the Eucharist, encourages an approach focused solely on individual devotion,  and takes it out of the integrated context of community celebration: Liturgy of the Word, anamnesis, epiclesis (at least in the SEC), and distribution. I have been taken aback on occasion when visiting another charge, when I asked if I should consume everything left over from previous celebrations, or reserve the sacrament for the sick, and was told, ‘Oh, we have plenty’. I have heard of instances where the consecrated bread and wine have been kept so long in the aumbry that they have become unusable. I have even heard of occasions when a new incumbent or a visiting priest found they were expected to step aside in favour of a lay administrator of the Reserved Sacrament, on the grounds that it was ‘Jack’s turn’.

This is clearly not a good situation, and it makes me want to advocate a radical re-think about the place of ordained presbyters in the spiritual economy, and consequently about appropriate procedures and principles for selection and training. In our diocese, there are four people in training for ordained ministry at the moment, all just completing their first year, so it will be another two years before they are priested, and there is no guarantee that they will stay in the diocese. On top of that, in a few years’ time, something between a quarter and a third of the stipendiary clergy in Scotland will retire. I’m not (yet) embracing the notion of lay presidency, but I do wonder sometimes if there is a way to identify people who might be suitable for ordination on the grounds of their personal holiness and other gifts, with a view to authorising them in advance of undertaking the theological training. If the SEC remains as ‘voracious’ as it currently is with regard to its sacramental needs, something needs to be done about this critical situation.

Bread of life, life of bread

I was racking my brains to decide what to preach on on Low Sunday, which seems to fall to me almost every year. I was determined not to preach yet again on ‘Doubting’ Thomas, which I had done several times. Then I came across an article on how to make sourdough bread, which caught my imagination. You can read it here. What appealed to me was the cluster of metaphors that could be applied to the life of faith, especially in the week after the celebration of the Resurrection. The connection between bread and the life of the Christian community is obvious, but this specific kind of bread invites one to develop the possibilities of the other metaphors. The empty tomb is our starter, the living, breathing, continually regenerating mass of dough is analogous to the spiritual body of the risen Lord in the world, the Church. The fact that the same starter can be used indefinitely, however much new material is added, can express how our faith both rests on foundations of great antiquity and is ‘new every morning’. And bread by its nature connotes all that is wholesome, kindly, and companionable, full of rich blessings.

Every day is Lent

I’ve never been able to empathise with churches which don’t have a strong sense of the liturgical seasons. However, the price we Episcopalians (and all Anglicans, Roman Catholics and Orthodox) pay for having seasons is that, as they come round each year, it gets harder to find anything new to say. So on Wednesday I found myself preaching on the usual things: repentance, intimations of mortality, self-discipline, prayer, reflective reading of Scripture.

Then, as I spoke, it suddenly occurred to me that if we made a list of these activities and left it lying around, someone picking it up, who knew something about Christianity, might well say: ‘Why, these are what we expect from Christians day by day!’

So do the seasons have a value? Yes, because each time they come round we have to face new issues and new challenges. Since last Lent, the world financial structure has collapsed, leading us to reflect on the apparent absence of limits to greed, and on the consequences for the less well-off, who have seen their savings eroded because of reckless behaviour by financial institutions. In the Middle East, there has been a surge in violence and suffering in the last few months, followed by the emergence of a probable right-wing government in Israel. And the Congo and Darfur are still with us. Not to mention the fact that the danger to our civil liberties in the UK is more acute than this time last year.

I must admit to struggling, every Ash Wednesday, with the apparent contradiction between be-smudging our foreheads and the gospel injunction not to make a public show of penitence. But if Christians are to contribute to the world’s  healing, our day-to-day living has to be seen, and seen publicly, to be Lenten – all year round.

Involvement vs detachment

Attended a funeral today of someone I didn’t really know. At certain moments the minister was clearly struggling with tears, and I found myself affected by his grief.

How much professional detachment can clergy sustain when personal feelings are involved? Is it a help to have a set form of service?