God chooses his agents, not us
Paul Reeves
| 01 May 2008
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Reflections on God’s activity in a secular society
There’s an intrinsic connection between redemption and creation. When I think of redemption I think of the gathered community of the redeemed who rejoice in their experience of being the church, the Body of Christ. But the God who redeems is also the God who creates. God reveals himself in all sorts of ways and in all sorts of situations.
Mission, among other things, is conversation and listening to the insights and experience of all sorts of people. I have in mind two people I’ve worked with in Guyana. One is a member of the Commonwealth Secretariat and the other has been head of the Guyana Defence Force. To describe them as peripheral is to demean them. They have integrity, courage, and profound insights into the human condition, and yet I doubt whether they would see themselves as part of the church.
We need to temper our enthusiasms sometimes and realise God chooses his agents, not us. Is the secular society necessarily anti-God? I don’t think so.
We have to live with difference and the sooner we get used to it the sooner we can return to what has been a consistent thread in Christian tradition. Who exactly is the real olive tree and the true Israel Paul refers to in Romans?
Someone should write a study on disagreement and the expansion of the church. Paul and Barnabas could not get on together so they split and the church expanded. In 19th century England there was a rising artisan class that wanted to break out of the shackles of conventional society. Many chose either to join the trade union movement or go overseas as missionaries. Have a look at the missionaries Marsden sent to New Zealand in 1814.
Ambiguous language is at the heart of this church’s formularies. The Council of Nicaea had to wrestle with the complex issue of describing the relationship of Father, Son and Holy Spirit within the Godhead. The two great protagonists were Athanasius and Arius, and on balance Athanasius won, though not by much. We refer to Jesus as being of one substance with the Father. In the Latin the word is substantia, and in the Greek it is homoousios. It is ambiguous language and the words are capable of two interpretations.
So, how well are we handling the debate about our differences? The relationship between truth and difference is complex. Certainly, sameness does not necessarily represent orthodoxy.
I note what was said about tikanga structures in this church and I sense that this has been a time of growth, discovery and unease. Unease because we suspect we don’t know each other as we did, though I would contest that; and growth and discovery because, as Maori would say, the changes have been immense and you can’t turn the clock back.
I have met all the bishops of Aotearoa: Frederick Augustus Bennett, the pioneer; Wiremu Netana Panapa, the patient one who held the line; Manu Augustus Bennett, the quiet revolutionary; and Whakahuihui Vercoe, who gave standing and authority to Te Pihopatanga.
When I was Bishop of Waiapu, the Maori Bishop was my suffragan and I felt something of the powerlessness and embarrassment my brother bishop felt at needing the diocesan bishop’s permission before he could function in diocesan territory. That permission was not always given.
The original Constitution of the Church of the Province of New Zealand was oppressive. Like the Treaty of Waitangi, it was written and controlled by the group who were the minority at the time. Maori were unable to be themselves in their own terms, and freedom under the gospel was scarce.
I am one of those mandated to negotiate with the Crown to settle the Port Nicholson Block claim. I have learned that past wrongs are present realities and we all live with the sweet or bitter fruit of what happened.
Do we have to revisit everything in our past? Is there not history that continues to destroy as long as we don’t face it? We must look at it, provided we have the courage to forgive and the strength not to be trapped by what happened before but to move on.
• • • •
In 1982 the Archbishop of Canterbury asked me to join a small group representative of the Communion who would travel to South Africa and support Desmond Tutu who, in his capacity as General Secretary of the South African Council of Churches, was being investigated by the Government. The message was that if you touch Tutu you touch the Anglican Communion; he belongs to us.
We were still getting over the 1981 Springbok tour of New Zealand, and the church had not escaped without few bruises. I wore my bishop’s dress and I remember the stares of South Africa-bound passengers in the lounge of Auckland Airport.
When I reached Johannesburg Terry Waite was there to meet me and his enthusiasm was infectious. I ended up giving evidence before the Eloff Commission in Pretoria, climbing Table Mountain with the Archbishop of Cape Town, and making contact with Father Kingston Erson, a brave New Zealand priest whose ashes lie in the graveyard of St John’s College in Meadowbank.
There are parallels between the Anglican Communion and the United Nations. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the UN Secretary-General seem to have things in common; the Lambeth Conference looks a bit like the General Assembly; and the Primates’ Conference would not be uncomfortable if seen as a sort of Security Council. Both organizations lack resources and increasingly both lack respect.
My experience tells me that people in difficult places who are making a stand for the gospel need the support of a worldwide network such as the Anglican Communion. They need to know they belong to something that is bigger than they are and cares for them.
The real tragedy about the present controversies that threaten the fabric of the Anglican Communion is that we could lose the framework that still has the ability to advocate for those who need our support and rectify the injustice and oppression that threaten to silence them.
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