Monday, 13 February 2023

Bloody Phylacteries



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. If, incidentally, I had been wishing to offend my Jewish neighbours (and I wouldn't), I would have denigrated the wearers of tfillin, but that subtlety evaded my critics.

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. 

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