Send Your Holy Spirit Upon Us

Scottish Episcopalians are generally pretty chuffed to have a proper epiclesis in the Eucharistic anaphora. By ‘proper’, of course, we mean that it makes it clear that the transformation of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ is the work of the Spirit, that the Spirit is also invoked upon the people and that the prayer of invocation is placed after the anamnesis and oblation rather than before the words of institution as in most Western rites. This means that the implied theology of our Eucharistic rites is closer to Orthodox than Western Catholic emphases, though I don’t think the gulf is as wide as we might imagine post-liturgical movement.

File:St Peters Holy Spirit window 01.jpg

What is distinctive, though, is that our more recent Liturgy (1982) does not necessarily see the work of the Spirit upon those for whom he is invoked as being dependent on the reception of the consecrated elements in the way that our earlier liturgies may have implied. At the very least, these earlier forms focussed on the effects of God’s Spirit on those who receive. In the ’82 rite, the Spirit ‘kindles us’ with the fire of God’s love and ‘renews us’ for the service of God’s Kingdom because we have prayed for that Spirit to descend upon us and because God is faithful in granting such a prayer. However, this insight is not new and I’m grateful for the insights of Lev Gillet in respect of the Orthodox liturgy, where he insists that God can give spiritual gifts to those who never receive the sacramental signs (Orthodox Spirituality, London 1945). The Eucharist is not magic, conjouring up the presence of Christ through a set incantation, but an expression in time and in a particular place of what cannot be contained by time or space. The Eucharist is a door through which we pass into the cosmic work of renewal that is the outpouring of the Father’s love through the working of the Spirit, who makes Christ present to us.

To have the invocation of the Spirit at the heart of our paradigmatic Christian prayer is to recognise the universal nature of what we see in the death and resurrection of Christ. The whole world is reconciled to God in the paschal mystery, not just the lives of believers. Nonetheless, this work of renewal does concern us in our own particularity – it’s not just ‘out there’. Indeed, our point of contact with this universal mystery is the renewal of our own lives through the working of that same Spirit. I suspect there are many ways in which the particular and the universal connect. Among them, surely, is the necessity for inner transformation before any true and lasting change can happen at a communal level. But the activity of God’s life-giving Spirit cannot be limited by the extent to which we are individually transformed. That’s why we don’t just pray for ourselves. Life in the Spirit is a matter of ‘joining in’ with what the life-giving God is doing.


Sermon for Easter 7

Five years ago, Pope Francis issued a most remarkable text, an encyclical unlike any that precedes it because it is addressed to all people of goodwill and because it confronts a matter of grave concern, which is the wellbeing of the creation itself. Laudato Si’ is also remarkable in taking as its starting point that great hymn of St Francis, the Canticle of the Creatures, with its opening words as the title of the encyclical in the medieval Italian of the troubadour rather than the formal Latin of the academy. He has invited people everywhere to reflect on this text over the last week and, if you’ve not yet had the chance to read it, it’s easily available for free online. It’s far more than just a call to action in respect of the steps we all must take to protect the integrity of the creation. It’s also, and perhaps above all, a call to see the creation differently, not as stuff to be consumed by us greedy humans but as an intricate whole of which we are a part, a vibrant, living system that proclaims the love of its Creator, and invites the grateful praise of its articulate creatures.

St. Francis Preaching to the Birds, 1297 - 1299 - Giotto

If all of this seems like an intrusion into the liturgical cycle, just as it approaches its Paschal climax at the great Festival of Pentecost, I would like to suggest that it unquestionably belongs here, at this pivotal point between Ascension and Pentecost. In the Ascension of Christ, we may appear to be telling a story of his being taken away from the earth, but what is actually going on is rather different. Far from indicating a removal from the created realm, Jesus’ ascension reveals the nature of his presence in the world. He may not be obviously available to our usual way of recognising another person in the narrative flow of history, but his presence is no less real. Indeed, his ascension reveals that he fills all things. John’s Gospel makes it clear that Jesus must go from his disciples in order to be present with them and within them in a different way. But it’s not really a new way. God’s creative presence in his creation was there from the start.

I think we’ve got too used to thinking of creation as a process of production – you make something and then forget about it, letting it do its own thing. You get the stuff together, make it into something else, and set it on its course. But biblical insight offers a much more dynamic picture than that. Think of that most eloquent Psalm of creation, Ps 104, which is recited every single evening in the Orthodox service of Vespers. In verses 29 and 30 it says:

You hide your face, they are dismayed; you take away their breath, they die, returning to the dust from which they came. You send forth your spirit, and they are created, and you renew the face of the earth.

Creation is not a machine. It is alive, and its very life is dependent on the sustaining love of God who breathes his life into it from moment to moment. God’s very presence energises all that lives. Nothing is inert, nothing is static, the whole creation hums with the energies of God, charged, as Gerard Manley Hopkins said, with the grandeur of God. He went on to speak of the Holy Ghost brooding over the curve of the earth with warm breast and bright wings. The earth lives because the living God sustains it in life.

What the Ascension of Christ reveals to us is that this loving, sustaining presence is none other than the presence of the one who healed the sick, welcomed the outcast and dined with sinners. There is, then, an intimate connection between our love for the marginalised and the suffering, and our love for the pulsing, energetic, diversity of creation. God, who is present sustaining all life, is God who binds up wounds, God whose wounds we bind when we tend the needs of the weakest. We care for creation because God is in it. We care for creation because God is in us. We cannot be indifferent to life. We care because we love, because we desire the fullness of life for all.

If climate catastrophe is to be averted, it is unlikely that we will achieve what must be done through political calculations alone. Without passionate love for creation, will we truly find the motivation to change the way we live? Without a true conversion towards the very stuff of the earth, will be able to move away from seeing ourselves as consumers and begin to see ourselves as brothers and sisters of all that lives? This current crisis of a pandemic, caused by our carelessness with the creation, offers an opportunity to refresh our awareness of the intimate connections we share with all that lives, and to do so with a deepened compassion. Our lockdown has caused us to look again at what we really need to live well and to appreciate the small things. Our awareness of the sufferings of others has caused us to see again the impact of our actions on others. Our sense of fragility has opened up to us the opportunity to delight in the freshness of each new day, the vibrancy of each budding flower or passing bird. And at this time when we look in vain towards heaven for the ascended Christ, we are invited to open our eyes and see him in every living molecule. As we await the coming of the Spirit, we embrace life with every breath and give thanks for the one who breathes it into us. ‘Bless the Lord, O my soul! O Lord my God, how great you are, clothed in majesty and honour, wrapped in light as with a robe!’


Desert as Icon

Explore the clifftop monasteries of Meteora, Greece

Early on in Laudato Si’, Pope Francis pays tribute to the ecological spirituality and leadership of the Ecumenical Patriarch, Bartholomew. Francis refers to the spiritual roots of environmental problems as identified by Bartholomew, who invites us ‘to replace consumption with sacrifice, greed with generosity, wastefulness with a spirit of sharing, an asceticism which “entails learning to give, and not simply give up.”‘ Bartholomew urges us;

to accept the world as a sacrament of communion, as a way of sharing with God and our neighbours on a global scale. It is our humble conviction that the divine and the human meet in the slightest detail in the seamless garment of God’s creation, in the last speck of dust of our planet.

My reflections on Laudato Si’ have been focused on the dimension of spirituality, on the primary motivation for our renewed – converted – relationship with the earth because it strikes me that the tasks in hand are not contentious; carbon reduction, renewable energy, reduced consumption. What is much harder is discovering the motivation to do this. Both Francis and Bartholomew offer much wisdom in this regard.

An Orthodox approach to ecological spirituality is beautifully presented in John Chryssavgis’ book, Creation as Sacrament. Having previously written (equally beautifully) on the Desert tradition, it is not surprising that he returns there to affirm a spirituality which is both ascetical and mystical. It is ascetical in demonstrating a pattern of life that seeks not dominance over creation but respectful, affirming submission to it. In the desert, one must travel light and learn the fundamental disposition of letting go ‘which is necessary to a proper relationship with God, world, and oneself.’ One faces ‘the pain and passion of life in all its intensity’, far from any distraction, pride or pretence.

The desert instills a spirituality that is mystical in that those who enter it do so out of a love for the place and who discover there an icon of Divine Beauty, and I use that word in its specific, theological sense. Icons are kissed, venerated as true, sacramental portals to the reality they present. They are honoured as windows to the divine, but not worshipped as God. This leads us to another vital understanding in an Orthodox approach to the nature of God in the world. God is not absent or distant from the world, but intimately present through his energies. The whole world is energised by divine presence such that it is possible to affirm that the world is part of God but not the whole of God. It is important to affirm that God is both near and far, present both in and beyond what we can see and, therefore, able to sustain and transform the world, including ourselves as part of it.

With these two insights held side-by-side, we both assume full responsibility for our place in the world, and delight in the One whose ‘power sustains’ and whose ‘love restores’ it (Eucharistic Prayer IV, Scottish Liturgy).

Conversion to the Earth

I was drawn to a reflection on Laudato Si’ by Eric Jensen, a Jesuit, who calls on some interesting Ignatian insights to talk about the invitation to a conversion that lies at the heart of the encyclical. He suggests that one may have either a religious or a moral conversion that leads to a renewed relationship with the earth. Beginning with a religious conversion, we are drawn to an awareness of a loving creator who cares passionately about all created life and from there to a change of heart about how we then relate to (rather than use) the other parts of God’s creation. Beginning from a moral conversion, which may be the norm for most people in this part of the world, it is also possible that a care for – a love for – the earth may move us to a desire for the Source of life, the source of beauty.

Of course, Jesuits are well-versed in the movements of heart that are involved in a conversion. The Spiritual Exercises are, above all, a path of conversion. They begin with a ‘diagnosis’ of our situation, which is precisely what the Jesuit Pope does in Laudato Si’, for clear discernment of what is true is the necessary precondition for a change of heart. In naming the specific challenges of our ecological crisis, the skills and insights of science are indispensable. I am struck by how much of this thinking is present in the writing of William Johnston SJ, whose work I am researching.

In one of his last books,Arise, My Love…’ Johnston also saw the need for many conversions in our current context: a conversion to the body to overcome mind-body dualism that continues to plague so much Western thought; a conversion to the poor in imitation of the Jesus who emptied himself; a conversion to the ‘other’ through dialogue; a conversion of Christians to welcome the insights of all who are passionate for truth through the attentive work of scientific research. All of these changes of heart are bound up in the call to conversion in Laudato Si’: our embodied nature as part of an interdependent creation; our embrace of the way of simplicity and our option for the poor as an essential realisation of the true impact of climate change; a deep solidarity with all who share a concern for truth and for the renewal of humanity through faith, compassion and contemplation. The path of conversion is not a discrete religious activity but is a way of life, a way for life.

Laudato Si’ Week

Pope Francis has invited people to take this week as an opportunity to reflect on his encyclical, Laudato Si’. For an excellent overview of the document, try this piece by the now Provincial for the Jesuits in Britain, Damian Howard. I thought I’d offer some responses to this remarkable text in the course of the week.

Saint Francis of Assisi (detail) - Cimabue -

First of all, I think it is essential to recognise the basis of Francis’ approach in a spirituality that is deeply rooted in Christian tradition. It is a spirituality that is expressed most powerfully in St Francis’ Canticle of the Creatures, from whose opening line the encyclical takes its name. The Canticle directly addresses elements of the created world as brothers and sisters and with which Francis was united by ‘bonds of affection.’ This aspect of fraternal love for all creatures is vital. Our attempts to restore balance with the rest of creation is not best motivated by duty but by love. Pope Francis adds another Franciscan element to his holistic and ecological spirituality, which is a love of poverty and a love of the poor. He sees no distinction between love for our fellow human beings – especially those who are poor – and love for the wider creation. And the sense in which poverty itself can be loved is the sense in which it is a love of simplicity and restraint, spiritually detached from possessions. This, in turn, requires ‘being at peace with oneself’ and an attitude of ‘serene attentiveness’ which overcomes the anxiety that we feed with our greedy consumerism. In a practical vein, the spirituality that motivates Laudato Si’ encourages a life lived with ‘daily gestures which break the logic of violence, exploitation and selfishness.’ And finally, the mystical insight at the heart of the encyclical is that ‘the universe unfolds in God, who fills it completely’ – God is present in each of the ‘sublime realities’ of life. For this latter insight, Francis calls on St John of the Cross, whose Spiritual Canticle speaks of the vast, graceful, bright and fragrant mountains’, and dares to say that ‘These mountains are what my Beloved is to me’.

I think many in the wider environmental movement recognise that a conversion of our world towards a more sustainable future will not be accomplished without an underlying spirituality. Pope Francis has proposed this very thing and has invited us all to join in the conversation.

Hid Divinity

The author of The Cloud of Unknowing used this endearing phrase in his free rendering of Pseudo-Dionysius’ Mystical Theology. In his more famous work, the author advised that ‘no one can fully comprehend the uncreated God with his knowledge; but each one, in a different way, can grasp him fully through love’ (ch. 4, Bill Johnston’s translation). He invited us to be at home in the darkness of the cloud that seems to exist between our mind and God, feeling nothing but a ‘naked intent towards God’. It is, of course, the central paradox of mystical theology that so many words are used in the attempt to describe our reaching out towards the unknowable God who first reaches out towards us. Even the great ‘doctor de la nada’, St John of the Cross, indulged in a great many complex and technical words in his account of the ascent of a mountain whose way and end is nothing, nothing, nothing. Surely, the wise course would simply be to say nothing about the One of whom nothing can be said.

Cloud of Unknowing and The Book of Privy Counseling: William ...

Appealing as this may seem to weary theologians and exhausted preachers, I think it simply won’t do. This is not because we can ever fully grasp with our minds that which may only be grasped through love (here meaning self-transcending ‘naked intent’) but because it is a very real temptation to say wrong or unhelpful things about God, even if we must retain a certain hesitation about saying anything at all. More than that, it seems to me to be a very noble thing to seek to understand that which is most important in life, humbly admitting at the outset that there are limitations to such an enterprise. Of course, the work of theology will always be something of a vertiginous looking into the abyss of the unknown, but should we fear to do so, once we have admitted our proper sense of hesitation?

Unsurprisingly, it is often the theology that is expressed without such hesitation that is the most dangerous – theology that confidently claims God for our own causes or that sets out a simple formula whose reliable output is salvation. The response to this, surely, is not to abandon the project altogether but to do it better, more carefully, more generously, more mystically. Mysticism is not an excuse not to think but an invitation to think the unthinkable as far as one can before falling back into the silence from which the exploration sprang. It is quite appropriate to recognise the absurdity of trying to say anything about God, but let’s not give up trying.

Christianity and Other Faiths Part II

My post yesterday was a kind of theological prelude to the main act, an act which continually re-forms the sort of tentative position I began to outline there. The main act in the dramatic interplay of the glorious diversity of religions is dialogue and I want to offer only a very few preliminary words about this today. Let me say first of all that I do not regard dialogue as some kind of hobby activity for people who are into religion, but a fundamental matter of human flourishing and peacemaking. Dialogue is a path of conversion, in that it seeks to move me from one place to another in my understanding of myself and my own faith, of my neighbours and their faith and, ultimately, of God himself. Any act of dialogue that is not begun with the expectation of one’s own conversion is bound to be insufficient.

Dialogue is encounter with the other at a profound level which leads to new understanding. It is a kind of ‘passing over’ into the life of the other in order to see things from a new standpoint. As that great pioneer of Christian-Muslim dialogue, Louis Massignon, put it:

To understand something is not to annex it, it is to transfer it by decentring oneself to the heart of the other.

Louis Massignon (FranceArchives)

I guess this is what it means to love one’s neighbour ‘as oneself’ or, ‘as one who is like you’ – another subject, not an object, whether of fascination or revulsion. On one level, it is impossible fully to inhabit the mindset, worldview and culture of another person without having lived the life they have lived and without inheriting the patterns of thought and metaphors by which every one of us sees the world, consciously or not. So alongside the vital work of deep listening, there are other means of ‘decentring oneself’ in order to draw closer to the heart of the other. Religions involve much, much more than just ideas, so some level of engagement in the patterns of religious life and prayer of the other is also vital to dialogue. More than that, some level of love for these patterns is also essential. Here I don’t mean something sentimental or idealised, but committed and patient, affective and intellectual, respectful and also passionate. If we are to love our neighbours, we must also love the lives they lead.

Such holistic dialogue seems ever more vital in a world that is under constant threat of fragmentation into self-interested and homogeneous entities. Mostly, I think the common experience of facing a threatening pandemic has brought out the best in us – active compassion and genuine sorrow at the suffering of others – but we do need to heed the counter-current of xenophobia and ‘my nation first’ thinking that has also raised its head. Perhaps this current global situation underlines more urgently than ever the need for mutual understanding, for without it, we are left with only the limited resources of our own perspective to draw on. Perhaps our neighbours of other faiths and worldviews have insights into this situation that we could not have found from our own standpoint, insights into the nature of disease and wellbeing, insights into the balance between communal and individual lives, insights into the presence of God in such a challenging situation. So far, I have seen many impressive and thoughtful reflections on the pandemic from within my own tradition but perhaps its time to widen my perspective. We need each other in this time.