Diocese of Durham: Diocesan Synod, May 21 2010 Presidential Address

Diocese of Durham: Diocesan Synod, May 21 2010 Presidential Address: The Bishop of Durham, the Rt Revd N. T. Wright, DD Some of you, older synodical hands than I, have seen bishops come and go over a long period, and no doubt you tick them off one by one in your mind, perhaps even carving another notch on the end of the pew. But for me this is a strange moment, and also sad. This isn’t the moment for farewells; we shall come to that in July. But this will be my last Diocesan Synod, and I want to pay grateful tribute to those who have faithfully carried the administrative work of the Diocese over the last seven years, not least the Diocesan Secretary and his colleagues in the office, the successive Chairs of the Houses of Clergy and Laity, and the DBF and especially its Chair, and to you in Synod past and present. Our new Diocesan Annual Report speaks powerfully, in its style and presentation as well as its content, of the energy and clarity upon which we now can call, so that even in financially challenging circumstances we can hold our heads up and do a cheerful and professional job. My deep gratitude to all those involved. I shall say more ‘thank-yous’ on another occasion. But today, as we reflect on synodical business in particular, there is one theme which I see as urgently necessary. I chose Romans 14 as our reading for this morning’s worship to set the stage for this, and I’d be grateful if we could turn back to it now. Paul’s treatment of what we call adiaphora, here and in 1 Corinthians, struck me afresh during my sabbatical last autumn, both in terms of what Paul himself was doing and in terms of our church life today. When we come to the farewell service in July I intend to take Romans 15 as my text; but the road to Romans 15 passes through Romans 14. These issues remain fundamental and pressing, especially for those engaged in synodical debate about our common life. The word adiaphora means, literally, ‘not-different things’, or ‘things that don’t make a difference’. And the question of adiaphora can be posed, as I have often posed it, like this: granted that there are many differences between us, how can we tell which differences make a difference and which ones don’t? How do you know? Who decides? How can you tell the difference between differences which make a difference and differences which don’t make a difference? This question lies, to begin with, at the heart of all our ecumenical questing. Since I have found ecumenical relations to be an important feature of these last seven years, it’s worth spelling it out. How do we tell the difference between ourselves and, say, the Roman Catholics on the one hand or the newer Free Churches on the other, and many others besides? How do we know, if we do, that those differences ‘make a difference’ in terms (for instance) of our not being able to share the Eucharist together? Gone, or almost gone, are the days when different Christian groups would believe, and preach, that those who didn’t belong to their way of being Christian were on the broad road to Hell. Why then can’t we share all aspects of our common life? Which differences make a difference, how do you tell, and who says? When I heard Roman Catholic bishops declare, in Rome in October 2008, that Baptism and the Bible are the two great ecumenical instruments, I found myself wondering whether, if we really explored those starting-points, we might find that our remaining differences turned out to make less of a difference than we had previously supposed. This is close to the question the Archbishop of Canterbury raised in his lecture in Rome last November: granted we share so much, starting with belief in the same Triune God, might we not recognise some of our remaining disagreements as not primary, as mere surface tensions above a deep and now recognisable Christian unity? That, of course, is a characteristically Anglican position, and it’s worth reminding ourselves of how it came about. Despite the usual sneer that England got a new Church because Henry VIII wanted a new wife, the indigenous reform movement in these islands predated the rise of Ann Boleyn by several years. And those early English reformers had already figured out that to succeed they would need – dare we say? – a coalition, in which the various English followers of Luther, Calvin, Zwingli and the rest would agree to differ on some things – notably the mode of the presence of the Lord in the Eucharist – in order to advance their main agenda. They thus introduced back into western Christianity the principle of adiaphora which had I think been lost sight of in earlier generations. Differences on the theology of Eucharistic presence, they said, don’t make a difference. But other things did: justification by faith, the Bible in the vernacular, the uniqueness of the death of Jesus. For these they were prepared to die, and did, often horribly. The principle of adiaphora was itself, in fact, a matter of life and death. The doctrine that some things are adipahora, and some aren’t, is not itself adiaphora. The decision as to which things make a difference and which do not is itself a decision which makes a huge difference. Some of the early English Reformers claimed explicitly that they were dying precisely for the principle of adiaphora itself, for the right to disagree on certain points (not on everything). That for which you will give your life is hardly something which doesn’t make a difference. All this might seem somewhat remote, but in fact it’s anything but. One of the main focal points of my ministry these last seven years, locally, nationally and internationally, and one of the main challenges facing General Synod this summer and hereafter, is the question of discerning how the doctrine of adiaphora ought to play out, not least ecumenically. Most of us are signed up in principle to doing together everything which we are not forced to do apart, but not all of us are clear which things are which. Those of you who worship in ecumenical projects will know the problem: what do Anglicans do when it’s a Methodist minister presiding at the Lord’s Table? Or, to come at the same issue from a different angle: if it’s all right for an Anglican to receive Communion in a Roman Catholic church when on holiday in the wilds of Europe, why isn’t it all right in the church round the corner? And discussions of that sort regularly move across other bits of ground, too: could Roman Catholics ever get to the point where they were prepared to say that, say, the Papal dogmas, or the Marian dogmas, were adiaphora – that is, things that some people might sign up to while others held back? And would most Protestants, including most Anglicans, be happy with that kind of concession even if it could be granted? Or would many of us not insist that it was vital, and not adiaphora at all, to deny the Roman dogmas about the Pope and about the Mother of Jesus? Please note, I am not commenting on those dogmas here; merely pointing out, in line with what the Archbishop said six months ago, that the question needs to be raised in these terms if we are to see clearly where we are. And where we aren’t. So what does St Paul say on all this? ‘Welcome those who are weak in the faith, but not for the purpose of quarrelling over opinions.’ The questions he is dealing with have to do with food and drink and special holy days. Well, of course they do: he is addressing several house-churches in Rome, some of which are Jewish by background and others not. Some Jewish Christians – not all – insisted on still keeping the kosher laws, which in a pagan city often meant staying vegetarian. Some insisted on keeping the Sabbath. These laws marked out the Jewish people against their pagan neighbours. Must they then mark out Jewish Christians against their Gentile Christian neighbours, as the Galatian agitators had insisted? Absolutely not, declares Paul. Such things are adiaphora: you are not to make a difference over them, indeed not to wrangle about them. You are to respect one another’s position. Romans 14.7: we do not live to ourselves or die to ourselves; we live and die to the Lord. We shall all stand before the judgment seat of God, where each one will be accountable. And he goes on in the second half of the chapter to draw the conclusion: however ‘strong’ you are in faith, you must not put a stumbling-block in front of someone else who has a tender conscience. This is central to the New Testament vision of church life: in matters that are contentious, we make demands on one another’s charity and patience, but not on one another’s conscience. Romans 14, alongside 1 Corinthians 8, 9 and 10, deserves careful detailed study for which this is not the place. I hope you will all study it carefully in the coming days. It is remarkably relevant to the way we do business together in churches and Synods. And also internationally. We have for years in the Anglican Communion operated a tacit rule of agreeing to differ about many things but trying not to do or say things which will cause other Anglicans to stumble.

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