We often speak of Anglican “comprehensiveness.” If this is a way of making relativism palatable or a means of accommodating all shades of opinion with no regard for truth, then it needs to be rejected. If by comprehensive we mean the priority of a dialectic quest over precision and immediate closure, then we are speaking of the Anglican consciousness at its best. This sense of a community of thought as opposed to a well-defined, definitive position, is what is meant by a feminine consciousness. This is why Anglicanism has never been a confessional church, as in the case of Lutheranism and Presbyterianism. It is the reason that while Puritanism, Latitudinarianism, Evangelicalism, Ultramontanism, Modernism and American Protestantism (i.e., a kind of banal “practical religion”) have all been embraced by some Anglicans, none of them have been capable of comprehending the Anglican experience. They are all ultimately out of place.
A particular danger of the feminine religious consciousness is that it becomes dotty, what the dictionary defines as “amiably eccentric.” In the 1980 movie “10,” the role of the priest was obviously that of an Anglican. His insincere grin, his huge dog, the flatulent, ancient housekeeper, his inane conversation, the grossly lighted portrait of himself in vestments and his terrible music were all a caricature of the dotty Anglican. It is the same genre as the novels of Anthony Trollope.
Feminine consciousness possesses a darkness, as well as a light, and it is this which protects itself against amiable eccentricity. It is helpful to keep in mind that Mother of God was the person who held both the infant at Bethlehem and the crucified body of the dead Savior. The angels and demons inhabit the awareness of reality, and herein lies the ability to speak to people in the very depths of their souls. The Puritan Richard Baxter (1615-1691) reminded us that “Christ leads us through no darker rooms than he has gone before,” and if we are not aware of those dark rooms we are missing the point. Julian put it this way. “For our sin is so foul and so horrible that our Lord in his courtesy will not reveal it to us except by the light of his mercy.”
The form of our consciousness obviously shapes what we make of our experience. This initial chapter has far-reaching implications, therefore, for the rest of this book the reader needs to carry the awareness of this particular outlook with him or her as the exploration proceeds in the subsequent chapters. It will enable, explicitly or implicitly, much to come clear.
Chapter Two
Authority in the Church
One of the fundamental questions people ask as they seek to understand their experience is: “Is what I think it is true?” If I say that the earth revolves about the sun rather than the other way around, I can rightly be asked how I know that is true. In this case, I would appeal to scientific observation, requiring hypothesis, experimentation and proof. This would be my authority. Not everyone has the time to test every statement as to its truth, and furthermore, not every claim to truth is subject to scientific verification. There is no way that by sense observation, for example, I can prove that it is wrong to tell a lie. I have to appeal to another kind of authority.
This leads to the question of religious authority. How do I know what people say God is like is true? What is my authority? The Roman Catholic Church for most of its history has been refining the idea that when the Bishop of Rome, the Pope, speaks ex cathedra (literally “from his chair” or “throne”) on matters of faith and morals he is infallible. This was finally defined at the First Vatican Council in 1869-1870. Classical Protestantism — i.e., Lutheranism and the Reformed tradition — has taught from the sixteenth century that the individual reading his Bible is inspired by the Holy Spirit. Radical Protestantism has relied more on the direct inspiration of the Holy Spirit. These three positions are answers to the question: What is my authority?
None of these positions represent the answer of the Anglican Communion, although all three can find representation among us. For the classical Anglican point of view on authority we can turn to the enigmatic figure of Richard Hooker (1554-1600).
Hooker was reared near Exeter in England and was spotted early as a bright young man. He studied at Oxford, was ordained, and spent most of his life preaching and writing. Apparently he was not the kind of person that stood out in a crowd and he probably made a dull dinner partner. Isaac Walton even averred that his wife, Joan Churchman, was rather dowdy. Hooker himself was appointed to several livings — i.e., received the income of a parish as vicar — but never occupied them, staying rather in the London area or near Canterbury in order to serve the controversial needs of the Church of England.
No matter what his personality might have been, Hooker was the supreme apologist for the Elizabethan settlement. Briefly, the Elizabethan settlement refers to the principles by which Anglicanism was established independent of the Pope. Anglicanism does not think of itself as “founded” by Henry VIII (1491-1547) or even by Elizabeth I (1533-1603). As Hooker did, we think of the Church of England as the Catholic Church in England, separated from Roman jurisdiction when Elizabeth I became queen in 1558. Elizabeth followed her half-sister, Mary (1516-1558) who had restored the Church of England to Roman rule after their half-brother, Edward VI’s death. The question that faced Richard Hooker was to state clearly what that meant for the Church in England to be separate from Rome.
Hooker answered this question in a running controversy with those persons in England committed to the Reformed tradition, of which John Calvin (1509-1564) was the progenitor. Calvin was the most astute theologian of the continental reformers. He shaped a theology and church polity which was clear and appealing to sixteenth century northern Europeans, including many Englishmen. His followers in England were known as the Puritans, the same people who settled in Massachusetts. Our problem as American Anglicans is that our culture holds the Puritans as heroes. To the Church of England they were defectors and even sometimes heretics.
This conflict in points of view is illustrated by the story a bishop of my acquaintance recounts. His son came home from school one day following the traditional Thanksgiving festival. My friend was startled to see him dressed as a Pilgrim Father. He remarked, somewhat in jest, “Why are you dressed as the enemy?” The little boy, justifiably confused having thought his father would be proud of him, burst into tears.
Hooker as well considered Puritans the opposition, if not the enemy. We cannot go into all of Hooker’s thought at this point, but it is important to understand what he said about authority. The Puritans taught that the Scriptures provided a certainty that transcended all other certainty, including reason, which reason they wished to confine to “science” (i.e., all forms of human learning). They believed that the Scriptures must be read for themselves and devoid of subsequent interpretation, namely, tradition. Hooker’s answer to this was that the Scriptures were read apart from reason and tradition and were subject to all kinds of private interpretations, which would of necessity be biased.
Hence, Hooker articulates for Anglicanism its answer to the question of what is our authority. Our authority is the association of Scripture, tradition and reason. Subsequent commentators have spoken of this as a “three-legged stool.” If one removes a leg, any leg, the stool topples.
The threefold nature of authority — Scripture, tradition and reason — is not original with Hooker; but sixteenth century Anglicanism felt no compulsion to make claims of originality, since it conceived of itself as the continuing Catholic Church in England. This same notion of authority can be found in the teachings of Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274), a prominent theologian. It is certainly consistent with Augustine (354-430). It is, in fact, how any theologian — including those who argue against it — thinks. The theologian consults the texts, he sees what others have said, and he concludes in the light of the present understanding of reality what is the reasonable interpretation.
The balance of this chapter is a commentary on this principle of authority.
First,