That Necessity to Introduce Myself Before Speaking Further (The Anglican Situation Cont'd)

I have been attempting to forbear comments when logged in to the site posted in my sidebar (to the reader's right). Chatter of magpies sort of thing. (Me.) And I am a wren, thank you!

When I originally discovered the site, I was quite overcome. All that information! I jumped in with pure toes-curled glee. (That Overeffusiveness elder daughter keeps pointing out.

She is cool, calm & collected, you see. Savvy wunderkind.

Mom is not.)

But as I stayed with it a bit, I began to grow concerned over that situation that I - for want of a more schooled term - regard as 'politics' (and not the sort you go & vote over)...but which is to say (one of those lovely & subtle contradictions I always proffer), if you can vote on the matter to correct it, your view of religion may be edged a little closer to your politics than is needful.

But other posts cover that (& explain it better) & at some point I will gather them together under a more specific head (as I did with topics which have some bearing on the Lambeth concerns yesterday)...

The jump from a religion that is 'more political than faith-oriented' to rules (and worse) is a very small stumble, you see. And it is not that I care to point fingers (as if a bird had any to point), but rather that, old Sunday School teacher to the heart of me, that is what I do. Examine. Consider. Explain.

(Actually, I am rather more fond of asking questions than proffering answers. Somewhat of the Socratic method. Former homeschool teacher, too.)

A terrible amount of backbiting occurs at the site, however, which caused me to delete it from my sidebar. I returned it, perhaps a day or two later, with the cautionary note presently titling it. To examine a thing is, err, one thing. To express frustration (as another post covered) is another.

But to rant is another matter entirely - to savage, ditto - one hears most clearly the [err, legitimate] frustrations of our good Archbishop that we are not talking to each other when reading some of the comments-ary (which is not quite commentary, yet is) on the site mentioned...

It is, however, a site of much excellence; as the Facebook page of a - umm, very good friend of mine points out, the site contains feeds from blogs, networks, websites & comments (from both sides, tho it is a conservative traditional site) - as well as their own feature columnists - you get a live camera feed, in essence, of everything out there on any given moment in the Anglican Communion.

(You will note I am not listing said site herein.

I can be quite contrary as I wish to be. But always with good reason and - reason that is good for you.)

And subsequent visits to said site have proven that a great deal of ribbing-in-good-fun happens (and even a post on good ribs - now, can any beat that?)...and Sufficient Intelligent Response to make this thing of 'comment' (the new global reality) a good thing, even in the reality that we all can be loose cannons here & there.

(I specialize, as some might point out, in such.

Though others, to be sure, term it under a different head.)

But enough about this weary bird. On to the matter at hand. Which at this point, umm, actually is This Weary Bird - I am filling in with Various Biographical Details about This Poor Bird that do affect how what I say is read and thus... (for those of you who are new to my site) (i.e., not loyal readers) (as if, the good bird said, I had any. They have all flown the coop, for various reasons that have more to do with interpersonal relationship than other, more objective things.

Really, one might like the possibility of being Read for What One Says rather than Who One Is in relationship to another)...err, as I was saying, are thus necessary.

No?

I used to be a conservative with liberal views...now I am afraid I tend toward being a liberal with only the dream of that conservative viewing still the shield I hold...not that I want to be.

I might better be regarded, perhaps, as ‘conservative with an edge;’ some of it, to be sure, is merely the framing…I must examine a thing, but not because I do not think the essence is correct.

It is our tendency to dilute & malform which concerns me.

I work at a church. Err, the real me for which Wren is the fictional voice does. Nothing striking: mere receptionist. But because my private views (which none can legislate) disagree rather seriously with the views of my employer, I do not air them at work. Some few, to be sure, know them.

And in point of fact, were I to do so (& even be problematic & ill-tempered about them), it would be overlooked.

With a sigh, yes. But, overlooked.

But (good Episcopalian that I am, even if I do 'not at present attend church'), I know better.

And - much better - my view of the necessity to 'respect the dignity of every human being' (which does indeed pull from essentials of the faith, in spite of what a subsequent post will cover on the matter) prevents my being too sassy about something that I know each person has the necessity to choose on his or her own - regardless of whether or no the right choice is made.

(Which is to say, if we cannot have the freedom to choose, we are under a different master.)

But (the ordination of women, as an example) holding views antithetical to those my employer holds does not give me the right to be disrespectful to women who are priests.

In point of fact, I generally have far more in common with women who are priests than with women who are not.

We are drawn to the same subject matter, again & again & again.

But I am not one who believes that my views give me the option of being disrespectful to anyone. Pert, perhaps, upon occasion. Impetuous. Tempetuous.

And sometimes downright indignant.

But not disrespectful.

I do, however, relish debate. I enjoy, if I were to posit from the view of those who 'know' me, argument. But only by that classical definition of the word (2 a: a reason given in proof or rebuttal b: discourse intended to persuade; thank you, Merriam Webster on-line) - or better - apologetic (1 : systematic argumentative discourse in defense (as of a doctrine), ibid.)...

The fact that I do not actually 'argue' (by the more common understanding of the word) - that I merely believe each should present his view to be countered by the other's view to be countered by the first viewer's view to be...

Well, you get the picture.

That, to me, is not argument. It is not 'contentiousness.'

It is the necessity. Dark down here, you remember.

I am a truth-seeker. I don't trot out party lines, tired or otherwise. Many of us do, and maybe it's okay and maybe it's not but that is the way it is and intelligence (or not) has perhaps less to do with how/why we are that way than other factors.

Which is to say, we are all intelligent. But some of us are party-members and party members tend to spew party lines.

And that is one reason (no matter how fiercely our views are held) we don't dialogue across the party lines.

Which is another way of saying, politics. But other reasons hedge (3: a calculatedly noncommittal or evasive statement, ibid.) (I do love words) that reality (of inability to dialogue) as well.

Nonetheless, in the public arena (that is to say, any place outside your castle) certain constraints do hold.

Which is one of the realities of 'fictional' writing: truth should be heard (and defended). But persons (& personhood) should be respected as possible, given that we are human and part of what makes humanity a delight is that passion that animates, then leaves us - not quite in the mud, but certainly with it becoming a part of our facepaint.

[And I will digress further, but only (I promise) for the moment. Anonymity (or pseudonymity, as you prefer) can be extremely necessary in a public arena. It can allow public debate while protecting the reality that individuals get in the way of debate - truth is, really, completely independent of you or me.

Which is to say, truth is something outside each of us. (And, indeed, Truth is a Person.)

It's not even our 'possession' if we stumble across it, some treasure buried in a field upturned by our hoeing our little rows, minding our own business, etc. I am (or might be) a truthful person does not mean I am truth, or own it.]

[Anonymity, by the way, has an esteemed place even in our own history. (My editor not being up this early, we will let you research that topic on your own.)]

Well, all of that, and what was it about! I sent a letter to the site administrators pointing out how much we 'come along with what we say.'

A direct contradiction, to be sure, of the reality that individuals get in the way of debate.

Or perhaps the proving of it.

We frame what is said by who is saying it. Not just figure out the tone - which affects what is said - but reliability. We don't spring into a new community, like Athena from her father's head, fully-formed.

We edge into each other. To be sure, I play (and a great deal) with notions of Who & What We Are as Human Beings. Our relationship to each other as community (the larger group outside home & family) of persons who think the same about particular topics - and as the larger group outside that - persons who do not think the same but are under the same management team (fill in which team depending on which group is being examined) - the groups continue to grow larger and the ability to be distinct within them (i.e., to be individuals) grows less with each enlarging.

And (looking at it from the other view) groups tend to splinter and/or re-form based on the shared (or not) ontologies (1 : a branch of metaphysics concerned with the nature and relations of being, ibid.) (words, she trilled in that overexuberant glee otherwise known as - mmm, overeffusiveness) that the individuals within them profess. And we are at that point of necessity (splinter and/or reform; re-form) in the Anglican Communion and who I am, you see, determines which portion of the splinter I will dart into when the door is closing.

As all doors inevitably do.

And whether those inside that room can trust me (and what I say)...

Depends on who I am...

Hmm. I am what I believe.

But if I am not careful, what I believe will render me incapable of the fluidity that is the Spirit of my Lord within me...will render me hard (as tables are hard)...

And likewise, if I am not careful, what I believe will render me incapable of standing firm in the 'things that [Christ] has taught me...'

But that will be taken up in another post. I have been, in closing, often said to say the same thing over & over & over in the [extremely long] letters which were the antecedent to passeres.

So be it. Reason for it somewhere, to be sure; I likely have it in my papers and if you'll wait just a moment, I'll find my notes and let you know what it is...and in the meanwhile, tomorrow's post will say it all over again.

[Editor's note(s). The link for the site in question has been removed (8 Aug 08) from the sidebar to the left.

While both Wren & I support the work of orthodoxy (though perhaps with an edge), and (our bird) will indeed continue to visit (& comment, those places where 'to forbear' is not possible) at said site, after much discussion, we have decided the sidebar should be reserved for other things.
The site is linked herein, for any who might be interested:

http://www.standfirminfaith.com/

We wish the parties involved in the site all the best & will continue to visit, though with caution.]

A Little Bit More on the Anglican Question(s)

I believe that who we are as Christians does indeed require 'respect for the dignity of all human beings--.' First operating instruction, second – last.

But changing the doctrines of the church to accommodate that "dignity" is not what the Church is about. Which is to say, bring me your homosexuals, bring me your adulterers, etc., etc. -- but don't expect me to see us as people who do not sin or people who are not in need of redemption.

And conversing with people who believe that sin is no longer a part of the picture ("God loves everyone") (certainly He does!)…when love becomes ‘I’m okay, you’re okay” is eiree.

I’m not okay. Don’ know ’bout you…

But we’ll leave that one for now. In my years of study over the matter, I have come to understand that 'sloth' - one of many words that no longer means what it did when the KJV was pulled together - encapsulates what an old fable by Aesop described. Don't remember the tale, but the moral is, your reach should always exceed your grasp...

You should never quit striving for the ideal you will never take in your hands.

Because to do so produces complacency. And complacency (which is what sloth is) says that the ideal is of no value. The ideal is meaningless. I will live right here where I am and that is that.

Two items were endemic to the ancient Jewish faith from which Christianity grew. The above is one. If you don't strive to reach what is higher than where you live, you will rot. You will die. Your spirit will become a cankersore within you.

On top of ceasing to regard as holy what you must strive for!

The other is based on the creative force that is our God. And it is, that ‘life’ which is in God – which is God – and which proceeds from God - is mandated in the prohibition against homosexuality.

Life creates – life renews – life makes more than, and it does so by a system of opposites: by the union of male and female.

It does not reproduce by mirror image. By clone. By photo-copier.

Further, right there inside ‘created in His image’ is ‘male & female created He them’ and ‘the two shall become one.’

The procreative force & vitality which is God, endlessly seeking us, is another item that is ‘the same as’ life – God endlessly seeks us; the Divine pierces us; we receive. He seeks; we are found.

St. Paul explains the notion as a mystery which defines the Church. A tough old bird, our saint – he did not mince words, nor was he squeamish about using them. One of the premier teachings against homosexuality is in the first chapter of Romans. But if you read Paul’s commentary in the larger context proffered (I don’t like chapters, and I am no longer so certain I trust some of the sentence divisions), it is easy enough to note Paul was not bent out of shape about the reality of homosexuality. Point One.

In fact, given the culture of his experience and certain threads in that particular explanation, that first chapter of Romans can scarcely be considered even a diatribe – its tone is matter of fact; if anything; Paul becomes ‘rabid’ when he begins to list the sins which are produced following his comments on homosexuality – sins which are more the reality of all of us. Point Two.

Yes, Paul is astonished – righteously indignant might be more apt.

But he saves his anger for the sins which are the reality for all of us.

The ‘worst’ Paul charges about the matter could easily be read as one of his examples that merely portray the way things are – “the Greek philosophers…[my take on who he describes: Paul was a cosmopolitan kind of guy in a pluralistic society and not above reaching outside his Jewishness when it suited him: remember how cagey the man was to forego mentioning he was a Roman citizen until the point when --.

Well. Go read the book]…should have come to an awareness of God through their studies & musings about the nature of life; instead, because in all that contemplation, they ignored the God who is clearly visible from what He created; they worshiped the created instead of the Creator; thus, they were given over to unnatural [most translators use this terminology where, if you examine the Greek, the meaning is more specific to the sexual act involved] lusts which, as anyone should see clearly, contradicts the basic flow of life – the men’s sperm is received back up into themselves, rather than being given into a woman…”

You see. A fairly clear paraphrase of what Paul attempted. The astonishment is edged toward the denial of life (life is, remember, an affirming of – a glorifying of – God… to create, to make new, to continue the existence of the very universe which He created...to continue the process of what God has begun)…not toward a horror of homosexuality…which was quite prolific amongst Greek philosophers & their followers.

Not that Paul was cavalier about it.

But that ready sense of ‘abomination’ as presented in the OT is absent.

It remains of much interest, too, that Christ never encountered the homosexuality question. I have read (and am given to reading again & again) much of the extracanonical literature from the early Christian era; additionally, a great deal remains in non-Christian (as well as Gnostic) documents that refer back to sayings of Christ that are not preserved in the canonical texts.

(Yes, that leaves it up for grabs whether or not they are authentic to Christ and his teachings. But that does not mean that they may not derive from authentic stories told about Him.)

Even with that wider cache, none of the stories portray Christ confronting homosexuality. It could certainly be said orthodox Jewish culture probably didn’t have homosexuals in it. (And yes, a great deal of diversity existed in ‘orthodox’ for first century Jewishness.)

But the omission is certainly of interest.

I think what largely concerns me is that St. Paul’s tone is missed in the modern reading. He was apostle to the Gentiles; he knew better than to rush in and tell people who did not know Christ that they were 'abominations.'

Think of it for a moment. Paul’s letters were circulated in Christian churches (ekklesia)…might St. Paul have been concerned about reputation? You get a name for a particular rabidity, who is going to listen to you? If Paul were here in the twenty-first century, I suspect he would be as careful.

Nonetheless, Paul did not change the basic message of Christ as Redeemer…and as that is indeed what is happening in the present unrest…the basic identity of what we are when the Holy One indwells us is being challenged…which is where, again, it all gets difficult.

Because certainly (on the level of shepherds & overseers), the theology must be right.

But on the lines of sheep (or, if you have read below, hobbits), the line in need of dividing perhaps needs to be tweaked a bit.

Because it is all about the difference between doctrine and practice.

Which is to say. The theology must remain sound, because orthodoxy is what was handed down.

(Heterodoxy did indeed exist from the get-go; that necessity to protect the faith was present from very early on.)

But how we live it in the marketplace? That is a different story, and I think the part of it where most of us lose track.

Gets difficult, I know – and no matter how schooled our veneer might be, just the slightest bump & off we go & that thing that roars up from deep within each of us is not anything we would recognize if we could see it in the light of day…

And if our schooling gets too good…we are fraternizing, rather than seeking Christ…that line is so exquisitely slender…how to walk it without lumbering like some drunken fool…

But as I’ve said before, the Divine in the hands of the created…it hasn’t been a pretty thing and if I remind that our Lord warned us a long time ago…which is to say, I kinda suspect God knew what would happen when He turned what is holy over to the keeping of man.

And that goes for the orthodox, as much as heterodox. In the meanwhile, my rule of thumb (for the marketplace, that is) at least attempts: live mercy; let God judge.

Because you never know where God is going to take your mercy…

On the Anglican Question(s)

When two views to a matter present, and one is vital enough to affect, not just life here, but the Only Life that matters, anger & even rage are necessarily going to be the First Response. To say nothing of more suspicion than is perhaps warranted.

Can't help it.

You see. Christianity 201 is indeed about listening.

But not listening to you&me. [Something there is about 'fluid' vs. fixed (i.e., hard) in the imagery Christ spoke of the Spirit for a reason. And if you really examine the history presented in Acts, you find a very real underpinning of ‘avoiding that tendency in man to want a thing structured’ - to want, as it were, rules.

Because a man (or woman) can count on rules, n'est ce pas?

He can think a thing through for himself, thank you, whenever he has a good rule to follow.

No need to ask God.

No need to listen to hear what the story is about this one or that - no need for an opening for the Spirit of our God to radically change the life of another.

Just need to follow the rule(s). ]

That's not to deny rules are there, and needful. Nor to denigrate the immense task before the bishops at the current Lambeth.

Merely to remind (because we often need reminding) we are hobbits (halflings) trying to lift the swords of angels in a deep fog on the side of a mountain, and we are standing on a pathway that lines a deep edge...

Rushing in to do battle in a war we have no business fighting. Or, as St. Paul said, we don't really war with [each other] anyway. We war against principalities. Which remains another way of saying it is angels (the dark ones) against whom we battle.

And I think that prayer is the station we are assigned, rather than picking up the swords of angels. At least, those of us on my level. As for Bishops – that is a different story. (And you will note I am being very polite & not asking, where were they when all this was starting?)

Because we all know where they were, and what we are up against and for those who don’t: two camps against us, you see, and the one is a very (if I may) dangerously (savagely?) schooled group of – err, reformers...

But the other is the group that has already been – umm, reconditioned and spit out again?

And that is where the real heartbreak is, because a great deal of people dear to me (and you) – and a large portion of (as in, everybody) that I work with (and perhaps you, too) – and even family members – are in that camp. And I know, because I accept the First Principle (everyone has both Right & Necessity to choose their way, even if it is the Wrong Choice), how very much they believe they are the ones who Hear God Better.

They believe in what they believe in, if I may. With their hearts, just like the more orthodox do.

But getting back to being a hobbit, that is merely an illustration and it does not really limit quite so much as it sounds. Like many things in the Kingdom, once you start putting a thing in words, you lose much of what it is. Rules somewhat come under that reality.

Because they are, and they are not. Patterns, I think, work better than rules - our comprehension (as noted in other posts) is limited to the instant; we can comprehend only in linear time - state & restate, etc. In the instant of saying a thing, only the one thing can be said. And then it must be refined. Linear time is like that.

And insofar as a list of sins, it is interesting that, in one of the major seatings wherein the last days are detailed (Matthew, I believe), Christ is not portrayed as dividing the sheep from the goats on the basis of whether or no they were homosexuals, adulterers, liars, squabblers, or ordained women. (Just kidding.)

(I do not accept the ordination of women. It is, in point of fact, a matter I have studied over since - what, late 1968, early 1969, when I was in the 8th grade? I still study it. But I work at a church where ordained women likewise work and they receive nothing but the same respect & affection I show any, in spite of my deeply-held personal view on the matter.)

Christ divides on the basis of whether they fed the hungry, clothed the naked, visited those in prison. Which is to say, whether or no they looked for Him in the faces (& needs) of the people around them. Pure social justice issues at that juncture of the story.

(To be sure, the distinction there did not necessitate Christ actually ‘being’ in those faces.

But our commandment is to seek Him…in places where He may or may not be found.)

And I suspect that is because the Process Which Is Needful Is So in Us as Much as in…err.

Them.

So for as much as we want to say we are right & they are wrong – a little bit of ‘listen’ might indeed be constructive. But for the rest of it – to re-invent what it means to be created in His image…little nervous about that one, as we all well should be.

But I fear the Anglican Communion is going to be rent and I don't see any remedy for it. And I am left wondering, what could have stopped it.

But the answer is, nothing.

And some more reasons why, perhaps, in another post. (These days, subjects there are about which to blog is difficult…

That point, counterpoint, you see. That is where it both steadies, and wobbles.

And I’ve been dickering with a particular tray of themes now for several days and have a whole blue line of drafts leering at me from the tab line at the bottom of my computer screen...)

[Editor's Note. Apology, but I'm leaving yer reading the Book again.

No quotations cited tonight.]

Little Bit of Soft Shoe

Slowly eased. You know. Those dancers who had the moment held, just after the wild gyrations--that one foot out, knee cocked, all before it is perfectly spun--wildly spun--for this long second, everything holding its breath...and then the slow pulse - the foot inching back - scarcely the inch, to be sure, to its controlled slide. You are still holding your breath, mesmerized...and the excitement is too much; the breath cannot be held any longer; the dancer must dance, but he toys with your very identity that last played out tail of his timing, when you know you will be gasping for air and no air given...still he is teasing, holding your eyes - dance, man, dance -- ah, but he is eyeing you, laughing...

And then the beat explodes and all are dancing again.

Little bit of soft shoe.

Little bit of slow.

But we are not dancing here, my little crew of birds and those few others who visit in my tiny world - a bird's world, as you might know. Sparrow, Isobel, a haughty jay or two - one, perhaps, you might know as a robin redbreast - if you have seen the robin in the wild, they are more prone I think to confrontations mid-air than even jays, who stir up a brazen fuss and won't quit it - everything in that berating.

Squirrels tend to be a bit more along the line of jays, come to think of it. They will carry a tale to its bitter end and then some, jumping from tree to tree to let you know what they think of a matter.

I have been sitting in the park across the street from my home a little more of recent date than I am accustomed. To be sure, it is a strong point, always, on staying in my little basement apartment even now, as the lease comes due again and rent goes up, but the reality as always is I stay because I don't have the money for choice in my life.

Nor does Sparrow, but her situation had been so grave it has deserved its own posts. And she became too sickened to allow more of them. I had started an Interview with the Devil on her behalf, but she would not work with me and it faltered.

So I am left with soft shoe.

Because, to be sure, the dancer is either us - or the Debil himself, n'est ce pas, and it can be us when life spins in our control and the Debil otherwise. Perhaps most of us live quiet lives, getting up, doing what must be done, couple hours with the kids or spouse (sometimes both?) - one hears of desperation, isn't it - couple centuries back...and what now.

I am reading again, and trying to read more attentively than I am wont...err, every word on the page. I am a skimmer - I want to read more closely now - I want to suck the pap dry of the story; in my own work, allusion and tone and mot juste are mandatory item(s), but when I read, much as when I watch a movie, most of what is presented by the creator flies somewhere outside my view: I experience intuitively, and leave the cerebral reasoning aside.

Working to avoid that this time. I managed to read almost every word this time in Jane Eyre. Got all the words in A Farewell to Arms. And then I delved into Tess of the D'Urbervilles again, which my devoted readers (the only two I have out there) will note is of great resonance to me...

That was not such a good idea. Little too close for comfort this time.

A friend picked the book up - I was just past the middle at that point - he muttered an aside to himself about forgetting (it'd been many years) the link to Stonehenge...and then he's flipping through the pages looking for something...as he knew I'd read it before, he began reading random paragraphs aloud.

And then he's reading about that black flag.

He went back then and read the entire last chapter aloud, and by then he'd said, they put her to death; didn't you know - and whether I did or I didn't at that point was not known; I said in a petulant voice, no, I didn't - it makes my stomach hurt.

I sat up, for it did, and badly.

A great wrenching hurt.

When I finished the book, the day or so later, I remembered the last time I'd read it. I think it is three times now...but the second time is when it began to become important to me - and - when I suspected what happened...though the only reason I am certain I completely understood what had happened (Hardy is subtle in his telling; to do more would have been maudlin, and not art) remains because I resolved then & there never to read the book again.

My memory plays with me, you see. It gaps.

Because had I remembered, to be sure, I wouldn't have picked it up to read again.

Oh, the simple words of a small bird. Would that life were not some dance we dance for the Devil, where he determines our soft shoe. But it is, and we go on dancing. I think sometime I may return to Tess and post commentary on the words which at present cannot be said...

But for now....

Lambeth (Maybe) (And Then Some)

In a reference to Anglican rebels who are seeking to set up their own authority within the Communion, [Dr Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury for the Anglican Communion] said: "A central and homogenised Communion could be at the mercy of powerfully motivated groups from left or right who wanted to redefine the basic terms of belonging, so that Anglicanism becomes a confessional church in a way it never has been before.

Our friends at The Telegraph (UK) have clearly forgotten their manners. Rebels? Come, come. Yes, my favourite on-line dictionary (Merriam-Webster) does indeed define the word as "1 a: opposing or taking arms against a government or ruler b: of or relating to rebels 2: disobedient, rebellious" - however, I believe the shoe more properly fits the other foot.

I mean.

One of the nicer things about the web is how it is changing newsworthiness. A topic posted in a blog remains accessible forever.

Or at least until the blogger deletes it.

While websites may still be rating items to newsworthiness in that old fashion of 'today's news, tomorrow's fish' (or whatever it was that people used to wrap in newspaper after the day's topics were read) (yes, that would be pre-recycle days) (and/or, recycling from a different view), bloggers yet possess that un-professional item called 'vanity' (see below) which keeps us lovingly archiving our words for future glory(s).

That will inevitably change history (the story, remember) for future generations (i.e., those here present with us who are changing the face of the world as we know it whether we like it or no)(get with the program or get out of the way?)...

The people who were, so to speak (to return to the topic at hand, which I do promise I am capable of doing & might even consider doing at the present moment), at the party first can scarcely be said to be the ones who are creating the ruckus (one might consider invited guests vs. party-crashers), in spite of anything to which they may (at present & beyond) be forced in order to restore order, decorum, or any other goodly sensibilities presently in need of the possessing.

If I might borrow from the good graces of Merriam Webster again:

traditional - 1 a: an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior (as a religious practice or a social custom) b: a belief or story or a body of beliefs or stories relating to the past that are commonly accepted as historical though not verifiable

orthodox - 1 a: conforming to established doctrine especially in religion

Now how is that the 'rebels' (i.e., those who are the traditional & orthodox members of the august Anglican Communion which, granted, can technically only trace its existence to the mid-1500s and a split with Roman Catholicism - nonetheless, its directives had been fairly standard everyday sort of Christian ideals & doctrines up until a few decades back.

Or am I suddenly in the wrong Church & what had been handed down as Anglican was only a mirage in a place I didn't know was desert?)

Hmm.

That is a possibility.

I mean. The good Archbishop may indeed know something I don't know.

Which is to say, he knows a great many things I don't know, and never will. And is desperately trying to hold onto a fragile Communion in danger of splintering; doctrinal divides being what they are, the reality remains you don't really want this sort of thing happening on your watch.

And that has less to do with such future indignities as Whose Watch It Was and more to do with the basic dignity of The Job at Hand (and a Job Being Worthy of Being Done Well), in spite of the potshots many of my (also good) friends (which is to say, those on the same side of the fence as the one wherein I roost) are taking at the poor man.

Nonetheless, in my dreaming, the 'traditional & orthodox' are the ones who - out of a longstanding frustration with not being heard - are crying foul and finally doing something. N'est ce pas? Or are a good quarter plus of our Bishops dreaming - and gracious knows how many laypeople, given the reality that many of us have been ditching since, what, the late nineteenth century?

And many more 'lapsing,' as I believe the polite term for bailing out without really making a fuss about it is termed...

And all of us in sad opposition to a 'newthink' sort of Christianity...a type that clearly renounces what has been understood & handed down from ancient time...

Well, new world here now, as I believe I covered elsewhere.

But which determines theology. World or...

Some One else.

Okay, so we got the clear & unadorned (editorialized) opinion of The Way Things Are Developing in the Anglican Communion from our good friends quoted above (oh for the days when an editorial was an editorial and news was news but in a world that has known 'creative nonfiction,' nonfiction will never be nonfiction again) and yes, at the present moment, I trifle with words, mere words, as many of us are doing. The larger issue in the Archbishop's comments - and the poor man is being sideswiped at every step, I remind you; one almost hates to wade in and add to the fray - is that of 'Anglicanism becoming a confessional church in a way in which it has never been.'

By gollum, I kinda thought confessional a splendid notion. Martyrs, perhaps, who confess their faith and go to the death for it. Being more or less Anglo-Catholic (on top of being Episcopal & Anglican) (and, err, at the present moment, 'lapsed'), confessional could as easily have rung a different sort of bell for me. But I didn't think Dr. Williams meant such, so I headed out into the 'Net to find out what a confessional Church might be.

Interestingly enough (because this is the first I've heard of the notion), a movement does exist for what is termed [Wikipedia] 'confessing Churches' and it appears to be going across the board in a number of denominations. And I think (whether he intended it specifically or no) that is the matter to which Dr. Williams alluded.

Not so much churches wherein folk sign on the dotted line to a particular set of beliefs...but at the same time folk who adhere to a particular set of beliefs...a nuance of difference to the two concepts, you see, and everything in that distinguishing.

Which is to say.

I suspect he may have alluded to the first...where we are indeed the second.

But the larger issue to which Dr. Williams alludes is that "at the mercy of powerfully motivated groups from the left or right"and I suspect he is right there at the apple cart [and either trying desperately -- there's that word again -- to not have it upset and/or keep the rabble from stealing the apples (and throwing them at each other, to be sure)] aware that in the present moment (there we are again), politics counts for more than theology...

But seems we've glanced at that notion before...

We almost want to end our commentary there (my good Editor & moi. She is peeking across my shoulder as she is want to do now that she has returned to the coop), but something stops us. It is that question often asked here - what happens when the Divine pierces the created...

When a Church is left in the hands of mere humanity...

Well. This is what happens. And a great many Other Things that have already happened and scare the daylights out of me to consider...

But all of them, inevitably. Or as was covered a great many times in that Book that is Not a Rulebook but rather that Aim Towards Which We Stretch, the Divine and the World are not quite on the same page.

And never will be.

Yet a world which has been pierced by the Divine is inevitably going to be shaped by that Divine.

Even as it wars against It. [Do pardon. I was not reducing the Divine to ontologies of neuter distinction. But gender has realities of which the present gender wars (fought by mere pups) will never be aware. Nonetheless, upon occasion, a bird must stay on topic.]

You can go back to 'politics & religion' and why (as an earlier post mentioned) the two are 'forbidden' topics on the floor of [likely most] Extremely Tolerant Marketplaces (i.e., the ones who trumpet how open-minded they are) (words again, but open-minded is the newspeak for not) - which is to say (as has been said) - employees cannot discuss them.

Because our politics define us.

And inevitably define our faith as well.

And most hatred, vitriol, dissonance, rage & warfare seems to derive from...

How we define who we are.

And no, that is not a good thing. Err. The former notion. Politics defining our faith. But I am wrestling as much (if I might presume) (most of us do anyway) as Dr. Williams (and too many of us now) with a dual reality: how I live in the marketplace of you&me versus how I know life to be in another reality.

And that other reality is the only one which counts.

A great deal of - err - hogwash is out there demanding to be theology and by gollum, it is more than welcome to be theology. But not orthodox, traditional Christianity - not what was handed down by the saints...which is not & never will be what the Emperor is said to be wearing but we all know he is not (where are feathers when a bird needs them)...

Something there is to be said regarding, however, how & what faith is.

And that something is not left or right. And that reality that we are pierced by a Divine in this thing we call the Christian ('the disciples were first called Christians at Antioch') way remains the first, last and most immediate question...

And when is a reality a question?

When the answer is, by their fruits you shall know them. But when we lost the basic conceptualizing behind what those fruits should be....I’m left eyeing now (and here I was thinking I’d laboured over the topics at hand more than anyone should want to put up with) that other comment in the poor man’s quote (some long while back, for those of you who have already forgotten what we were – umm, discussing ) which provoked this meandering… “redefine the basic terms of belonging”…but somehow - I mean - I thought it had been covered here.

It’s just one is rather pulled up short, even after all that a bird could say (and more), by the astoundedness of them.

Redefine?

I’m left with where I started. Have I somehow been at the wrong party? Have I been Anglican (to be sure, American Episcopal is Anglican) all this while, singing “Holy, holy, holy” every Sunday (we were a quiet church) as a child for something that was not even there…?

It leaves a bird with ruffled feathers, now, doesn’t it. And who knows now when I shall be able to smooth them down...

All is Vanity

I have been outed.

Just kidding.

I mean. After all. That phrasing has a history. Err, already belongs to Somebody Else.

Nonetheless, anonymous, fictional me has done it. I've added a picture of moi [the real person (one of them?) behind the fictional me] to my blog.

See. There it is, to your right.

A wee thing, barely discernable. But clear enough for Whoever Needs to Know Who I Am to create Entire Comfort Levels (and/or take potshots) at quite clearly your average, run of the mill, me&you sort of all-American middle class (and must we add, middle-aged?)...

Lady.

I have been called worse, to be sure, and some of it lately, but I merely file such in this pleasant little folder I have called, "Crazies" and try not to think about it.

Got in a - err, disagreement - week or so back, with a co-worker who quite brazenly informed me I was no lady.

One might almost say it was an argument. (Certainly, she said, smoothing ruffled feathers, an impertinence.)

(But it was an impertinent moment & he'd already inadvertently insulted a lady who was a Real Lady and, not just that, but one of those 'ladies of the Church.'

You know.

The sort that Do Everything There.

And it'd been an extremely busy day & he was beside himself.

One must allow such.

It happens.)

In spite of what Some Might Think, I go to great lengths to avoid argument.

And possess one of those personalities that can mimic almost any person or group to which I am speaking and do so without thinking much about it.

And while it is rare for me to devolve into a chilly rage, places there are where Some Things May Not Be Breached and when they are...

The fact that they occur rarely is testament to my good will. (And if you have never been appraised by the consummate eye of a bird, please be advised one is eying you now.)

Working at a church, you see, the concept does still exist. (Err. The concept of being a lady.) (See above.)

Argument does, too (still exist as a concept), though to be sure, I believe the Emperor's minions are calling it something else these days. Out in the Empire, argument is better regarded as 'dialogue' now, I believe.

Listening. Umm. One party listening to the other, that is, without the first having the option of being heard.

The sort of thing that might amuse in a nursery school, where the kids are pretending to be adults.

They mimic us so well.

Through the years, that facet to my identity has been allowed, here and there. (We're back to being a lady now. Remember. The global subject here is vanity, and I am working at sticking to it.

None of that 'wander at will.') (Which is to say. We are not going out in the Empire today.)

It does not come up so much, to be sure, in this comic, kicky, snarky, etc., world I inhabit as Wren.

And perhaps not in other worlds so much any more.

In any case, I have added a photograph of me to my blog and indistinct though it is, it does capture me. We are limited, after all, by what we look like. Aren't we?

Limited and/or set free.

When I travel through the blogosphere, I tend to peek at profiles as much as skim an article or two. Looking for the details that - perhaps more than words - will tell me who a person is.

Will tell how I should catalogue what he or she is saying.

Rather unfortunate, really, especially for a woman quite as fond of anonymity as I am.

Bit of a crack in my armour. (Now, now, that does sound better than my sense of honour.)

In the main, however, we all fall into patterns - or templates - or stereotypes of one sort or another, in spite of what a dear one tells me.

He maintains we are all originals.

It's an endearing notion, to be sure, and I believe (seems once I had an Editor who checked these things for me but of late she has flown the coop) Pascal (Pensees) wrote something about the degree of intelligence in a person being directly related to the ability possessed to see the difference(s) in individuals, rather than the global similarities and/or templated design.

Which is another way of saying the above.

But I must not be very bright - and/or - find safety (and need it) in sameness.

(There go we all? Into that dark night not going?)

We dress a particular way to associate ourselves with others like us - to create that association in the minds of those around us - I've noted strangers greet me or no depending (not on whether I am wanting to greet them, which usually, I am not) on how I am dressed...seems a grave sense of comfort there is in the ugliest (and only) pair of sweat pants I have...

We associate with and clothe ourselves with what is important to us, in some sense. And our words - our ideology about the things we profess - is certainly fixed in the substance of such things.

When I was at the bookstore, I often found it quite alarming to read something I really deeply felt and/or agreed with - whereupon - opening the back of the book to see who wrote it, an image would leap up at me that was so Excrutiatingly Someone I Could Never Take Seriously that all of the words read would evaporate like fresh early morning in the sun on a summer day in south Georgia. You'd be amazed at how many used car salesmen and/or bright, chirpy, manicured-for-seminar types might otherwise have Something Worth Saying.

But I am jaded. I meet few originals, and find security in the places where we are similar. We all do. The misfortune is when truth comes garbed only in similarity.

Nonetheless, a picture does tend to short-circuit any pleasant notions of anonymity and my only defense is...vanity. Would that it were a Higher Order to Ontologies.

But such a playground of delights when so much woe is about us...

And here I sit merely tweaking inconsequentials in the event anyone comes for tea...

[Editor's note(s). One must return to the chicken coop, here & there, overseeing a bird like Wren...the Emperor & his minions [rather disrespectfully, perhaps] refers to the current conference at Lambeth where, as most are hearing, news sources being quite so kind as to keep us posted, the Anglican Communion is having its once-a-decade meeting.

But the rest of such sorrows as we are hearing will be perhaps tended under another post.

Both Wren and her editor are members of the Episcopal Church, traditional side.

And whether either of us at present attends church is not really the issue.]

American Family (Cameo)

In the park. This little family. I'm relaxing at my usual spot, the swinging bench that overlooks the playground. I can't estimate the distance from my bench to the playground; when someone has my bench and I have to sit at the one beside the playground, it is a walk of perhaps thirty seconds from my bench to the other.

You can walk quite a number of steps in thirty seconds. Okay. So maybe it is ten seconds. I don't count. I'm usually concentrating on not spilling my coffee (a lost cause) and otherwise not chewing out the people who have stolen my bench.

Just kidding.

The individuals in the little playground are perhaps six inches high, to my estimation--maybe eight or ten.

Not very good at estimating there, either.

Most of the dog walkers are absent--the neighborhood 'club' meets later in the evening on the weekdays and likely is just a hodgepodge on the weekend; other families have come and gone, perhaps; it is late morning on a Sunday; I will go to the park four or five times through the stretch of the day. I watch the trees and park life and people who pass by as lazy as an old man staring into a fire: anything that moves catches the eye.

I noted them first as they were dissembling from their car -- one of those standard SUV machines. Solid iconic middleclass - and yes, that could represent several different groupings. These had money. They were educated - not the sort that gains the degree but thereafter, you can never really tell it. They were intelligent.

Mom had the baby in one of those American versions of the ancient sling: gussied up with padding and straps and label and fasteners; a baby was as secure in them in a mother's holding as invention could beguile the thinking; she sat up facing her mother and against her tummy, her hands and arms hanging squat against the outside of the contraption, largely unmoving.

I saw them at first through that haze mentioned above, not yet cognizant of anything but the roving across my vision of some new tidbit to peruse, dismiss, glance at again.

And then one of the wee ones fell - a small boy, and he hit hard. Flat and full and across the pavement, without defense -- a belly-buster -- perhaps he had been running (it had that force) and caught his toe on a snag in the pavement. His wails could be heard all the way across the distance they yet were, having parked at the curve beyond my bench.

Mama stooped to comfort him. Her attention was thorough and that of any mother comforting a small boy who truly hurt; I cannot distinguish even now what made me wonder about the small drama. By then, I think, the third wee creature was in sight -- that agitated fuss of movement of a youngster who is another cog in the wheel turning - the moment itches and his darting about becomes the dance that scratches.

The cameo is like that. Random, disjointed, mixed metaphor.

I drifted to watch the trees again. Robins will attack each other in mid-flight, ramming against one another with a cry and a collision. I saw two butt their chests together, break away, fly to near perches. When next I noted the family, the mom, the older wee creature and a dad were striding down the small hill into the park, distances between each. From where I sat, the middle child who had fallen could not be seen.

I knew then he was the ring-leader. All the family woes foisted on him and, like a candle lit and re-lit, he was the fire and the lightpost.

He appeared from behind whatever trees prevented my seeing, barreling in the lead and reaching the playground first. The mom set about unpacking the loot brought for the Sunday morning outing - toys and other things. I drifted from watching again; in a few moments I would note the Tempestuous One had fallen and held up his foot, mock-crying and wanting more attention.

He was suitably ignored. As they had laboured down the hill -- that solemn walk to their Necessary Outing -- stone-faced, angry, sullen -- I saw the dad carried a handsomely dressed guitar on his back.

It piqued my interest, and the thoughts that had been rumbling around coalesced. A pattern! I would watch, then, and see whether it proved true.

Dad crossed the expanse on which the swing squatted -- one of those large, handsome industrial things from American childhoods -- six swings across and high to the heavens. Even at the distance, his muted anger slumped into his shoulders -- he would get to that bench or else! He would play his guitar and no one would disturb! He sat down at the bench perhaps three feet from the swing, took out the instrument and began to play. The distance was sufficient that I could not hear his music. He does nothing to help Mom, who is busily assembling the three children into the swings -- they are each packed securely into the swings when I glance their way.

Cameo of the American family, but one senses even now the moment cannot last. And because it is so transitory, even the illusion cannot be allowed its frail instance.

Baby in one of the swings that is girdled for wee creatures. But the straps from the backpack in which Mama had carried her to the playground trail to the ground beneath her.

Mama had not taken her out of it.

Mom's moment is brief. The middle tyrant wants out. Mom takes him over to the t-ball set she brought from home, hoping to placate -- hoping that somehow, she will capture that thing called 'the happy family' and the outing will work -- the elusive thing sought will be won. Her back is to the remaining two children, still swinging. When I look back to them, the oldest son has barrelled from his swing, too. He is standing in front of the baby, swinging her under the glassy eyes of the guitar-playing dad.

The boy pushes, hard. Angry, jabbing thrusts - the childish temper is apparent all the way up to where I sit watching.

Dad is oblivious, for all that his eyes remain exactly upon them.

The boy starts pulling with fury & glee at the dangling straps from the baby's backpack. The baby watches him mutely, bouncing about as he pulls but never raising her arms, never wailing.

I am becoming worried.

Dad strums on. The small boy begins to twist the baby's swing and let go. Baby spins like a top, her little rag doll arms still useless at her side; I will never see her raise them.

Dad continues to play his guitar. I am quite concerned by now -- all those indelicate questions tangling inside me -- do I risk interfering -- surely the father will snap out of his glum -- perhaps Mother will turn around...is this a matter that can be contained? That distance between us...if I run across the small distance -- if I yell?

The little boy grabs the baby's head with all the fierceness of the young male animal uncontrolled and uses it as his anchor to twist her around. Again, she explodes like a small top, whirling back in a circle, those arms still not raised in defense.

Middle boy tyrant is scarcely interested in t-ball; after the very few moments in which the above marks out its motions, middle tyrant's displeasure is roared and Mama turns from him, the pattern established and unable to escape: the two other kids; a passive-aggressive dad. As she turns and sees the disaster at hand, crying out, the Dad erupts into action.

To the casual eye, Dad did not see anything until Mama -- which is to say, they both noted the incident at the same time.

Dad, less than five feet from the incident and watching with dulled eyes the entire time he strummed...

Poor family. Absentee Dad, present but never there. Over the edge kids. Mother who has to do all of it alone...and cannot. The modern American family. No, not all of us. And, to be sure, as I sat there, Dad would actually put the guitar down and get involved with the kids.

But no laughter. No interplay between two parents damned now to hell until they give up and...do whatever comes next in a lifetime. For those fathers who need rest, working forty hours trying to go up the ladder; trying to make a life for their families, then coming home to that family of uncontrolled, raucous, blisteringly unhappy children and a mom who expects he will take over and give her rest, where is his rest?

And for the mothers who really need a dad in the picture so that they can have rest, where is Dad?

And those youngsters...seems that baby's immobility, as unresisting as a ragdoll -- as unmoving as the old Cabbage patch creations --those arms that never did anything but hang at her side -- the image of her compels as vividly as those boys, so very young and already acting out the angers of the day....