This entry will be posted at my personal blog, Cognitive Dissonance, as well, because it is there that I have been archiving a chronicle of sorts for both my journey into Anglicanism and my subsequent discernment into the clergy. It will also constitute a heretofore personally despised mish-mashy style of personal reflection, theological inquiry, and sardonic social commentary that is commonly known by its official nom de plume, Practical Theology.
To begin, I probably ought to offer a little background. As a Pentecostal, the Eucharist (communion) had always been a point of tension for me. First, doctrinally speaking, I was always puzzled by the Evangelical proclivity for the term “ordinance” – especially in light of the strong sacramental disposition of their favorite reformers like Martin Luther. Clearly, I appreciate the distinction much of the Protestant church makes in identifying Baptism and the Eucharist as the principle sacraments. It is a distinction the Anglicans make as well. However, its hard to deny that the term “ordinance” is designed to differentiate between a simple act of obedience to a command instituted by Christ and the sacramental assertion that the same were instituted as a means for receiving grace. In a doctrinal sense, the disconnect is simple. If we practice these “ordinances,” but they have no efficacy (i.e. baptism is just a post-salvation act of obedience, and communion is just commemorative; neither has the power to change you), then why bother with them at all? Indeed, that was the tone that nearly every Evangelical church I attended took – some churches couldn’t be bothered to have communion more than four times a year. It was as if they were compelled by a tradition to which they felt no connection, many times falling into that dead, religious repetition of meaningless ceremonies. The irony being, of course, that this is the same accusation I heard leveled against the high church liturgy and sacramentalism my entire life.
Second, the doctrinal position of most Evangelical churches (let’s not forget that there are very strong and respectable Evangelical movements within sacramentalism) creates an anemic theology. The Sacraments provide an indelible theological connection to the ontological reality of Christ among His people. The Eucharist, especially, provides the framework for understanding how the Church functions as Christ (‘s body) in the world, and how Christ can yet be distinct within the Church as Lord. The sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist also provide a point of contact for modern believers with the death and resurrection of Jesus – it is our participation also in the kerygma of the Church. Through the practice and proclamation of such we not only participate in Christ, becoming Christ to the world and experiencing Christ’s presence in our own lives, but we engage for the briefest of moments in the glory of Christ’s coming kingdom. I don’t know perhaps this isn’t Pentecostalism’s fault. In fact, I rather feel like the focus on the Baptism in the Holy Spirit with evidence of tongues placed the apparatus of faith within me to receive the sacraments so readily. It was like Pentecostalism programmed me to be in a sacramental church. Maybe I was just a piss poor Pentecostal? Nonetheless, my experience with Pentecostalism and Evangelicalism drove me to ask (sometimes divisive) questions about the purpose and nature of the Church. Questions, incidentally, that I have come to believe are answered primarily (perhaps exclusively) in the work of the Holy Spirit through the Sacraments. In fact, this is a link to a page where you can hear a sermon to this effect by the Very Reverend F. Michael Perko, PhD. Hit the drop down menu and listen to the June 6, 2010 sermon – it’s only 11 minutes long (honestly, the 11 minute sermon is better than this entire post – you’re welcome).
Third, by way of personal experience, I always felt that communion was lacking in the Evangelical churches that I visited. It would certainly be nice if I could drum up the corroboration of friends that remember these conversations, but many times I would leave a communion service complaining there just had to be more to it than juice, crackers, and a few verses from 1 Corinthians. Many times, I found myself excited for communion, and those rare moments that God would “speak to me” invariably came during communion services. So, I went looking for more explanation than was handed down by the likes of Grudem, Horton, and Fee. That was when some of the trouble started. In short, and hopefully without sounding bitter, allow me simply to say that my questions (in Bible College) were ignored, side-stepped, dismissed, or received with general irritation. This, of course, only led me to believe I was on to something – and I was.
This was necessary information, I think, in order for you to understand my account of last Sunday. Last Sunday I was blessed with my first opportunity to serve as a chalice bearer during one of our services. I’ll spare you the dramatic retelling of the events of the morning (though, in an inter-personal setting I believe them to be quite powerful) in favor of listing the things about the experience that have impacted me.
First, I was really anxious for weeks leading up to the date I was to serve. I spent a lot of time reflecting on this anxiety, and realized that the Lord was using it to tease out some issue in my heart. Most people who know me personally, would describe me in one fashion or another (some of them in colorful turns of phrase) to be a perfectionist. My origins are less than illustrious, and I had really developed a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” kind of demeanor. In short, my anxiety over serving was really anxiety over appearances. I want desperately to do things right, and often this desire stems from a need to impress people. So, half an hour before service, I sat in the vesting room admiring a beautiful stained glass memorial and wrestling with my personal desire to be thought well of and the Church’s need for me to be a humble, unassuming servant for the morning. Of course, I did things wrong – and, of course, nobody thought less of me for them. Chalice bearing was a milestone in helping me let go of my pride, though. Indeed, I feel my lay ministry (and hopefully, in the future, my sacerdotal ministry) during the liturgy promises to be the most grounding experience of my Christian walk.
Second, I experienced a general elation about my participation in everything the Eucharist means. My heart was full, and I was on the verge of tears many times as I went through the service and contemplated how blessed (and proud in the good way) I was to be able to participate in God’s ministry of grace to his people. In fact, my heart was full of these emotions when the procession passed my family and my children jumped up and down smiling, saying “that’s my daddy.” The joy of being able to share in their experience was nearly too much to take – God was allowing me to be a vessel of service in their personal experiences with him. Perhaps most importantly, that moment has brought much clarification to my role as spiritual leader in the home (something in which, I must tell you, I have never felt lacking).
Feel free to comment, to share your experiences, or to ask questions. I am blessed by all the ways the community of Christ comes together in my life, not least of which are the people who invest in this blogging community.
The Difference Music Makes
February 25, 2010
Saw this and decided you all needed to see it, because I couldn’t stop laughing. It’s amazing how the scene takes on a different meaning when you change the soundtrack – what was surely an emotional, ecstatic situation looks like something Dante would write about. Hilarious {Sorry for the double-post, Tony – you can drop it in post order if you like, but you guys had to see this, now}
Review: “What Hath Cambridge To Do with Azusa Street?” Part I
February 18, 2010
Smith, James K.A. “What Hath Cambridge To Do with Azusa Street? Radical Orthodoxy and Pentecostal Theology in Conversation.” PNEUMA: The Journal of the Society for Pentecostal Studies 25, no. 1 (Spring 2003): 97-114.
First, if you don’t already know, James K.A. Smith (PhD, Villanova University; associate professor of philosophy and director of the Seminars in Christian Scholarship at Calvin College) has become, in my opinion, the North American, Protestant “face” of RO. His assessment of the Cambridge movement is not that of a total outsider, but there is certainly some reluctance in his appraisal of RO. Nonetheless, he is shaping a presentation of RO that is less Anglo-Catholic, but not less liturgical; less politically liberal, but not less interested in social justice or cultural critique; and less continental, but not less skeptical of a secular framework so dependent on analytical philosophy. His writing is erudite, but not as unassailable as Milbank and crew.
Let’s just be honest, Milbank (especially) is to theological discourse what electronics manual writers were to VCR programming. He has helped to produce a theological movement that is new and refreshing without being trite or kitschy, but his writing is so technical that it is likely to be out of reach for all but colleagues and graduate students (I don’t even know many advanced undergraduate students that could slog through it, if any).
Second, if you didn’t already know, he (Smith) is apparently a Pentecostal – a Reformed Pentecostal. Here is an audio feed of Smith discussing being a Reformed Pentecostal, and a great article by Smith on “Thinking Pentecostals” where he characterizes Pentecostal theology as,
“Theology forged at the pulpit and in prayer, in the heat of revival and the swelter of the camp meeting—a theology that bears the stamp of its liturgical origins.”
His conclusion is that because of Pentecostalism’s origins it has not yet been given to academic treatments, but insists things should (and are about) to change saying, “Still, there is no denying that the early writings left most of Pentecostal thought entirely implicit. What has emerged in recent years is the attempt to make the ideas explicit.” He, obviously, is one of those attempting to make Pentecostal theology “explicit.”
If you ask me, I think organizations like the Assemblies of God should immediately drop their courtship of individuals like Fee (who has been hugely disappointing to even the most “liberal” Pentecostals in his reluctance to embrace a full Pentecostal identity), and should immediately endorse Smith as next leader and scholar extraordinaire of the Pentecostal movement.
{Author’s Note – *RANT STARTS HERE* -But that still is not going to fly, because if you know anything about the “old guard” in institutions like the A/G you know they will not endorse anyone that will not get on-board with their characterization of tongues as a “Cardinal Doctrine” of the church. Smith knows too much about theology to go down that road, and so Pentecostalism is going to remain “implicit” – to use Smith’s characterization – *END RANT*-}
As a way to justify my rant, allow me to quote Smith’s article. Please, forgive my anachronism. On pages 109-110, Smith briefly proposes five key elements of a Pentecostal worldview and theology. There are (1) A positioning of radical openness to God, and in particular, God doing something differently or new…(2)An emphasis on the continued ministry of the Spirit, including continuing revelation, prophecy, and the centrality of charismatic giftings in the ecclesial community…(3) a distinct belief in the healing of the body as a central aspect of the work of atonement…(4) because of an emphasis on the role of experience, and in contrast to rationalistic Evangelical theology, Pentecostal theology is rooted in an affective epistemology that seeks to undo dualisms…(5) a central commitment to empowerment and social justice, with a certain “preferential option for the marginalized” tracing back to its roots at Azusa Street as a kind of paradigm of marginalization.
This all makes me wonder within what context Smith is a Pentecostal. Frankly, I read his list and think, “Hey, that sounds really good,” and I almost want to be a Pentecostal again (These are almost certainly those elements of Pentecostalism that one of my current, Episcopal mentors warned me not to abandon).
I have to take issue with Smith’s list, though. I don’t take issue with the list for any academic reasons, but for pragmatic reasons. Where is there a Pentecostal church in America that lives out this worldview? Sure, there may be charismatic Catholics, Reformed Pentecostals, Spirit filled Anglicans, and the like that live out this worldview, but where are there self-professing “Pentecostal” churches that could even articulate any of these points (outside, perhaps, of the first three – and only then in the scope of such A/G abominations as Bible Doctrines: A Pentecostal Perspective, and “Where We Squat” - which doesn’t amount to much more than propaganda )?
In fact, my experience has been that most Pentecostal churches believe that #2 is the lense through which all others should be viewed, but only as #2 is rightly articulated through the initiating experience of IPE. A more recent development among conservative evangelicals, you know – how the “religious right” has been co-opted by the GOP, causes me to doubt seriously that #5 is even plausibly a concern outside of “getting people in the door” of Pentecostal churches. Finally, I think Smith forgot #6. He forgot to mention the extreme Pre-Trib rapture, millennial reign, it’s all going up in an apocalyptic fireball eschatology that pervades Pentecostal theology and dampens any affect #4 might have on Pentecostals’ thinking.
{Author’s Note: I should also point out, in fairness, that Smith calls his list “certainly debatable and incomplete” in the very next paragraph}
Your thoughts?
Buddy Christ: Conductor of the Great Guilt Machine
January 15, 2010
There is a great degree of peace that comes from not only knowing who you are, but also in finding a Christian community that embraces who you are while helping you to improve your obedience to Christ. In my personal journey of faith, I have experienced this peace most poignantly after making a transition from what has come to be known as a “low church” setting to what is called the “high church” setting. Let’s get the formalities out of the way, first. High church most commonly refers to how a church conducts its worship services. They typically incorporate the church calendar into a pre-determined order of service and annual order of services. They typically incorporate some form of worship vestments, ritual, and other such accoutrements. They typically conduct their worship in buildings that one could consider more architecturally sacred or traditional (as much of the liturgy actually plays off the layout of the worship space). All of this informs the “high church’s” ecclesiology and theology as well. Just how that liturgy informs one’s theology is precisely the point of this post.
First, perhaps most importantly, I do not intend to speak pejoratively of the Low Church tradition. I have not come to think of “low church” as meaning unsophisticated or less intellectual, which is often the case when folks use the term. I use the terms low church and high church in their appropriate sense, as described above. Nonetheless, there is an interesting shift in perspective that seems to have taken place in my move to the high church. Indeed, it is the reason making the move has proven so spiritually healthy for me.
Much of the Low Church practices what I like to call “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. For the sake of clarity, I am not accusing all Low Church Christians of practicing “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. In fact, I have healthy relationships with a number of people that seem to be able to function within the Low Church tradition without being affected by “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. Now, in fairness, I have many, many more friends in the Low Church that are completely and irrevocably invested in “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. And, frankly, it serves them well. Until you have been part of a congregation comprised of the poorest of the poor - the dregs of society, that comes together on Sunday and rejoices that they have a Savior that is friend and brother, I am not sure you can really appreciate the value of the Low Church. However, though I have seen plenty of my own personal poverty, I am not wired like anyone that benefits from “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity.
Here’s the inside track on “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. These Christians actually have a relational experience with Christ that functions in the place of deep, fulfilling human relationships. However, if you can imagine the relational guilt and frustration that comes from having a close friend snub you, then you can understand how the Low Church brand of “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity became a toxic environment for me.
I have never felt guilt over anything like I did when I would hear friends; pastors or relatives speak of their “relationship” with Jesus. Jesus doesn’t whisper in my ear throughout the day like my bff. He doesn’t greet me in the morning with gentle encouragement like my wife. He doesn’t hold me in his arms and comfort me like a parent when tragedy strikes. Jesus isn’t my best friend. And until I figured out how that played into who I am, I lived a guilt-ridden existence.
I have prayed much penance, and I have performed much personal punishment, and I have cried out in anxiety on many occasions, because I was left thinking that Jesus didn’t want to be my best friend since I didn’t experience those things. You can imagine how distressing that must be since another essential doctrine of the Low Church is how damn much Jesus loves everyone and everything, except apparently (I thought) for me. So, needless to say, once I was able to remove myself from that environment, life got a bit better.
Consequently, the high church seems to fit who I am. I don’t know if I have some raging, uncontrollable ego; if I am incorrigibly greedy or if I am just so stubborn (perhaps none?). Nonetheless, I need God to be bigger than me. I need God to be transcendent and awesome. I need church to be sacred and the things of Christ to be holy. I need there to be deep reverence and ceremony – not because it is “better,” “smarter,” or more “correct.” I need those things, because that is who I am in Christ. It is how my heart worships. I get lost in the wonder and mystery and terror that are the worship of a holy, awesome God in a high church setting. Jesus isn’t my buddy; he is my True Lord, my High Priest, and my Exalted King.
Church History for Dummies: or How I Was Initiated into Tradition
December 11, 2009
Here is (yet) another attempt at “conservative blogging.” And I certainly don’t mean that as a political valuation, rather as a reference to the obnoxiously long and boring research that I typically post.
My reasons for enjoying the Episcopal Church, especially as they compare over and against the denominational experiences of my youth, have become clearer to date. I have been involved in a wonderful dialogue with a Roman Catholic layman (one of those rare members of the laity that pursues their faith in all aspects, including the intellectual), and we have been swapping reading lists. He directed me to this link as a matter of course in conversation. However, the quote from G.K. Chesterton that it contains brought a flood of realization to the front of my mind. Here’s the quote:
“Real development is not leaving things behind, as on a road, but drawing life from them, as from a root.”
- G.K. Chesterton
This will come as no new information on this blog or even to most readers, but it finally dawned on me in that important way – the one where we differentiate between holding a fact in that grey matter between our ears and having enlightenment. Part of the reason I love the Episcopal Church so much is because it is not trying to run away from the rest of history. It is using the rest of its history, and what a history it is, to energize the ministry of the Church. It embraces history as a way to refresh the present. The common worship of saints that has transcended centuries of tradition moves behind the liturgy I participate in every Sunday.
Moving from a denomination that could not see farther back than 1904 to a denomination that embraces all of Church history was like jumping out of a plastic “kiddy pool” on the beach and into the ocean.
I know many of us have a shared Pentecostal ancestry, so to speak. I have spent the better part of a year contemplating how my Pentecostal heritage is going to continue to influence my Christian walk. There has always been an element of Pentecostalism, and charismatic movements for that matter, that has resonated with me spiritually. In fact, as a confirmed member of the Episcopal Church, I have found that the spiritually efficacious nature of charismatic/Pentecostal theology is still very much part of how I live out my faith. Indeed, I have even been caught off guard by it in a couple of settings.[1] I bring this up, because I have never been academically satisfied with the Pentecostal doctrinal propositions or defenses offered by Pentecostal scholars.[2] However, I am not willing to “throw the baby out with the bath water,” to borrow from a colloquialism that I have oft heard being tossed around in Pentecostal institutions. So, after a couple of years spent ruminating and a couple of very long conversations with one of Loyola University’s professors emeritus, I have finally found a way to begin articulating, theologically, the struggle I have with Pentecostal doctrine.[3]
As an undergraduate student, it quickly became evident to me that some doctrines are, well, more “doctrinal” than others.[4] I mean to say that some doctrines that are entertained by Christians are orthodox, and some are not. They are a matter of personal preference, and do not really constitute something the broader community must believe or practice, though they may articulate the official position of one Christian sect. This may seem nit picky, but it makes all of the difference in the world to me. I cannot abide by the fact that many Pentecostals see in their Pentecostal doctrine certain elements that are essential for belief. I agree that many elements of charismatic/Pentecostal theology are edifying, that they enhance spirituality, and that they offer practical ways of living out our faith – and, as such, are worthy of pursuit. However, Pentecostal doctrine is not essential to the Christian walk, and to teach it as such is an abuse of authority. These were the only ways that I was previously able to articulate my frustration.
Lately, though, I have found a cleaner way to address the problem I have with the Pentecostal experience and the teaching of Pentecostal doctrine. I think the problem I have is a simple disconnect that exists between the mystical and the intellectual. I think the church has been experiencing and will continue to experience some fallout over the western church’s reaction to the Enlightenment. The modernist response to the Enlightenment has made mystical Christianity all but an anathema. However, this is the source of my issues with Pentecostalism. The charismata is something to be approached apophatically and not cataphatically. The gifts of the Spirit, including tongues, constitute legitimate mystical experiences, and, yet, the Pentecostal church wants to teach it cataphatically.[5] I think this is the same problem the Roman church ran into with its teaching on transubstantiation – they wanted to “teach” a mystical experience.[6] As a result, I feel a lot better about the role that the charismata will play in my Christian life. They are, as I believe Paul intended, an ad hoc mystical experience designed by God to enable Christians to interact with the Spirit as the Church functions as Christ’s agents in the world.
[1] One instance in particular comes to mind – at a spiritual retreat with 310 teens, I found myself laboring in prayer with a girl and was surprised to be led by the Spirit to pray in tongues, so I did – privately.
[2] Honestly, how many times have you heard a Pentecostal call that phrase, “Pentecostal scholar,” an oxymoron? I have heard professors at A/G institutions do it.
[3] Though, not necessarily with Pentecostal practice – which doesn’t even scratch the surface of how hard it has been to separate the frustrations I have with evangelical theology/practice from that of Pentecostal heritage.
[4] I hope to invoke not only the denotative (a collection of teachings, beliefs, etc) sense of “doctrine,” but also the connotative element as well. The emotional force of saying that something is the official teaching of your church amounts to saying, “you must believe, do, say…”
[5] Remember those camp evangelists that had everyone at the altar doing “Pentecostal calisthenics” to warm the new initiates up for the baptism in the Holy Spirit?
[6] It, incidentally, is also where many protestant churches run into trouble as well. They want to make the “mystical” aspect of communion into a memorial or “visible” Christian practice, and just end up robbing it of meaning. What good is a mystical experience without mystery?
A Note On Heritage
October 16, 2009
My mother was organizing some old papers from her parent’s home this week and discovered a tattered sheet of notebook paper written by my Grandma Marguerite who died last January. The short testimony describes how my grandma became a Christian. I’d grown up hearing the story from both women—but to see it written out gave it a special gravity for me. Below are the documents and my best deciphering of the faded handwriting.
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* we think she wrote this in 1996 and was doing the math
My mom and I enjoyed going over these notes together and telling stories about my Grandma. She’d grown up without any Christian influences. She became a Roman Catholic when she married my Italian Grandpa and ended up going to Mass more than he did. The experiences she described above (as I remember her telling the stories) happened completely unprovoked while reading her Bible alone. They sparked my grandmother to announce to her priest that she was leaving the Catholic Church and joining up with the Pentecostal crowd at Fremont Tabernacle down the road.
It’s one half of my family’s A/G past and it eventually led to my grandpa’s conversion and my mother and aunt’s marrying A/G ministers. These are powerful stories that have defined the way our family talks about God and Faith.
I’m left feeling a bit nostalgic and little confused. This is my heritage and I’m proud of it—and yet I’m continuing in what would appear to be a decidedly un-pentecostal path.
Next month I’m getting confirmed in the Episcopal Church and I’m visiting an Anglican Seminary next week. Where is the connection between my family’s faith experiences and my own journey out of the Assemblies God into a Catholic body like Anglicanism? Am I betraying their legacy? Changing it? Contextualizing it? What would Grandma think?
These are the persistent questions I’m sure I’ll live with for the rest of my life.
Tony Hunt
jstambaugh
Shawn Wamsley
