BLOODY PHYLACTERIES
It all started when I was asked to write a report on an induction (installation of a new priest in charge of a parish, what used to be delightfully if quaintly called “induction to a cure of souls”).
I tend to look at these things very much as if
I were an outsider. What did this or that event look like in the eyes of
someone who had just dropped in from Betelgeuse, or the 17th
century, or downtown Poorsville or Hungersville, or anywhere where my tribe and
its rites are as foreign to the outsider as the carpet on the Mariana
Trench is to me.
So I wrote, and faeces hit the fan.
I here reproduce what I wrote – albeit with
names and locations altered because I’ve explored and posted all that.[1]
That specific is dusted, and I’d like to move on. But the ramifications of the
faeces need a touch of house-keeping.
In the old days – that is to say more than a
year or two ago – inductions were dominated by a coterie of clergy dressed in
their various glad rags, a pot pourri of rumpled or ironed, dazzling or drab
humanity, a Chaucerian crew “of sondry folk, by adventure yfalle / In fellaweshipe, and pilgrims were
they alle.” In white robes.
We don’t do that now – possibly because someone
eventually realised it looked more like a gathering of the KKK than a show of
ecclesiastical support by sister and brother clergy. Or possibly because the parading
phylacteries dominated the gathering of the faithful congregants and
fellow-pilgrims who are the heart and soul of a parish.
So no one paraded any phylacteries when the people of St Ultan's and assorted others gathered for an induction. No airs and
graces, but a church full of those from the congregation, from the faith
community, from the wider community, parishioners and clients and colleagues
and whanau and perhaps even wayward strangers gathering because they have
journeyed or will journey or are journeying with the Rev’d Illyana Intrepid.
And because they wanted to utter their amen or nod
or smile as Bishop Thucydides Thunderbolt kicked off a new stanza in Illyana’s
life and the congregation’s life and the life of a parish that is much, much
older than a mere congregation.
All this because one of the most historic faith communities of the diocese was kicking off a new phase. A new phase for St Ultan of Ardbracan’s, a new phase for Rev’d Illyana Intrepid. But not new for either. Illyana Intrepid, on and off, has been a part of the parish for, well, a year or two.
Okay, to be honest she has been associated with St. Ultan’s on and off
but more on than off since before she was born.
Until recently that journey culminated in a
period in which Illyana, in conjunction with others, were effectively (and
effective) sacramental ministers. But as a Beatle once said, “all things must
pass,” and now the Rev’d Illyana Intrepid has been led, as her choice of songs
reminded us, by the Spirit of God into the seat in which so many servants of
God have sat since 1873.
So we gathered, sang, prayed, and of course
ate, and Illyana Intrepid is now the priest in a long line of priests presiding
over Word and Sacrament in a remarkable parish. She is surrounded by aroha and
goodwill, proclaiming with the people of the Underworld the resurrection hope
that dwells at the heart of the Trinity.
Kia kaha, Illyana Intrepid and your
faith-filled parishioners!
It wasn’t a great piece of writing, but I was
under pressure for time. Off it went, was duly pixelated and posted. I bumped
into Rev’d Illyana in the cauliflower aisle the next day, and she was delighted. That
was before the fan turned yellow-brown and sprayed.
I had, I was told, trivialized Anglican rites
(I love them), offended anglo catholics (I am one), and spouted anti-semitic hate
speech (I am not anti semitic, though I am no sycophant of the modern State of
Israel, and let’s recall that Palestinians are Semites, too).
Actually there was some confusion about the alleged
anti semitism; some doo-doo-despatchers seemingly forgot that the reference to
phylacteries was from the mouth of Jesus, the Jew (Mt. 23:5). Others
believed that “phylacteries” was a references to phalluses, and that I was
promulgating some sort of public sexual deviance presumably involving foreheads and
aforementioned organs.
Under duress I wrote what I wanted to say in response, then deleted it.
Instead I wrote an explanation of what I had said instead … sort of
an essay interpreting my own work.
A recent piece I wrote as a
reflection on the induction of the Rev’d Illyana to St Ultan’s
has, according to correspondence received by the bishop, generated offence.
This offence appears to have
been primarily concerned with my references to the Ku Klux Klan, always a
blight on human history, and to phylacteries. These, as Jesus mentioned (Mt.
23:5), can represent not so much a desire to be close to the heart and will of
God (as they were intended to), but a desire to be seen to be close to the
heart and will of God, which can become a different matter.
In responding I am somewhat
hog-tied. Correspondence with the bishop cannot be reproduced here, so cannot
be refuted. So let it be. I can only make two rather generic responses to the
two foci of complaint.
In the first place my
reference to the Klan was firmly past tense. Referring to the parades of clergy
in white robes, parades which I note to have been “former times” (if not that
long ago), I suggest that those looking at us without formation in liturgical
practice wear a set of lenses different to ours. The gathering and parading of
robed clergy can appear more akin to a gathering of a different, deeply demonic
group of humans. They wore white robes, but were and are well-known for
practicing unimaginable atrocity and evil. They were not a group of women and
men recalling their baptism, rejoicing in the white-robed army of martyrs alluded
to in Revelation 7:14.
I believe the term used today
is a “metric.” What metric are we using to interpret elements in any given
context? As one who used joyfully to parade in white robes, even black robes, I
am critiquing myself as much as anyone else. What impression did I convey? What
impression do I now convey? Which is closer to gospel truth in the streets of
the suburb where I live, in 2023? Is there a difference between the clothes
I wear in liturgy and the clothes I wear in the street? Do the clothes I wear or
any other action I take in Christ convey oneness with or separation from those
with whom I rub shoulders in the street?
I believe there was also
criticism of my reference to phylacteries. Jesus is recorded by Matthew, that
most Hebrew of New Testament writers, as noting a group of religious leaders, Jesus’
own people, Matthew’s own people, who “make their phylacteries broad and their
fringes long.” Consensus amongst scholars and other bible readers is that this
was not some sort of anti-Semitic rant from Jesus the Jewish teacher, but a
metaphorical, generic description of those who like to draw attention to
themselves in contexts where it is inappropriate to do so.
I was not criticizing Jewish people today. I was criticizing Anglican Christian people of yesteryear - and their contemprary imitators. This chronology I emphasized in my article
by noting, “no one paraded any phylacteries, no
airs and graces,” adding “but a church full of those from the congregation,
from the faith community, from the wider community, parishioners and clients
and colleagues and whanau and perhaps even wayward strangers gathering because
they have journeyed or will journey or are journeying with the Rev’d Illyana”
(emphasis now added). It was a joyous and unpretentious occasion celebrating a
new phase in the life of a priest. A new phase too in the community in which she
has been invited to serve God in new ways.
I added an apology, avoiding the lame “sorry (if)
you feel offended,” but trying to avoid compromising my view, and my right to it.
That view remains. Coteries of clergy dressed
up in esoteric finery and/or white sheets (often with hoods, subtly understated), ensuring they stand out from “mere” hoi polloi amongst whom they walk or
sit, do the crucified outsider god few favours. They appear through the lens of
a post-Churchianity society to resemble the Ku Klux Klan far more closely than
they resemble the saints and martyrs of faith that the paraders think they’re recollecting, representing.
I’m not championing Baptist liturgy. In the
enactment that Anglican liturgy is, wear costume if it helps convey the sacred. I do. What we
do in the specifics of a liturgical role, when we have one, is up to us. The bishop and the inductee were dressed appropriately in ways that expressed thir roles in the liturgy. Otherwise,
basically, if you don’t want to make an ass of yourself (and the gospel) don’t
dress up as a donkey.
Oh … and if the metaphorical properties of
phylacteries and donkeys and fans and faeces elude you enjoy your day without
them.
In the end I published the apology unadorned. I
figured those deeply immersed in their own institutional esoterism were probably
not going to see themselves through the eyes of outsiders, and Anglican Christianity
would be pushed further and further to the fringes of society.
[1] I have removed one paragraph that would serve no purpose here beyond identifying St. Ultan’s and its Illyana.
